Sales Pitch

In a tiny cubicle in Racine Wisconsin, Emma clicked a button on her computer screen and her headset automatically dialed a new number. 

“Hi! I’m calling on behalf of Seth Morgan. He is 8 years old, and suffering from a rare form of leukemia. His parents have spent everything they have on—”

[Click]

The line went dead. The silence after the click echoed in Emma’s ears. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. It had been a long day of uninterested listeners, angry attacks, and potential donors hanging up cold.

The new calling guidebook directed them to double-dip if they hadn’t received a clear-cut rejection. She pushed the button once more.

“Sorry to call again,” she said wearily, “But this isn’t a spam call. If you could visit our website and consider donating–even $20–it could make the difference between life and death for Seth.”

On the other side of the call, there was a deep inhale, then a pause filled with uncertainty.

“Fine. I’ll have a look at the website and think about it.”

“Thank you. Seth Morgan appreciates your effort,” she said. She reached for her pencil, and under the “maybe” column on her ledger pad, drew a little fish. Four o’clock, and, coincidentally, four fish. To the left of the fish were hundreds of “X” marks.

Adam’s voice rumbled from a neighboring cubicle: “Bullseye! Good job, sis.”

“I’m not your sister,” Emma replied flatly.

“Close enough.” Adam held out his fist. She ignored his demand for a fist bump. 

Just at that moment, George, their supervisor, walked in. “Who broke the fucking whiteboard?” he demanded, pointing at the remains propped up in the corner.

“Not me,” Emma blurted out.

“Not me either,” Adam answered, lying. He had knocked it over in a rage the previous day. Her coworkers left much to be desired, but it’s not like she was given a choice.

George’s glare bore into her. “Do you know who broke the whiteboard?” 

Emma met his gaze. She had just read ‘How to Work with a Difficult Coworker’ on wikiHow. Don’t explain, don’t negotiate—be like a stone wall. Her lips mouthed, “No,” and then she went back to her computer to do another hour of cold calls. Just another day at her new office. 

At 5pm, with four fish still on her notepad, she slipped out.

In the tiny parking lot behind the building, Emma stepped into her 12-year-old Honda. The cheap vinyl seats needed cleaning. Her trembling hands reached into the glove compartment and extracted a bottle of Xanax. She swallowed two. She kept her meds in the car because addiction was common in her friends and family, and she wanted to play it safe.

On her mobile, she opened Tinder and confirmed her date for the evening hadn’t cancelled. Seeking distraction, she swept on another half dozen good-looking guys, one even from Chicago. She longed to leave Racine. The small town, where everyone knew everyone else’s business, was suffocating.  She got out of her car, making sure all the doors were locked securely.

The Rock Solid was a block away, one of Racine’s two nice cocktail bars. She spotted her date Kevin by the window and introduced herself. As soon as he began talking, she quickly sussed him out as being another small-town boy–his goofy smile and a Green Bay Packers hat were big tip offs. Her dad lived and died in Racine without being interested in anything beyond beer and the Packers. She didn’t know why the men here were all like that.

“What do you think about Racine?” he asked after they sat down with their drinks.

“Born and raised. Love it,” Emma lied, while taking a well-deserved sip of her margarita. Wednesday night was the start of her weekend.

“The best place in the nation according to USA Today.”

They discussed the banalities of Racine—different high schools, a few distant mutual friends. A few minutes later, he popped the question, 

“What kind of work do you do?” 

He leaned in, eyes full of curiosity.

She dreaded this question, and her dates just had to ask every single time.

“I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Mysterious! Working for the mafia?”

“Something like that,” she chuckled.

He smiled and changed the topic without pressing further. That was refreshing.

She could have told him she was a highly paid sales manager for SC Johnson, before being laid off, and taking a job at the “Community Alliance for Seth Morgan” full-time. But she didn’t.

While Kevin told stories about his relatives, she pondered how life could deliver such a cruel twist of fate.

**

The next morning, she voice-called Kevin. “My car broke. Can you give me a ride to work?”

“After last night, I thought you would never contact me again.”

“Sorry...”

“You left halfway through dinner, with a flimsy excuse.”

“It was a family thing. I didn’t want to bore you with the details.”

“Ok. I’ll come over,” he said. “Text me your address.”

Ten minutes later, a white pickup truck rolled up. Racine was a small city and everyone lives within 15 minutes of each other. She gave Adam her work address, and they drove down State Street with little conversation. 

As they pulled into 527 Prospect, he asked, “You work at a church?”

“Something like that.” Was it a lie? She waved farewell to Kevin and stepped into the back parish hall. Their outfit rented an unused meeting room there—cheap, even for this city. And the pastor didn’t ask questions, 

She pushed through the door marked “Community Association for Seth Morgan”. Adam and George grunted their morning acknowledgments as she shuffled past, and she slumped into her office chair to begin another day of cold calling. 

After lunch, a text from Brad lit up her phone:

“After driving you to work, the least I can do is buy you dinner?”

“Sure thing. But we need to make a stop first.” She would pop her surprise on him then. One that hadn’t worked out well for her previous Tinder date.

At 7pm, she spotted Kevin waiting outside the church. Emma gave him the address. After a drive across town, they pulled into 240 High Street. They entered and walked past the reception desk, the staff nodding at Emma. They took the elevator to the 5th floor. In room number 507, a young boy lay on a hospital bed, his smile radiant. “Good to see you, Aunt Emma.”

“You look great, Seth.” 

Kevin’s eyes lingered on all the machines connected to the young boy. Emma was used to it. She pulled up a chair next to Seth and pulled out her mobile. She showed him all the TikToks she had saved last night—cute dogs and epic fails. Seth chuckled uncontrollably like only little boys can. Kevin followed along, and didn’t say a word about medical conditions in the hour they spent there.

When it was time to leave, Emma’s throat tightened. “We’ll be back soon, Seth,” she said.

Afterward, they drove to Nate’s Hideout, the only other cocktail bar in town they hadn’t visited together.

At the bar, Emma explained how the doctors were optimistic about Seth’s results, and the nightmare for their family might soon be over. All their work had had meaning. Kevin listened with interest.

As the night progressed, the conversation shifted. Over his second Old-Fashioned, Kevin looked sheepishly at her. “I lied about something yesterday.”

“What was it?” The words oh shit echoed inside her mind.

“I’ve been to this bar a hundred times,” he sighed. “And I’m tired of this place. I want to get out and move to Chicago someday. I just wanted to get that off my chest in case that was an important detail.”

A warm glow came over her. She didn’t know if it was from her second cocktail or what Kevin said. She hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, leaning closer to him, a soft smile lighting up her face.