Free The Misfits by James Howe

it’s now or never, so I step in and say, “That tie definitely makes a statement. If you like it, perhaps I can show you some others along the same lines.”
    Five minutes later, I am ringing up a sale for
four
ties and the woman is thanking me for all my help. I cannot wait for Mr. Kellerman to get off the phone so I can brag shamelessly, but when he does get off the phone I do not brag shamelessly or in any other adverbial manner, because he doesn’t look in my direction or ask what happened with the customer or even notice that Daffy is missing.
    His face is getting that melting cheese look again, and I am wondering what gives when he says,“I must . . .” and leaves the words lying there, flat and useless as a couple of pieces of fallen baloney with no dog around to lap them up.
    He goes off and I’m left standing there, feeling good about the sale I’ve just made but with nobody to brag to, while at the same time trying to figure what’s up with Mr. K, all to the accompaniment of Mickey and the Accordionaires doing their nursing-home rendition of “Y.M.C.A.” (I do not believe there is such a group as Mickey and the Accordionaires. Out of sheer boredom I have come up with names for the musicians I imagine performing each of the Muzak melodies I am forced to listen to every time I work at Awkworth & Ames. I call the
oo-ah
chorus that performs “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” the Vowelettes.)
    The Killer Man does not return. When Junior Fernell shows up to fill in for him, he tells me only that Mr. K was called away on personal business. I do not press Junior Fernell, because I do not really like him. Besides, I can tell right away that he needs to feel important and that divulging too much informationto an underling would seriously threaten his status as Son of the Store Manager and Heir Apparent to the Realm.
    While Junior busies himself refolding clothing that is more in need of dusting than refolding, and tidying up the sales desk, which Mr. Kellerman has already tidied to the point where it could pass military inspection, I alternately replay my coup as a tie salesman and imagine what sort of personal business took Mr. K away. I want to think he is involved in some type of illegal drug operation that is about to be exposed, bringing national attention to Paintbrush Falls. I picture myself watching myself on TV going, “Yeah, I worked with Mr. Kellerman. No, he never struck me as the criminal type. I was as surprised as anybody to find out he was a drug czar and that he had fourteen bodies buried in his backyard. I mean, people at work
did
call him Killer Man, it’s true, but who would have thought...”
    This is when the Muzak stops and the voice says, “Shoppers, the store will be closing in fifteen minutes.”
    â€œKind of a slow day,” junior Fernell goes, like there’s any other kind at Awkworth & Ames. “Why don’t you cut out early? I can close up.”
    I say thanks, knowing that Junior is doing this not out of kindness but so he can feel like a big shot, but I am truly grateful, anyway, because if I stick around much longer my sanity is in serious danger.

12
    BY THE time Sunday evening rolls around, I am no longer thinking about Mr. Kellerman. Truth be told, by the time I am out the door of Awkworth & Ames on Friday, I am no longer thinking about Mr. Kellerman. I am too caught up in my own mixed-up life to worry about his. Although I do have a moment watching the news with my dad Friday night when I swear the anchor guy says to the anchor woman, “Well, Jenny, pretty shocking news from Upstate New York today. Seems a clothing salesman in the little town of Paintbrush Falls has been revealed to be a Mafia godfather.” Of course, what he actually is saying turns out to have nothing to do with Upstate New York or a small-town clothing salesman or even organized crime, which just shows what an overworked