One-Hundred-Knuckled Fist Read Free

hum approaches. It almost sounds like a song, as if a mermaid might have been plunked into the tank and is trying to sing her way out. It’s really quite fantastic, and this distraction causes Wyatt to slip and graze his knuckle—just a scratch, not much blood—but it seeps as bright and ripe as the tomato. He wipes his bloody knuckle on his uniform, under his apron where he hopes no one will see that he’s bleeding, that these products can be dangerous. Appearances are important. The customer doesn’t notice, because he looks toward the sound, too.
    A woman wearing a bright-yellow blouse and black pants hums past his stand, armed with a small vacuum on a slim pole. She sucks up the spilled shavings of Wyatt’s salesmanship. After one pass, not a speck remains. She pushes her small vacuum in a full circle around the customer and stops in front of him, propping her elbow on the slim pole, stretching a confident smile. She’s small and skinny, has short blonde hair combed over like a school boy. With that tiny body, she could almost be invisible. But she assumes the presence of a greater-sized woman. Every movement—the curveof her wrist, her seductive twists of the tiny vacuum, the slight but unmistakable jut of her hip when she leans—is executed with graceful showmanship.
    “Sir, do you wish you had an easier life?” She winks at the customer. “I’m here to make that dream possible. Well, not just me. Our product was envisioned and designed by expert NASA engineers to bring you an out-of-this-world sweeping experience from Warp-Speed Vacuums.”
    She swoops her hand into her tight pockets and releases a handful of varying-sized gems and gold nuggets. It’s amazing so many could fit into such a tight pocket. They sprinkle and bounce across the tile floor. “But Warp-Speed doesn’t just handle small messes. It can tackle the heavy-duty work as well.”
    And then she’s at it again, making quick, graceful circles with the tiny vacuum, sucking up each precious stone with a flick of the wrist and a side step here and there. It’s a dance. Wyatt is mesmerized. He’s forgotten all about the sledge, wondering to himself what heavenly training program blessed her with such a persona and why his hasn’t kicked in yet. Perhaps some people are just born with salesmanship talent. She is perfect. He seriously considers upgrading to a new vacuum. But he’d need to sell more knives.
    Stay focused on the knives! Don’t be taken in by flashy false prophets. There’s only room for one miracle product today.
    He’s back to sawing, stealing a glance as she swoops up the last gem. So perfect. The customer is in awe too. Blood wells up in the cracks of Wyatt’s fingers, forming into tiny red tributaries. Maybe the cut is a bit deeper than he first thought. He wipes behind his apron again, hopes nothing shows through, hopes she might keep the customer’s attention until his blood coagulates. Damn his blood.
    “And just like that, your floors are spotless,” she says. “You’ll never need to toil away again. Just think of all the time you’ll save in cleaning the very biggest of messes to the peskiest specks of insignificant dust.”
    The customer sets his basket down in order to clap.
    Wyatt ponders the last thing she said: insignificant. She was referring to him and his metal shavings. This is not just competition. This is an attack. His stomach burns. Oh God, an ulcer! And no health insurance until he’s made one hundred sales or worked six months. He feels sweat build on the crest of his thinning hairline hidden under the poofy chef’s hat. His finger bleeds on, and he buries it in his pocket. He’s glad his sweat and blood are hidden. Customers want effortlessness. For Wyatt to have a chance here, everything must appear easy.
    “But that’s not all. Warp-Speed never needs to be emptied. All messes are broken down into their molecular states and exhaust in a refreshing scent of coconut or pine tree