FRINGE BENEFITS by Cody Campbell
You can always spot the lonely ones as soon as they answer the door. There was Cheryl, the housewife in Roanoke, then Claudia, the secretary who lived in Portland, then Theresa from Boise…and those are just ones that I remember. Every city, a new woman – a new lonely, lonely woman who misses a man’s touch so desperately that she could be swept away by a traveling salesman with a slight lisp and bony fingers.
They usually come to the door immediately, probably hoping for the return of something or someone that they’ve lost. I always start out with the same greeting, asking them if they are satisfied with their vacuum, but I already know they aren’t. They are desperate and lonely, and desperate lonely women are never fulfilled with anything. Before long, I’m offering them something new and exciting to can latch on to, even if it is just a new appliance. It’s amazing how someone can invest all of their hope – no matter how briefly – into something like a vacuum cleaner.
I don't know what it is, but it’s always just a matter of time before they start opening up to me. Divorced with three kids, never married, left at the altar…I’ve heard all of them before. I’ll ask them how they’ve been feeling or if they need anything; once you get them to open up, all you have to do is show interest in them and it’s easy from there.
I’ll ask where the best restaurants in town are – then their eyes light up. Good memories flood their faces, as they remember a time when they still wanted to leave the house. Then I ask directly, “Would you like to join me there tonight?” It never fails. They act hesitant, but I know that they are excited. Vacuum cleaners don’t matter anymore, because – my god – someone is paying attention to them.
They’ll get dressed up like they used to – put on that dress they used to wear when he still loved them, and find their lipstick in the bathroom drawer where it’s been since the last time they felt alive. I’ll meet them at the door again, but this time with a rose. “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” they say, as they tried to hide their blushed face from me. Before too long, we are off, and she feels like a queen. I’ll always take them somewhere nice, where the maitre d’ will take my coat, and the waiters carry clean white towels folded over their arms. I’ll be a perfect gentleman the whole night. This is the life she has always wanted, and for once, she feels like it’s within reach. She’ll always look down a lot, not sure whether to believe it’s real or not. Am I the man she’s been waiting for all these years?
We’ll eat slowly, and she’ll always insist that she should only have one glass of wine, even though I can tell that she wants to drink until everything makes sense. I’ll ask more about her life, and before long, I’ll be hearing things that she hasn’t told anyone in years. She’ll tell me about her son, who hasn’t talked to her since the divorce, or her parents who died and left her alone, or her best friend who hasn’t been around as much since the new job. I’ll always offer her my handkerchief when the tears come. But we don’t want to talk about that tonight, because she looks so beautiful and the lighting is magnificent, I must taste the fish she ordered. She’ll be different by the end of the night. Her eyes will open up, and the tension in her face will ease away. The check comes, and she’ll insist on paying half, but a gentleman would never allow that. We’ll gather our things, and I’ll wrap my arm around her as we walk out. The staff will all wish us a good night, and the look in their eyes will always tell me that we’ve fooled them. For this one night, we are a couple and everyone knows how perfect our lives must be.
Of course, this can’t last. The fantasy that I’ve helped her create will be gone as quickly as it happened. I’ll drive slowly back to her house, enjoying the adoration that she gives me. As we pull up to the house, she’ll lean in for a kiss, or put her hand on my knee, or sometimes just fold her arms and stare quietly at the floorboard. “When can I see you again?” But there never is an again. This is my last night in town, and I’m due in Omaha, or Austin, or Milwaukee by the morning. When she hears this, she’ll grow silent for a minute and nod a little. She knew this was coming, even if she didn’t want to believe it.
I always watch them in the rear-view mirror as I pull off. Some cry. Most don’t. They’re usually used to feeling loss and abandonment. After I leave, they’ll probably go back into their house to take off the earrings and wipe off the lipstick. All of a sudden they are lonely again.
I don’t know why I do it.
//ww
They usually come to the door immediately, probably hoping for the return of something or someone that they’ve lost. I always start out with the same greeting, asking them if they are satisfied with their vacuum, but I already know they aren’t. They are desperate and lonely, and desperate lonely women are never fulfilled with anything. Before long, I’m offering them something new and exciting to can latch on to, even if it is just a new appliance. It’s amazing how someone can invest all of their hope – no matter how briefly – into something like a vacuum cleaner.
I don't know what it is, but it’s always just a matter of time before they start opening up to me. Divorced with three kids, never married, left at the altar…I’ve heard all of them before. I’ll ask them how they’ve been feeling or if they need anything; once you get them to open up, all you have to do is show interest in them and it’s easy from there.
I’ll ask where the best restaurants in town are – then their eyes light up. Good memories flood their faces, as they remember a time when they still wanted to leave the house. Then I ask directly, “Would you like to join me there tonight?” It never fails. They act hesitant, but I know that they are excited. Vacuum cleaners don’t matter anymore, because – my god – someone is paying attention to them.
They’ll get dressed up like they used to – put on that dress they used to wear when he still loved them, and find their lipstick in the bathroom drawer where it’s been since the last time they felt alive. I’ll meet them at the door again, but this time with a rose. “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” they say, as they tried to hide their blushed face from me. Before too long, we are off, and she feels like a queen. I’ll always take them somewhere nice, where the maitre d’ will take my coat, and the waiters carry clean white towels folded over their arms. I’ll be a perfect gentleman the whole night. This is the life she has always wanted, and for once, she feels like it’s within reach. She’ll always look down a lot, not sure whether to believe it’s real or not. Am I the man she’s been waiting for all these years?
We’ll eat slowly, and she’ll always insist that she should only have one glass of wine, even though I can tell that she wants to drink until everything makes sense. I’ll ask more about her life, and before long, I’ll be hearing things that she hasn’t told anyone in years. She’ll tell me about her son, who hasn’t talked to her since the divorce, or her parents who died and left her alone, or her best friend who hasn’t been around as much since the new job. I’ll always offer her my handkerchief when the tears come. But we don’t want to talk about that tonight, because she looks so beautiful and the lighting is magnificent, I must taste the fish she ordered. She’ll be different by the end of the night. Her eyes will open up, and the tension in her face will ease away. The check comes, and she’ll insist on paying half, but a gentleman would never allow that. We’ll gather our things, and I’ll wrap my arm around her as we walk out. The staff will all wish us a good night, and the look in their eyes will always tell me that we’ve fooled them. For this one night, we are a couple and everyone knows how perfect our lives must be.
Of course, this can’t last. The fantasy that I’ve helped her create will be gone as quickly as it happened. I’ll drive slowly back to her house, enjoying the adoration that she gives me. As we pull up to the house, she’ll lean in for a kiss, or put her hand on my knee, or sometimes just fold her arms and stare quietly at the floorboard. “When can I see you again?” But there never is an again. This is my last night in town, and I’m due in Omaha, or Austin, or Milwaukee by the morning. When she hears this, she’ll grow silent for a minute and nod a little. She knew this was coming, even if she didn’t want to believe it.
I always watch them in the rear-view mirror as I pull off. Some cry. Most don’t. They’re usually used to feeling loss and abandonment. After I leave, they’ll probably go back into their house to take off the earrings and wipe off the lipstick. All of a sudden they are lonely again.
I don’t know why I do it.
//ww