Kirby didn’t crawl his way to the top of the heap in vacuum sales by missing any opportunities. The man had a flair. A gift. Some said, a calling.
That was evidenced in the car he drove, a special ordered ’51 Frazer Vagabond he’d just taken delivery of from Gulf Coast Frazer in Houston before heading through the southwest Texas leg of his territory and then over to Phoenix. From a distance his Indian Ceramic Frazer looked like a sunrise as it barreled towards Fort Stockton, its clamshell tailgate hiding the secret to a happier life for any housewife that would let him in her front door for a demonstration.
Pulling into town about mid-day, he stopped for a hot cuppa joe before heading over to RoadRunner Estates, the newest subdivision in town, just ripe for his space-aged product and the pitch that went with it. He parked at the end of Pisano Place, rolled down all four windows of the sedan to keep it as cool as possible and then opened up the tailgate and slid out the newest model, all the attachments, and all the accessories that had made him a legend in the company. To some, the cavernous, wood-slatted rear end of the cabin was an engineering feat. To Kirby, it was like the Lost Ark, containing the tools that made him rich.
Dropping the tailgate back down, Kirby caught his reflection in the window, straightened his tie, tilted his fedora in a slightly rakish manner and headed for the first house on the block. Ringing the bell, he took a step and waited for the door to open. When it did, there stood a kid of no more than seven years old. He was dressed in a velvet smoking jacket, smoking a Swisher Sweet Cigarillo and holding a full brandy snifter in one hand. A bit off guard, Kirby said, “Are your parents home?”
“What the hell do you think, turd blossom?” the kid answered him and shut the door.
Kirby thought Fort Stockton might be a tougher sell than Junction had been as he walked back to the Vagabond, reached through the passenger window and opened the glove box where he kept a bottle of liquid motivation. He walked around to the other side of the car and grabbed a bucket of horse manure from beside the spare tire and headed to the next house.
He rang the doorbell. “I don’t have any money,” said the woman who answered the door.
“Just a moment of your time,” Kirby replied as he wedged his foot inside the door, throwing the contents of the bucket onto the floor at her feet. “If this vacuum doesn’t suck up every spec of manure from the floor, I’ll eat it!”
“I hope you’re hungry. My electricity was cut off yesterday,” she grinned.
Kirby was in a sweat by the time he got back to the Frazer, but determined to not let the first two rejections kill the spirit that had made him King of the Hill in sales for 1950. Another swig or two from the glove box and on to the third house he went, deflated but not defeated and determined to make one one more call before the end of the day.
He rang the bell and a beautiful woman answered the door, the hose of a brand new ElectroLux in her hand, her floors sparkling clean. “Sorry to bother you ma’am. I see you don’t need a new vacuum. I’m beat, however. Is there any chance you could put me up for the night?”
“Of course, but you’ll have to sleep with my 19 year old son,” she told him.
“Sorry ma’am, I’m in the wrong joke.”
4 responses to “VAGABOND WAYS”
I believe the “no electricity” came from a Bud Abbott and Lou Costello bit – my grandmother loved them. During the very frugal days, a few years into our marriage, we bought a reconditioned Kirby vacuum cleaner with several attachments and were jokingly advised to be cautious around small pets and children. It was a very well designed and efficient appliance.
A Frazier Vagabond would indeed have been a rare sighting, but back in 6th grade, one family in our congregation had a Kaiser Traveler, maybe a 1951? I recall thinking it was a cool design but the spare tire blocked the left rear door so it wasn’t functional.
This morning’s story gut me thinking about some of the old comedy teams and their routines- especially Abbott and Costello’s “Who’s on First?”, or the Nath Lesson, where “7 times 13 equals 28”, shown by multiplication and division ,as well as addition. As math teachers, some of us secretly thought it was hysterical.
How many of us remember comedy without coarse language, before the days of Lenny Bruce and Redd Foxx’s stage shows?
… and like the rabbit, spellcheck or its lack, caught me a couple of times-
Got me, not gut me-
Math lesson, not Nath lesson
Reminds of when a priest, minister and a rabbit walked into a bar. When the bartender asks the rabbit what he’ll have he says “damned if I know, I’m only here because of spellcheck”.
Crazy car. Love it though. Vacuum salesmen were ubiquitous at that time. I loved the second house story. What did poor Kirby doo, what with no electricity . . . Wrong joke? Certainly. And the irony of his name . . .