He was already behind in his work thanks mostly to some goofball kid who was trying to talk him into buying one of those machines that charge people for air. “I don’t sell air,” he told the kid while Mrs. Hanley’s seventeen-year-old Ford levitated like the miracle it was. He paused, caught the kid’s eye, and winked. “I suck wind sometimes,” he grinned, “but I don’t sell air.” He popped off the right front hubcap, reached for the compressor gun, and squeezed the trigger. Brrrppt. “But you’re in business,” the kid stammered, “you’re in business to make money. To make money. Right?” Brrrppt. He palmed the lug nut. Brrrppt. Another Reagan baby. A suit off the rack, a binder of information, a rap his boss had made him memorize. “Look, kid, you’re wasting time.” He dropped the lug nuts in the hubcap. “You’re on commission, right? There’s nothing here.” The phone rang. “Walter? Walter, it’s Donny, Donny D. Your sponsee?” “Donny, listen. You can just say it’s Donny.
What do You think about Interference & Other Stories?
