The Salesman
JULY TURNED OUT to be hot and dry that year and by ten o’clock in the morning it was already boiling hot, without a cloud in the sky. That day the young man in the black Plymouth was driving about fifteen miles outside of town when he spotted a small cloud of dust moving way off in a distant field. As he got closer and slowed down he saw that the dust cloud was exactly what he’d suspected. A lone man in overalls and a straw hat was plowing behind a two-mule team. The young man glanced at his watch. He had time. He turned around and parked on the side of the road.
He figured he might as well try and do a little business. He looked at the mailbox on the post and read the name printed in white paint on the side.
He got out and climbed over the fence and headed out toward the man plowing. When the farmer looked up and saw him coming, he stopped his mules. “Whoa. Whoa.”
The younger man knew to immediately put a big smile on his face and wave to let him know he was friendly and not from the government or the bank. He took no chances; from his past experience he knew that, depending on their situation, farmers would sometimes call the dogs on them or shoot at them. As he got closer he called out, “Mr. Shimfissle?”
The farmer nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said slowly and waited to see what the caller wanted.
As he reached the farmer he said, “How are you doing today? It’s a hot one, ain’t it?” and took a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to him. He then walked over and patted one of the mules on the hindquarters. “Hey, boy . . . you’re a big son of a gun, ain’t you,” he said while the farmer read his card. It introduced him as a salesman for the Allis-Chalmers tractor company. The farmer was not surprised. This was not the first tractor salesman who had stopped by trying to sell him something and he wouldn’t be the last but to be cordial he asked, “What can I do for you today?”
“Not a thing. I was passing by on my way to Elmwood Springs when I saw you out here and I wondered if it would be all right if I was to walk along with you for a bit?”
The farmer, who was not interested in buying a tractor, knew what was coming but said, “Nope, come right ahead if you want to.”
“Thanks, I sure appreciate it,” the salesman said, and sat down and quickly took off his shoes and socks and rolled up his pants legs. As they walked along, he said, “To tell you the truth, Mr. Shimfissle, I haven’t seen one of these old plows since I was a kid. I spent many a day behind one of these things. My daddy had about twenty-five acres outside of Knoxville but we lost all of it to the TVA—it’s all under water now.”
Shimfissle shook his head in sympathy. He knew what losing your land meant to a farmer. After they had walked and plowed for a while and after they had discussed the price of corn, the weather, and the best time to plant which crop, the salesman said, “Do you think I could try my hand at it for a minute . . . just to see if I remember how?”
The farmer stopped the team again with a “Whoa” and handed him the reins. “Here you go. But don’t be afraid to prod them a bit. They can be as stubborn as hell.”
The salesman took the reins and stepped behind the yoke, gave a whistle, a few clucks, and after a small tap on their backsides, off they went just as lively as they had been at 5:30 that morning. They even picked up their pace as he talked to them like old friends.
Shimfissle was impressed. This was not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill tractor salesman that didn’t know a cornrow from a teakettle. This boy was a farmer. After about ten minutes the younger man slowed them down and stopped. “I sure do thank you, Mr. Shimfissle. It felt so good to get hold of one of these things again I hate to quit.”
“I hate to have you quit. I was enjoying the rest. Anytime you get the urge to plow, come on back.”
“Yessir, thank you, I will. You’ve got yourself a couple of fine mules. You just don’t see them much anymore . . . everybody’s in a hurry, everybody wants to speed up nowadays.”
The farmer took the reins back. “Well, enjoyed talking to you.”
“Same here.” The salesman had to slap some dust off himself. “I’m a mess, ain’t I? You wouldn’t have a place where I could wash up a bit, would you? I’ve got a date with a lady in town and I better not show up looking like this.”
“Sure, go on in the house and tell the wife I sent you. She’ll fix you up.”
“Much obliged.” He picked up his shoes and socks and headed toward the white farmhouse. Will Shimfissle continued on, somehow sorry that the Allis-Chalmers man had not even tried to sell him a tractor.
In fact, he had not even mentioned it once. For that very reason, Will made a note to himself: If he ever was in the market for a tractor, this is the guy he would buy it from.
When the salesman reached the house he stamped off as much dust as he could, then knocked on the back door. He could hear the radio being turned off and a few seconds later a large woman in a cotton housedress came to the door.
“Mrs. Shimfissle, I’m sorry to bother you but your husband sent me up here to see if I could borrow a little soap and water. I got myself all dirty out there in the fields talking to your husband.”
She opened the screen door. “Well sure, honey, come on in and I’ll get you some soap and a rag.”
“No, ma’am, I better not come in, I’ll get your kitchen dirty.”
“Well, then wait a minute,” she said and came back with a washcloth and a bar of homemade lye soap and a small pan. “When you’re finished come in and I’ll give you a glass of iced tea—you must be scorched.”
He went to the pump outside the kitchen and stuck his head under and washed his face and hands and rinsed off his feet. After he put his shoes and socks back on he pulled a black Ace comb out of his pocket and ran it through his hair. He knocked on the door again. “Ma’am, here’s your pan back.”
She opened the screen door and saw a neat, nice, almost new-looking young man in a white shirt. “Come on in. Can I fix you a sandwich?”
He stepped in and took the iced tea. “No, ma’am, thank you but this is all I need. I’m fixing to go on a lunch date as soon as I get to town. She says we are going to go to something called a cafeteria.”
“Oh lucky you, my sisters Ida and Gerta tell me it’s quite the place. I haven’t been there yet but I’m going one of these days, whenever I can talk Will into dressing up. He won’t get dressed up unless it’s for a funeral, so I guess I’ll have to wait till somebody dies to get a meal there. Ida says they’ve got a pink pig running in a circle, so be sure and see that.”
“Yes, ma’am, I will.” He handed her the empty glass and was about to leave when it occurred to him that as long as he was here it wouldn’t hurt if he fished around in his pocket for another card. “Mrs. Shimfissle, I’m thinking of running for a political office someday. I don’t know for what yet but let me give you my card.” He went through all his pockets but was unsuccessful. “I can’t find one . . . but anyway, if you ever see the name Hamm Sparks on a ballot, I sure would appreciate your vote. Can you remember that?”
“Your first name’s Ham? Like a Christmas ham? Like the meat ham?”
“Yes, ma’am, only it’s spelled with two m’s.”
She repeated it. “Hamm. . . . Well, it’s unusual but easier to remember than Billy or John, I’ll say that for it.”
“Yes, ma’am, it’s my mother’s family name. She was a Hamm before she married.”
“You don’t say. My mother was a Nuckle with an N before she married, and my daddy was a Knott with a K out of Pennsylvania. . . . They said the people that got invites to the Nuckle-Knott nuptials thought it was pretty funny.”
He laughed. “I guess so.”