Would You Be Interested?

By Gerard Brennan

“Is your mother at home, little girl?”

The man at the door was tall, well dressed and handsome. He had to be a salesman. Paul took an instant dislike to him.

“I’m not a chick,” he said.

“Oh, excuse me, sonny,” said the salesman, “I must have been thrown by all that hair and your delicate jaw line. It was an innocent mistake.”

“Whatever,” Paul said, “What do you want?”

“Is your father at home?”

“You’re not very good at this are you?” Paul asked.

The man at the door didn’t answer. Paul rolled his eyes. He was in a bad mood and didn’t need to be further irritated by nuisance door to door salesmen, especially incompetent ones.

“Look,” Paul said, “This is my house and I live here alone. Don’t call me sonny, I’m thirty years old. If you have something to sell, you can deal with me. Now, hurry up and get your pitch off your chest, so I can go back to my lunch.”

“Oh good,” said the salesman, “You’re confident enough to show me that you’re irritated. This should be fun.”

“Do you realise that you said that out loud?” Paul asked, “And that it makes no sense?”

“Ah you’re very quick witted,” replied the salesman, “Another excellent trait, Paul.”

“How do you know my name?” asked Paul, “Oh wait, I see. Give me that will you?”

The new issue of Hard Drive catalogue was in the salesman’s hand. Paul was a longstanding customer of the computer parts supplier. His name and address were printed on the newsletter, visible through the catalogue’s cellophane wrapper.

“Here you go, sir,” said the salesman, “I found it on your doorstep. Now, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

“Yes, let’s,” said Paul, “And hurry up.”

“Okay, let me clear up the first point of confusion. I am not here to sell. I am here to take.”

Paul waited for the punch line, but gave up after a minute’s silence.

“This is stupid,” said Paul, “A word of advice, if you want to sell something to a modern customer base, find a new approach. Consumers have been spoiled by choice and efficient delivery of goods and services. Your bizarre sales pitch will never hold anyone’s attention.”

Quite pleased with his well constructed outburst, Paul tried to swing his door shut. It bounced back open.

“Did you just stick your foot in my door?” asked Paul, “What the hell is wrong with you? You have ten seconds to get off my property, before I phone the cops.”

“Okay Paul, that’s enough. Let me in and we’ll get this thing cleared up.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Paul looked at his watch, “You have five seconds left.”

The salesman took a step forward and Paul was shocked into action. He aimed a straight right punch at the guy’s wide mouth. He cried out as his fist got trapped between a set of perfect white teeth.

“Let go of me, you freak!” cried Paul.

The salesman opened an already impossibly widened mouth even further, and Paul pulled back his hand. He flexed his fingers and found they still worked. The pain faded instantly, but a perfect imprint of the salesman’s front teeth tattooed this index finger and pinkie. He considered throwing another punch, but the fight had gone out of him.

“I’m glad you got that out of your system, Paul,” said the salesman, “You would have kicked yourself later if you hadn’t at least tried to hit me.”

“Who are you?” Paul asked, “What do you want?”

“My name is Tim,” he replied, “I need your life.”

“You want to kill me? Why?”

“No, no,” Tim said, “I need your life. I’m going to have a shot from that bottle of Jim Beam you have in your kitchen. Follow me please. I’ll explain over a nice drink. Can I pour you one? Of course I can.”

Paul followed Tim into the kitchen. Tim took the bottle of Jim Beam from the first cupboard he opened and two shot glasses from the second one. He pulled out two chairs at the kitchen table and poured two shots of bourbon. Paul watched all of this in amazement. The stranger moved about his kitchen like he had lived there for years, comfortable and confident. Tim gestured for Paul to sit before he took his own seat.

“I love this stuff,” said Tim, “You have good taste. It represents quality without pretension. Drink up. You’ll need something to take the edge off this.”

Paul lifted his shot glass and threw the bourbon down his throat. Tim filled his empty glass as soon as it was placed back on the table.

“What’s going on?” asked Paul.

Tim knocked back his shot of the bourbon and topped up his glass immediately.

“Well, I’m afraid that I have to move somebody into your life.”

“Come again?”

“Oh, don’t be dense, Paul!” Tim said, “You’re a clever guy. It’s part of the reason that the guy wants to be you. It’s a Faust thing, you know?”

“I really don’t know. Please, stop talking in riddles.”

“Okay, Paul. I’ll put this temporary obtuseness down to shock. I guess you’re going through quite an ordeal. Well, here’s the thing, someone you know has offered us their soul to have a life like yours. Well actually, to be you. You should be flattered. The boss has sent me out to tie up a loose end, before the deal is completed. That loose end is you. Now, there are a few ways we can handle this. Are you ready to consider your options?”

“What’s going on?” Paul asked.

Paul watched Tim sigh dramatically. There was a flash of light and then Paul looked up at Tim from the cool tiled floor. His left cheek burned. Tim lifted him up by a handful of T-shirt and planted him back down in his chair. It was done without effort.

“I’m not going through all of that again,” said Tim, “Now, take a moment and let this sink in. Take another shot while you’re at it.”

Paul didn’t normally drink straight bourbon before noon, but this time he was able to make an exception. Again, the glass was filled as soon as it was set back down on the table. His head was spinning. Tim also emptied his glass and topped it up again. Paul considered a third shot, but decided to slow down.

“Okay, to avoid another slap, I’m going to go with the flow here,” said Paul, “What are these options you’re talking about?”

“Now you’re talking,” said Tim, “You have three options. Listen to all three before you make a decision. Make a careful choice but please do not procrastinate for too long. I have a few more appointments today.”

Paul nodded and waited for Tim to continue.

“Option one. You may sell your soul and upgrade your current life to the status of rock god or Hollywood icon, and enjoy a life of decadence. Option two. You can take the moral high ground, refuse to sell your soul and pray to the other guy that you have lived a good enough life, to fill his criteria for eternal life, among the harp players and choir singers. And then, there’s option three, the one that I would heartily recommend.”

“And what’s that?” Paul asked.

“Accept gainful employment with us,” Tim smiled, “You get to become immortal, travel the world and our dental plan is fantastic.”

Paul flinched as Tim clacked his teeth together. The sharp sound echoed in the kitchen. Paul sank his third shot as Tim’s creepy laughter filled the air. He swiped the bottle from the table and topped up his empty glass himself.

“Good idea,” said Tim, as he took the bottle back, drained his own glass and filled it back up. “You have ten minutes to make your decision.”

“This doesn’t seem very fair, Tim,” said Paul.

“You have three perfectly good options to choose from. What could be fairer?”

“But I like my life. I want things to stay as they are.”

“Oh come now, everyone’s life can be improved,” said Tim, “Don’t be so arrogant.”

“Then why would someone want to be me?”

“Oh, they’re a bit crazy and they don’t have much ambition. They see you as their better. They haven’t figured out that without a soul they have no hope of trading up and they’ll be stuck in Mediocreville with nothing to look forward to but inevitable eternity in Hell.”

“Well that’s option one out the window,” said Paul, “Who’d want to be a rock god and know that they’re damned?”

“That’s the kind of intelligence I expect from you,” Tim said, “Good man.”

“So who’s the genius who wants my life?”

“Your little brother I’m afraid.”

“Crap,” Paul said.

“I agree,” Tim frowned in empathy, “Such a nasty business, eh?”

Paul thought about his younger brother. He could see how his life would seem perfect to Frank. Frank was divorced, unemployed and an alcoholic. The family had tried to help him, but he was too messed up and ashamed of himself to accept it. He had stopped taking their calls and wouldn’t answer his door when they went to his housing executive flat. It had been a year since Paul or his parents had even spoken to him. But Frank was his brother.

“If I pick option two, I’ve practically sealed Frank’s fate. How would I ever get accepted into heaven after that?”

“That’s very forward thinking Paul!” said Tim, “I guess all that’s left is my recommendation. Would you be interested?”

“No.”

“I really thought you had grasped the situation here, Paul,” said Tim, “You have three options, pick one. Again, I recommend option three.”

“Like I said, this isn’t fair. I propose a fourth option,” Paul said.

“I’m intrigued,” Tim said, “Please, do go on.”

“Run!”

Paul jumped up and bolted for the backdoor. His face hit the tiled floor and his nose gushed blood. Tim had grabbed his ankle.

“What on Earth made you think that you could run away from me?”

“I just thought it was worth a try.”

“I like you Paul,” said Tim, “You’re a fighter. Unfortunately, you can’t beat us, so I reckon you should join us.”

Tim released Paul’s ankle and Paul got to his feet. He went over to the sink and washed his face. His nose still bled so he lifted a tea towel and pressed it against his nostrils to stem the flow. He thought about his predicament.

“I guess I’ll do it then,” Paul said, “Where do I sign?”

“Good man!” Tim pulled a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Just sign this please, right there at the bottom.”

Paul signed the contract. It was full of very fine print. As his pen left the paper he felt a surge of power. His nose no longer hurt.

“So, I guess you just have to go get my brother and we’re done here?” Paul asked.

“You guessed right my friend. It’s been great doing business with you.”

Paul threw a straight punch at Tim’s mouth. This one wasn’t caught. Tim went down and Paul stood over him, he put a foot on his chest.

“Well, I guess I can’t let you leave, my friend,” said Paul, “At least, not until Frank lives out the rest of his life. The time should pass quite quickly for a couple of immortal guys.”

“But, you can’t beat me, Paul,” Tim said.

“Well Tim, I’m your equal now so I guess we got a bit of a stalemate going on here. Now, get up and fight. It’ll pass the time.”

Tim sighed, “I hate it when you guys find a loophole. I had dinner plans.”

Paul laughed, Tim stood, and the fight was on.