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  Tales of a Traveling Saleslady: The Cage

  Written by Linda Aksomitis

  Copyright 2002, 2012 Linda Aksomitis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission of the author/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names. Any resemblance to individuals known or unknown to the author are purely coincidental. There isn’t, and has never been, a PERFECT sewing machine company. Many of the events in the Tales of a Traveling Saleslady collection, however, were inspired by the true-life adventures of the author, who was a traveling saleslady for PFAFF sewing machines from 1984 to 1989.

  The Cage is one of the stories originally published in the short story collection, Tales of a Travelling Saleslady: Sew Far, Sew Good.

  Cataloguing information:

  Aksomitis, Linda

  Tales of a Traveling Saleslady: The Cage/Linda Aksomitis

  ISBN: 978-0-9734387-8-9 (EPUB format)

  Sales personnel—Fiction

  Hotel clerks—Fiction

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  The Cage

  About the Author

  Other Traveling Saleslady titles

  Introduction

  The sun is rising on a new life for Ashley Adams, traveling saleslady. It’s 1984 and Ashley has left her husband and son behind her on the farm, searching for fulfillment and her own sense of identity.

  Stories in Tales of A Traveling Saleslady take a voyage through the metamorphosis of an ex-farm wife into a woman of the world. From small towns to the Los Angeles County Fair, Ashley Adams, the saleslady, finds herself in a perpetual state of limbo. On one hand her new lifestyle alienates her from the life she's always known, while on the other, she's still a naive country girl who often finds herself in unexpected predicaments as she does here in The Cage. Each of the stories is narrated, not by the saleslady, but by the people she encounters on her journey.

  The Cage

  Thick metal bars grew from a worn wooden counter towards the cracked plaster ceiling above the tiny hotel cubicle. Hawk stared from behind the rusting iron at the young woman. She was as out of place as a harp in a rock band.

  Running his left hand over his forehead, Hawk wiped the dampness into his salt and pepper ponytail before he spoke. She reminded him of the life he’d abandoned in high school—the life his father wanted him to take back. “Well . . .?”

  Surprisingly, the woman met Hawk’s gaze. She was tall. Even though he was perched on top of a spare bar stool, her cool green eyes were even with his. Her lower lip, the only traitor in her poised disguise, quivered slightly as she spoke. “Do you have any rooms available for tonight?”

  An off key squawk belted out by the band in the adjoining bar distracted Hawk momentarily. But even with his head turned, he could see her—and the shadow of her tailored suit—superimposed over the tawdry red wallpaper.

  She shifted her weight from one foot, then to the other, impatiently. Her nose wrinkled like she'd suddenly noticed the stale cigarette smoke or the lingering odor of spilt alcohol. “Do you have any rooms?” she repeated firmly.

  “A room?” Hawk’s voice was thick with disbelief.

  She ignored his remark. Instead, her gaze followed the tattooed snake that slithered the length of his bare right arm.

  He wondered if she could hear it hiss when she reached the fangs.

  The woman’s glance moved back to Hawk’s face. Nothing in her expression betrayed any emotion.

  Unable to keep the cynicism from his voice, Hawk asked, “Are you sure you'd want a room if I had one?”

  “I wouldn't be here if I didn't. This is the only place left in the city that I haven't checked for a vacancy. No reservation—no room. So is anything available?”

  “Really? The summer fair must have drawn quite a crowd this year.”

  “I guess it must have.” She squeezed the black leather clutch purse she was holding tight enough to make the veins stand out on her well-manicured, ringless hand. “So do you have one?”

  Hawk turned the pages of the register in front of him, even though he could have recited the entries line for line. There were the regulars - the people who made their homes in the hotel. And a group of middle aged bikers out on tour with their Harleys. Then that couple for the afternoon that still had the key, so they'd have to pay some more.

  He looked up, surprised by how much he was enjoying her discomfort. It was almost as if Trashcan Hochley was getting even with the hundred and fifty kids he’d attended Westerman High School with.

  Hawk could still hear their schoolyard taunts.

  Trashcan Hochley had been the son of the town garbage collector. Even though he’d forgiven his father, Hawk couldn’t erase his memories of Trashcan, the kid. Or forget the principal who’d pushed him out of school in the tenth grade, telling him he might as well start picking garbage outside, as being garbage inside.

  He shook his head, refocusing on the tall blonde. His voice boomed, rising above the rock and roll beat now pounding out next door. “Appears we got a couple of empty ones.” He wasn't going to make it easy for her.

  “Good.”

  Hawk leaned back. The stool lifted on one leg, nearly tipping. Quickly grabbing the counter to regain his balance, he mentally kicked himself for almost losing control of the situation.

  The woman reminded him of the first girl he’d ever asked out, back in the ninth grade. She’d been a blonde too. And he could still see those tight blue jeans hugging her slender thighs.

  That blonde lived on a street all the kids called Rich Man’s Row.

  When he’d blurted out the invitation to his birthday party, she’d laughed.

  The woman in front of him cleared her throat. “Well . . . can I get one?” she said, her voice querulous.

  “Whatever you want Lady. Cash in advance. No credit cards.”

  Her forehead creased momentarily, while she shuffled through the contents of her purse. “You're sure you can't use the company credit card? I’m a saleslady for PERFECT sewing machines. Tomorrow I’ll be demonstrating at the fair.”

  “No cards. No credit.” Hawk snickered. It wasn't just the down and out that had trouble with money anymore. Even the middle class could be caught short of the real thing.

  “Fine. How much?”

  “Twenty-five bucks. Taxes included.”

  “Twenty-five dollars!” She sounded as shocked as if Hawk had told her that in a lifetime long ago, he’d been a choir boy.

  “Take it or leave it, Lady.” He was enjoying himself again, the way a cat enjoys playing with a mouse before it pounces. “That's the nightly rate. Now, if you wanted it by the week, I could cut you a better deal.”

  “No. Just tonight.” To Hawk’s surprise, she dumped the contents of her purse into the tray beneath the bars. “Here. This is all I have.”

  His thick fingers poked through the odds and ends of change and things. He picked up several silver bobbins he recognized from the days when his mother had leaned over the sewing machine altering clothing for the neighbors. Finally, between safety pins and hair clips, he found enough loonies and twonies.

  “That's it,” he said, turning a lock on a drawer under the counter. The money fell into the change compartment with a clang.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Gathering her belongings, she dropped them back into her purse. He handed her a round, scratched white key tag. It said 13 in black numbers.
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  He flipped the hotel register through the tray towards her; and handed her a pen that had been courtesy of the adult video store down the street. The saleslady signed her name. Ashley Adams.

  “Where should I park my car?”

  “Well, lady, Ms. Adams that is,” Hawk said, stretching the words out like the limousine he’d driven for five years, “bar parking lot is probably full right now. But if you keep it out on the street, right under one of the streetlights that are working, it should be pretty safe. That is, unless you got a fancy stereo or something in it.”

  “No. Company cars don't have many options.”

  “Should be okay then. But,” he added, remembering the manager’s instructions, “if anything does happen, the hotel ain't responsible you know.”

  “Of course,” she conceded, abruptly turning toward the door.

  Hawk watched her through the window at the rear of his cage, too curious to just let her go. The sight of her had reminded him of his dad’s plea to come home and take over the small store of used furniture and appliances he’d finally been able to open ten years ago. Now that Dad’s cancer had spread to his lungs, he didn’t have much time left. He wanted an answer. Soon.

  She opened the door of a little red sports car. It was too dark to tell what model, but it looked as if it suited her—fast and expensive.

  Dropping casually back onto his stool, he watched as she carried her engraved leather luggage into the hotel. Her initials stood out prominently.

  The door closed on the black night behind her.

  Taking long, measured strides, she approached his cubicle.

  He watched her advance.

  With each passing moment the party going on next door in the bar grew louder. A waitress, hustling past the open doorway with a tray of tall mugs, caught Hawk’s attention and smiled. His lips smacked as if he could taste the cold, frothy draft beer. At ease again, his foot picked up the beat of the rock music and moved of its own accord.

  Right after Principal Taylor had ended Trashcan’s educational career, Hawk had made his first big break as a singer in a rock band. And changed his name. Life on the road had suited him just fine. Parties galore. Lots of willing women. No ties. If it hadn’t been for problems with his vocal cords, he’d still be there.

  Ashley Adams stopped abruptly at the foot of the stairs that led to the hotel rooms.

  Old Louie, his thumbs tucked under the suspenders snapping over his wrinkled white shirt and stained bow tie, stepped down into the lobby. His eyes gleamed with excitement. As soon as he had both feet under himself, he launched into a boisterous jig that kept pace to the beat rolling out of the bar and reached with his wrinkled left hand to draw Ashley into his dance.

  Ashley froze. Her mouth opened. But she didn’t make a sound.

  Hawk laughed, the sound boiled up out of his belly, a geyser shooting off.

  Old Louie shrugged and left Ashley standing behind him as he danced his way to the bar. He grinned at Hawk as he passed.

  Ashley Adams’ poise was shattered. Red faced, she stood in front of Hawk, a tongue-tied, embarrassed schoolgirl.

  He spoke as calmly as if they'd just watched a Sunday School play. “Thirteen's at the end of the left-hand hallway. Women's bathroom is halfway down the right hallway, beside the men's.”

  “What do you mean?” Her voice squeaked as if she was on the verge of hysteria. “Bathroom's on the right hallway?”

  “Didn't you read the sign?” He waved at a piece of cardboard stapled to the wall behind him. On it, scribbled in black marker, were the words: Sink in your room. Shared bathroom.

  “Shared between EVERYONE up there?” she said indignantly.

  “Sure,” Hawk answered, with a scornful look. He idly picked up a magazine, fanning the pages until they stopped at a picture of a scantily clad woman on a motorcycle. He was bored with Ashley Adams. Bored with amusing himself at her expense.

  “Don't you have an empty room nearer the bathroom than #13?” she demanded.

  “Nope,” he said. “People who live here get those rooms. One-nighters get what's left. Usually they don't stay up there too long, so it doesn't matter much.”

  Contemptuously, Hawk scrutinized Ashley Adams. Her expression reminded him of a scene in a horror flick, the kind where the heroine screams for an hour and a half before she gets the ax.

  The saleswoman gritted her teeth. Gripping her personalized luggage tightly, she moved to delicately step over bits of garbage strewn on the lower stairs.

  Hawk gazed down at the glossy magazine pages for a few minutes, then, remembered he'd given Ashley Adams the wrong room key. He'd changed that lock yesterday after it jammed for the fiftieth time. Taking the new key out of the drawer, he unlocked the cage and let himself out.

  “Hey Joe,” he called to the bouncer, who was hovering over a curvaceous redhead near the bar door, “watch my counter. I gotta go upstairs.”

  An old chandelier, decorated with cobwebs, hung from the cracked second floor hallway ceiling. Its dust covered bulbs cast an eerie half-light on the carpet that blended the brown diagonals with the ancient stains under Hawk’s feet. The music, although muffled, still beat below him like the throb of a monster’s heart.

  At the end of the corridor, Ashley Adams stood viciously twisting the key in the lock of room 13, seemingly oblivious to everything else.

  “Ms. Adams,” Hawk called.

  Ashley Adams dropped the key. “You scared me!” she shrieked.

  “Sorry.” Hawk’s bulk came to a stop beside her shaking body.

  “Well . . . “ Ashley's voice quivered. “What do you want?”

  Hawk was momentarily taken aback by the fear in her eyes. It reminded him of the kids at the Halfway House. He’d worked in the kitchen there, dishing out watery soup and washing mismatched dishes. They were homeless kids, often stoned and drunk, hoping that life was over, and more than a little afraid that it was.

  “Keys.” Hawk reached into the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve the right key to room #13. “Here. Gave you the wrong one.”

  She glared at him, fear replaced by indignation.

  He held out the key. She didn’t take it.

  “Want me to open it for you?”

  Ashley’s eyebrows creased and her eyes narrowed. She sucked a great gulp of air in through her mouth, but didn't say anything.

  Shrugging, Hawk dropped his arm and shoved the key in the lock. It turned. The door’s old hinges complained loudly as it opened into the darkness. He switched on the light.

  The room's walls and floor were the color of California beach sand. For a split second Hawk could hear the piercing roar of his first Harley, but soon realized the sound came from the band below. California’s blue sky and ocean had rolled into one endless five year long party for him. Even the tattoo shop had been art, not work. But then Dad got cancer, and he’d come back to make his peace with him.

  An overwhelming odor of pine sol in the room cleared Hawk’s head; no doubt the cleaning woman had left the window closed, caging the smell. White, ruffled curtains covered the long, thin window, while the bed, a narrow iron cot which reminded him of the one his father had hauled home from the garbage dump for him when he was seven, was draped with a purple flowered spread. A lace doily tried, ineffectively, to cover the scratched top of the brown painted cupboard.

  Ashley Adams picked her bag up off the carpet. She walked through the door. Nodding at a basin that looked as if the weight of its porcelain body might be enough to sever it from the wall where it hung precariously, she said, “Does that work?”

  “Spose so,” said Hawk. “Nobody ever said it didn't.” He wheeled around without even pulling the door shut and tramped down the hall.

  Rapidly approaching sirens screamed wildly as Hawk approached his cage.

  Through the back window he could see a police car slam on its brakes and slide up beside the little red sports car. Two blue and whites, lights flashing alternately red then blue, b
locked the opposite end of the street. A paddy wagon rolled into place.

  Police officers spilled out of the vehicles.

  With the sirens silent, Hawk heard the burglar alarms clanging loudly at the pawn shop across the street. Glass was strewn all over the pavement, sparkling like diamonds in the glow of the streetlight. The big rifle that usually hung in the window was gone.

  Bang! Bang!

  Shots? A car's backfire?

  As Hawk watched, a police officer, his arm wrapped around a smaller man he seemed to be pushing, emerged from the alley. The excitement appeared to be over.

  Pulling his stool out, Hawk sat and opened his magazine again. “Hey Joe, bring me a beer. Better yet, get Mandy, if she ain't too busy, “ he called to the bouncer at the bar door.

  Mandy was just a bit of a woman, her frame a piece of finely carved art. Hawk couldn’t help but whistle as she approached. “Nice shirt . . .”

  “I just knew you'd have something to say,” she said, “now get out here and pay me for this beer. The place is busier than hell.”

  Hawk let himself out of the cage again. “You going home after work or stopping for a drink?”

  “Home,” she answered, exchanging the brown bottle for Hawk’s coins. “Randy's in with the Kenworth, so there's a party at Mack's. Too bad your shift doesn't end till morning.”

  “Them's the breaks.” Hawk raised his beer to Mandy's back as she disappeared through the bar door. “Cheers,” he said to the empty walls, then tipped the bottle to his mouth. The beer tasted good.

  The clock ticked slowly, marking the hours as they passed.

  As bar closing time came, and went, Hawk visited with the partygoers on their way up to the rooms, or out onto the front street. He laughed at their dirty jokes. And grinned at their recycled stories.

  By four a.m. the building was quiet, except for the hiss of the decrepit window air conditioner.

  Putting away his magazine, he pulled a paperback out from under the shelf. It was a collection of short stories by a Canadian writer. Hawk knew the characters, from the man at the family reunion to the miner dropping into the bowels of the earth. They were as comfortable as old friends.

  It was a few minutes after seven when he glanced up to see Ashley Adams coming down the stairs. She looked like a model on a cable T.V. fashion show.

  She marched toward the cage where Hawk sat on his stool, holding the book open with one hand and his chin up with the other one.

  He straightened. Careful to keep the book flat, its pages still spread but out of sight, Hawk set it on the shelf below the counter.

  “Here,” she said, dropping both keys into the metal tray. Tingg . . .

  Hawk and Ashley Adams stared at one another. Neither one of them spoke. Finally she rolled her green eyes and took one last summary of the place. The morning sunlight had somehow lightened the room’s coarse interior, leaving a pathetic memoir of more prosperous days.

  “I didn't expect you to be here this morning. You must have a long shift.”

  “Nights,” he said, “better 'n days.”

  The saleslady swiveled on her spike heels toward the door. When she