Robert Palmer sings the blues

Ever feel bad after a day of work? So do I, bucko. So do I. Know what I do? Obviously not, because I haven’t told you. So, here goes: You know how about twice a year, your kid comes home from his or her desperately under funded public school with some kind of fucking glossy, 4 color process, loud as hell catalogue for some kind of god-awful product line? Yeah, I’m the son of a bitch that put it in his hand and got him all hot and bothered to sell your ass some stale cookies.
Don’t get me wrong, when I started, I told myself, “Self, look at all the good things you’ll be doing. These schools need money, you’re helping them get money, you’re doing a public service. Like some kind of big, god damn hero, that’s what you are now. A fucking saint.”
What a crock of shit.
That line was important, that’s why it’s all by its lonesome up there. They call that a “non-sequitur”. Hell, maybe they don’t, but I do. And if I say it with enough authority, you’ll fucking believe me, so who the hell cares. Just like the kids. Yeah, that’s where I was, the kids.
Don’t get me wrong, it can be fun, the kids get all fired up, I’m standing in front of them in some god-forsaken cafeteria, my three-seasons old Armani just illuminated to perfection in the fluorescents, and I tell ‘em, “Who wants a…” Then I take my voice real low, I even hunch down to the dirty ass rubber tile a little, and I say, “A brand, new…” Then I leap into the air, throw one arm up high while I positively scream into the mic, “PLAYSTATION 3!” The little fuckers go nuts, they’re screaming at the top of their little lungs, speaking in tongues and dancing around like they got snakes in hand and Holy Spirit in soul.
I gotta be honest, sometimes it is just plain fun. They get so hyped, I feel it too. But, then the reality sets in. This shit might save the music program, put a few more books in the library, but you think little Billy and Jane give a fuck about how many trumpets they got under lock and key in the music room? Hell no. They want their play mother station fucking three, come hell or high water. I feel for them, really I do, but fact is they’d have to sell more cookies than Famous Amos his goddamn self if that’s the particular piece of hardware they’ve set their fancies on.
I don’t know if I would go so far as to classify it, “unfair”. In my last job, when I was in real sales, I’d call it, “A challenging opportunity.” But, when there’s kids involved, we tend to be little softies… Then the mortgage comes due, and I’m ready to classify this one an opportunity in the making. Hell, I even saw a kid do it once. No shit man, little fucker racked up what was it? Like, fifteen thousand points or some shit like that, I can’t remember, it was some ungodly figure. There must have been enough cookies floating around that neighborhood to choke a dozen donkeys, I’ll tell you that much.
Hey, I want them to succeed. You gotta understand, the more they sell, they more I make. I think that’s what really gets me, few years ago I’m the sales director for the biggest retail chain around, fast forward three years in the future and here I am; making money like that old fucker in Oliver Twist, sending an army of fucking kids out to do my dirty work. What was his name? Oh, Fagan. I’m not going to pretend like I remembered that, I googled it.
Either way, the big prizes are more like, well, bait, if you want to see it that way. I mean, we don’t really expect any of the kids to win them. Yeah, we give away t-shirts, posters, throw away sunglasses and some of the finest squirt guns ever made this side of a Taiwanese sweat shop, but this kid, man, walks right on in with his sales sheet and handful of checks, bless his little heart. A salesman in the making. The heart of a fucking champion. A four-foot tall, sticky-handed, bona fide champion…
Sorry, I’m getting a little choked up over here. The little guy was speaking my language, you know?
Anyway, so I’ve got no fucking clue what to do. I’m sitting in this storage room that I’ve been working out for a week at the school, surrounded by boxes of Chinese merchandise, and this kid wants his god damn PS2, (this was two years ago). You think I actually had one on hand? Please. I call over to headquarters, they’re so shocked they make me verify the checks one by one over the phone while the kid went to class. Let me tell you, that was no picnic, convincing the little sumbitch to get to class. He wanted to see the fucking PS2 first, man, I shit you not. Had to pry the checks out of his greedy little hands and get the gym teacher to personally take him to class. He was bitching the whole way, “I want my damn PS2! They said I’d get a PS2! Where’s my PS2?”
Like I said, my kind of rug rat.
Well, they had to ship the fucking thing in from Mobile, or something. Point of interest, it’s pronounced, “Mo-beel.” Not “Mo-bile” or even “Mo-bull”. I know, I know, there’s three million English dictionaries in circulation that point to the contrary but it’s the rest of the world that’s fucking the word up, right? I don’t know, I just go with the flow. At any rate, that’s what I do for a living. Now. Not always though.
They used to call me “Mr. Palmer”. Now, I’ve gotta go by “Mr. Money” or the “Playstation Prince” or whatever dumbass title I think is gonna get the kids all fired up. They don’t care what Robert Palmer’s real name is.
Yeah, Robert Palmer, just like the singer. Hardee fucking Har Har. Remember those videos? That dude had a bunch of hot assed chicks all dancing sexy behind him. I used to think, “Fuck man, I need to tag some primo ass like that.”
Don’t judge me. I’m honest, that’s all. Well, maybe not honest, but direct. Yeah, that’s more on they money. Direct. You need it in my line of work. It’s not that I’m a male chauvinist pig or anything, I just know what I want, and I wanted some of that primo box that was hanging around old boy, that’s for damn sure. Figured, “Hey, life’s gotta be great for a dude like that!”
FYI, he offed himself.
At any rate, it can’t be all that bad for ya, cowpoke. I went from leading the cavalry at Wal- Oh, my god I almost said it. Fucking shit, man, ink isn’t even dry on the god damned libel suit and here I am almost losing my head and speaking the name of the anti-christ his self… That was close.
Like I was saying, I went from high sixes a year and an impeccable rep to forty grand plus commissions in the span of one “Awshit!” Now I make a living dangling PS3s in front of kids so they’ll sell stale cupcakes, subscriptions to third-rate magazines, or whatever the hell else we’re hawking this month. I used to live it up, man. High on the hog, and I mean on the hog, baby. Hot-tubbing with bitches so fine my namesake would’ve been honored to have them strut around one of his videos…
I was a fucking madman, a rabid dog of the sales industry, I pushed enough greenbacks to make Colombian drug lords blush. I was an unstoppable force of nature, man, I was armor plated. No, you know what I was? Take a fucking robot, not some pussy ass, Robbie the robot motherfucker either, I mean a ro-fucking-bot like Megatron or some shit. Yeah, take Megatron, teach him how to kick like Bruce Lee, somehow cross him with a fucking Hurricane and Armor Plate that sumbitch. Then, and only then, you might have yourself a creature as badass as I was.
Alas, I digress. I guess I should be thankful, though. This is the only company that would touch me after the lawsuit. Guess it beats… Well, I’m sure it beats something. But I gotta be grateful, at least I ain’t starving. Got a little spare coin in the old pocket. So I had to trade in the Testerosa for a Taurus, big deal, right?
Fuck, I’m getting choked up again. My fucking Ferrari, cheese and fucking rice, man…
Point is, I’m gonna make it. We all are. Don’t matter what’s going on, just suck it up and ride it out. Do the best you can, make the most of it. Enjoy the moment. That’s how you make it in the long run.