I was broke.

Not an unusual condition for a graduate student, but it was beginning to take a toll on my emotional state. My depression was not helping along my dissertation, which ironically concerned the suicide rate for the unemployed. Sure, I tried to make ends meet with an array of part time jobs, but with teaching my required classes, researching and writing, and taking two six-hour discussion groups a week left me with little time to even sleep, much less work. So I was doing what any red-blooded American male would do in such a circumstance.

I was sponging off my girlfriend.

Margie was a grad student, too, whose lifestyle should have been as destitute as mine. It wasn't. She lived in a huge condo in a nice part of town, drove a new Acura, and had something that I hadn't had since beginning college seven years ago: her own furniture. I lived in a garage apartment on the fringes of a ghetto that looked like a set from the movie Willard and I drove a car that had rolled over its odometer for the first time when Jimmy Carter was president.

Margie had told me she subsidized her school loans by selling Avon products, but I had no idea of the extent of this "subsidy" until one night last January. I was watching T.V. in Margie's living room while she was in the bathroom giving herself some "highlights," I think she called it. The phone rang, so I answered it.

"Hello?" I droned, my reptilian brain focused on a boxing match on ESPN.

"Is Margie there?" bubbled a woman on the other end.

"Yeah, she is, but…ah…" Hotdog Bramley had just taken a hard left to the chin. He was stumbling toward the ropes.

"Well, this is Mary Prupeck. I'm a customer of hers. I just need to place an order."

Margie made me abide by only a few rules. Being a freeloader, I accepted these edicts. Most of these concerned bathroom etiquette and were no big deal. However, there was one cardinal rule: Customers must never be cut off before taking an order from them. Never. The importance of this rule was driven home on more than one occasion when, during a heated lovemaking session, Margie rolled over and answered the telephone in her Avon-polished saleslady voice. "Hiiiii, Jena; how did that Night Musk exfoliant work out for you? Uh huhhhh…yes; I'm so glad for you…"

And not one product in the entire Avon catalog that dealt with male erectile dysfunction.

"Okay, Mary…hang on a minute." I took a quick look at the TV; Bramley was wobbling around like a stork on LSD. This fight was over. I made a beeline for the bathroom.

A horrible stench emanated from the bathroom. Margie cracked the door open after I knocked. Noxious fumes poured from Margie's head, which was covered in a clear plastic shower cap. Underneath appeared to be a thick layer of forty-weight motor oil. She glared at me; interrupting a highlight must have been a serious faux pas about which I had not been informed.

I held my nose and said, "Customer on the phone."

"Oh, no," she whined, "I'm Neutralizing right now!"

Didn't Spock do that in Star Trek V?

I kept my mouth shut. "Be a dear and take the order for me, would you, honey? You know where the order forms are."

Darn right I knew where they were; right there on the nightstand next to my ego. She didn't have to rub my nose in it.

"Yeah, I know."

"Thanks!" With that, she shut the door. I retrieved an order form, thinking of the dire consequences should I interfere with the Neutralization process any further.

"Okay, Mary; Margie says for me to take your order. She can't come to the phone. She's Neutralizing."

"Oh," she replied understandingly, obviously hip to the highlighting regimen. "Okay, here's what I need." She rattled off a long list of lipsticks, mascaras, and a bunch of stuff I didn't know how to spell. I transcribed the order as best I could. She started giving me item numbers from the catalog, which helped. She asked me about the merits of the new Aloe Deluxe Hand Treatment Gel.

I tuned her out; on TV, Hotdog Bramley had gotten a second wind and was pummeling Dexter the Hexter into oblivion.

"Okay, Mary. I'll take care of this. Bye."

"But…" Dexter went down like a ton of bricks.

Margie finished Neutralizing about a half hour later and came into the room towel-drying her hair. She picked up my notes as they were carrying Dexter away on a stretcher.

"That's not how you spell 'mauve,' dear," she droned as she transferred my notes to a new order form. I wasn't about to ask the correct spelling. She took out her trusty calculator and ticked out the total.

Too disgusted to watch the second bout, I turned to Margie and asked, "What's my cut on your little deal? Don't I get a percentage?" She gave me her you-should-be-grateful-you're-not-living-in-a-dumpster look.

"Well, my cut will be thirty-five dollars." I was dumbfounded. Thirty-five bucks for two minutes' work.

"For that? Amazing."

Margie laughed. "That's right. The stuff sells itself; I never have to pound the pavement any more. My regulars just call me when they need refills, or when they want to try something new from the catalogs. I don't even deliver most of the time; they come by the apartment to pick up their orders."

"How many orders do you take a day?"

"Oh, that was a large one. Most are smaller, and I get at least three or four a day."

The wheels in my currency-challenged brain began to turn. Four orders a day. Thirty bucks a pop. That was over three grand a month.

Beer money.

I waited for Margie to go to bed, then read the Avon catalog from cover to cover.

***

I spiffed up my apartment as best I could before the Avon representative came over. A couple of squirts of Red Devil cologne masked just about all the offensive odors in the dump. I heard her walking up the stairs just as I threw the last Taco Bell bag into the closet.

"Hiiiiii," she beamed as I opened the door. She looked past me into the apartment. "I'm Karen from Avon. I'm here to see Teri Murray." Her smile was Dewberry Red.

"Ta da!" I said, dropping into my best Fred Astaire finale move. "Terrance Eugene Murray, at your service."

The poor lady was horrified; she must have thought I was a maniacal killer or something. It took a few minutes, but I finally convinced her that I wasn't Ted Bundy. But just to make sure, she gave her "New Distributors" sales pitch out on the driveway while we sat in a couple of lawn chairs.

She was a trooper. She gave me the complete orientation packet, complete with a training schedule and motivational tapes. Her pep talk on the Avon Philosophy and the dignity of sales was really good, even though she couldn't seem to shake the most confused look I had ever seen on a woman's face.

***

The training was awful. An endless series of parties was first. The kind of parties they throw at Southern Baptist sorority houses: No booze, no dancing, no men. They were get-acquainted affairs, each designed to elevate the self-esteem of the new Avon Ladies. Rooms full of enthusiastic soccer moms, all looking at me like I was that weird guy in the trench coat hanging out on the playground. I participated as best I could, even though my presence in the room tended to kill the fun of many of the women. A man among the festivities inhibited the free flow of sisterhood vibes. But I managed to keep a low profile and get through both them and the classroom stuff, which was very informative for someone new to the retail world.

I had a little experience in sales; I worked for a while in a recliner store in my undergrad days. I had been fired for falling asleep in a big leather job while demonstrating it for an elderly couple; it had been a hell of a party the night before.

The night I graduated was nothing short of spectacular. I felt I was at the Academy Awards, with all the hoopla and whatnot. They had brought together several different training programs from the area so we could all graduate together. During the ceremony I concocted my plan for getting started. From the reaction of the women so far, I was obviously not going to be able to use any of the classic Avon strategies. As a man, I would have to put my foot in the door in an entirely different manner.

***

Plan A was deviously simple. I started my attack the same way Margie had started hers. I placed some catalogs and business cards, which I had signed "Teri," at strategic female-oriented locations throughout the city. The plan was easy: when I received a call, I'd pretend to be "Teri's" husband and take the order for her. I'd never have to do the home visit routine, so my gender would never be a problem. My phone rang that first night.

"Hello?" I asked, swallowing a mouthful of pizza.

"I need to speak with Teri," an elderly woman asked. I scurried for my order forms.

"Ah, well…Teri isn't in right now. I'm her fiancé. She wanted me to take her orders for her." I prepared to write.

"Okay. I just want to set an Appointment with her." Unforeseen circumstances: a new customer. Margie's customers were all established clients. All they did was re-order. They didn't need Appointments. New customers wanted to go through the catalog and talk about every damn product in there. This was not good.

"An Appointment?"

"Yes, an Appointment." She had obviously had an Appointment before; I couldn't wing this one on the phone.

"Well, okay. Let me look through Teri's appointment book to see what she has." I grabbed a Sports Illustrated and flipped through the pages for effect. "How is Tuesday at three o'clock?"

"Fine. That will be just fine. My name is Mabel Potrovsky, 818 Harcourt Square. I'll see Teri then. Thank you."

"Thank you, ma'am."

I was in a crack.

***

With calm, cool reasoning, I overcame my panic. Deep inside, I knew I would be a big hit once I gained her confidence. If I could hock recliners, I could sell cosmetics. It would be a piece of cake. I straightened my tie and confidently rang the old lady's doorbell. Today would go down in history: the world's first male Avon Lady sale. I would be famous.

I saw her peeking through the blinds at me. "Yes?" she yelled from inside. I had my story ready.

"Hi, Miss Potrovsky. My name is Terrence Murray, Teri's fiancé. She has the flu today and she asked me to come over and show you the catalog." A stroke of brilliance.

"Oh, good…give me a minute to put my dogs away, okay?"

"No problemo." I was in like Flynn.

***

I would have to sell approximately thirty-five thousand Aloe Night Treatments to pay Johnny Cochran's legal fees. That's what I calculated in my head as I sat in the Interrogation Room, handcuffed and shackled to a plastic chair. It seems Miss Potrovsky didn't buy my "fiancé" bit and called 911. The arresting officer thought I was some sort of demented sicko pervert who had found a new way to sneak into old lady's houses. "Scrotbag" I think is what he called me as he handcuffed me as I lay spread-eagled on the hood of his car.

By the time they fingerprinted me, took my mug shot, and confiscated my tie, belt and shoelaces, a homicide detective had pretty much figured out that I wasn't the serial killer they had hoped I was. Instead, I was a just a "fairy makeup salesman." This moniker had caused a steady stream of cops to leer through the little window at me, laughing and pointing.

"We checked your story out with the Avon people," the detective said as he came into the room and started unlocking my cuffs, "They do list you as an agent. Buddy, I ain't gonna ask why you do it, but in the future you need to be a little more careful about scaring them old ladies."

"Yes, sir," was all I could respond. He led me back to The Cage where a jailer gave back to me the tools with which I could hang myself. I'm glad there weren't any pipes overhead. The jailer also gave me a plastic bag with my wallet and stuff.

"Oh, yeah; almost forgot," the detective said as he retrieved my bright pink samples bag and tossed it to me. The cops standing around giggled as my products went all over the place. He signaled to the jailer who pushed a button. The lock opened and the detective pointed. "You're free to go."

I picked up my samples and shuffled into the shiny white hallway, my shoes barely hanging on. I dropped all my stuff on a bench and sat down. As I began putting my shoelaces back on, I heard a woman's voice above me.

"Hey, is this Overnight Aloe Mask any good?"

I looked up and stared straight into a holstered .357 magnum. It was the girl who had taken my mug shots. She had one of my catalogs in her gun hand.

"Uh, it's supposed to be. My girlfriend uses it."

"I wanna order some," she said as she sat next to me. I fumbled through my bag and showed her some other stuff. In a few minutes, I had taken huge orders from her, two jailers, a lady detective, and a prostitute named Thumper.

***

I had struck a vein, a vast untapped resource that no female Avon Lady had dared to discover. My clientele was uncharted territory and I, the Ferdinand Magellan of the mail-order cosmetics world, was going to exploit it to its fullest. Word of mouth, that is, of Thumper's mouth, had spread the story of the cute male Avon Lady far and wide into the city's slimy underbelly. No self-respecting Avon Lady would even know where the Fandango Deluxe Motor Hotel was, much less go there. I, being a red-blooded all-American male, not only knew where it was, I had no reservations about going there.

Thumper told me that she and her associates were in dire need of a cosmetology consultant. Their problem was time; they simply didn't have time to go to the malls to get all the things they needed. Their "managers" saw to that. Time was money, after all.

At first, I thought it strange that Thumper set the appointment for six o'clock in the morning, but I found out later that this is the off-time for hookers. She answered the hotel room door in a Sponge Bob night shirt. I don't think there was anything underneath it.

"Hey, sugar," she said as she led me in and shut the door. She appeared tired but enthused. I sat my sample case on the little hotel table. I heard what sounded like a cat meowing behind me. I turned to face the scariest-looking bunch of women I had ever seen in my life.

"Hope you don't mind doing all of us together," Thumper said, motioning to her friends. "We can have us a little slumber party." The girls cheered. I wondered what she meant by "doing."

In no time at all, Thumper, Bambi, Alexis, a pair of twins named Fergie and Diana, and I were having a hell of a party on the Fandango's infamous Dual Deluxe Queensize Beds. We were drinking Wild Turkey and playing with all of my samples when the door opened to reveal the biggest human being on the planet. His name, I found out later, was Lester B. Greene. His friends affectionately called him "Gangrene."

Mr. Green was not happy that his girls were having such a good time and weren't even getting paid for it. He walked over to me as Alexis was trying out the Moonlight Dream mascara on me. He picked up a bottle of Aloe Foot Care Lotion and jerked me to my feet with his free hand.

"Don't hurt him!" Thumper squealed. "He's our Avon Lady!"

Gangrene looked around the room at all the samples scattered about. Then he looked at the girls and their over-made faces.

"Y'all do look pretty good," he said as he sat me back down. He looked me in the face and said, "But you gotta have a license to troll around here, boy. Don't you forget it."

I nodded repeatedly as Gangrene sat next to me, flipping through a catalog. "I didn't know y'all had stuff for guys, too," he said. I was still nodding out of control, so Thumper showed him some things he might like. I finally relaxed enough to take everyone's orders. Thumper wanted to pay for her order in trade, but I told her I was engaged so she left me alone. Gangrene even ordered a flask of Tropical Night Musk cologne that was shaped like a football.

***

It went on this way for a few months, and I was making money hand over fist. Several other managers had noticed how good Gangrene's girls looked and brought me in to even-up the competition. I soon had the monopoly on the mail-order cosmetics trade throughout the underground love market. The managers themselves were some of my best customers, especially after Gangrene mounted his Tropical Night Musk football flask on the hood of his BMW.

All good things must come to an end.

I was making a routine Sunday morning delivery to the girls at the Fandango. We were sorting through all the bagged orders when the door suddenly flew open. I looked up expecting to see Gangrene; he had an order as big as a grocery sack. Instead, I gazed upon the shotgun-toting image of the policeman who had arrested me at old lady Potrovsky's house. Others stood behind him, guns drawn. A startled Fergie threw an open jar of Beauty Silk Face Powder straight up into the air. It bounced off the ceiling in a dreamy white cloud. As the powder gently floated down all over the officer's dark uniform, he recognized me.

"Your ass is mine, scrotum face," he snarled as he blinked. "You wouldn't believe the shit I got for arresting an Avon Lady." He threw me to the ground and handcuffed me as the vice squad rounded up the girls and took them away. I heard an officer comment about all the powder and the unopened bags. The word "narcotics" came up a time or two. Another officer suggested they call Barney to the scene.

It turns out that Barney was a dope-sniffing beagle. He sniffed through all the bags with no problem, but when he got to the Beauty Silk Face Powder on the floor, he began sneezing uncontrollably. The canine officer yelled at my arresting officer. "Look what you've done; this ain't nothing but face powder, man!"

My officer yelled back. "It's all that fairy makeup salesman's fault!" They both started yelling at me, and the canine guy said something about throwing me off the balcony.

Barney was still sneezing, so his handler decided to take him to the vet for shot of Benadryl.

At the police station, they couldn't find anything to charge me with, so they just let me go again. My arresting officer came up to me while I was putting on my shoelaces. He smelled strongly of honeysuckle, seeing as he was still covered with the Beauty Silk Face Powder.

He leaned over and snarled into my face, "You got away again, puff puff boy, but it ain't over yet." With that, he sauntered down the hall.

***

I realized what he was talking about as I opened next morning's newspaper. A headline at mid-page read:

MALE AVON LADY ARRESTED

It went on to give my name and the details of the raid, complete with photos of the Fandango and of my cop friend who had tipped them off. I noticed he was wearing a clean uniform this time. Within hours, every television station in the city, and even one from New York, was calling me to get the story of the world's first male Avon Lady. By noon I had set up a dozen interviews.

I decided to go with this thing; the publicity would make me the greatest Avon Lady of all time. I was about to get online and start picking out a new car when there was a knock on the door.

It was Margie, still in her bathrobe, her face half-covered in her usual Aloe Night Mask. A newspaper was in her hand and murder was in her eyes. She threw the paper at me, uttered something about male anatomy, and left. To this day, I think she was more angry at me for cutting into her business than she was for me getting arrested in a whorehouse.

My great day would soon come to an end. A few minutes later, my phone rang. It was Avon's district office. According to my regional manager, I had violated the Avon Code of Ethics by being arrested on the job. I didn't remember such a Code, but my arguments were to no avail. Avon fired me. The gravy train had ground to a halt.

But even with such an ignominious end to my success, I felt good about myself. I had taken an ordinary thing and made something extraordinary from it. I might be broke again soon, but I knew I had what it took to make it out there in the real world.

Besides, there was always Tupperware...

Finis

___________________________________________

Copyright 1987, 2003 - David L. Kilpatrick

All Rights Reserved.

No duplication or use without express written consent of the author.