By Carter Mosteller
Anton was in no mood to be rejected. He needed a sale, not another difficult customer. The nerve of this woman, he thought.“So, Carol—” He made his voice sweeter, higher-pitched, in an attempt to calm her down. It didn’t work.
“What?”
“Carol, dear, if you’re not going to buy, I have many other customers who will.”
“I would never—”
*click*
Anton slammed the receiver down. It was obvious this woman wasn’t going to be a customer.
He didn’t need to waste time hearing what else she had to say. Despite the loss of time and commission, it was best to cut his losses.
Anton took his hands off his keyboard and moved them to cover his sore eyes, bloodshot from exhaustion and the hours he’d been looking at the computer monitor. His frigid fingertips were welcomed gladly by his hot eyelids.
The familiar buzzing of the air conditioner rang in his ears. Strings of yellow flickering lights ran from the south wall to the north. A smell that can only be described as a mixture of body odor and cigarettes hung just above the cubicles. This forced Anton to hunch a little lower than he already had to. Sounds cut through the air of fellow employees typing away in their cubicles, mixed with the chatter of others on the phone trying to sell the very same miracle pill that Anton was. He sighed and picked up the phone to make another call.
Anton knew it was crap, but he also needed a paycheck. Immigrants didn’t have the widest selection of jobs, especially Russian immigrants. The Cold War had been over for a couple years, but in the minds of the people in Brooklyn it would never be over. He could feel eyes follow him in the streets in the morning, as if everyone knew what he was and had made up their minds about him. Sure, he looked like every other white man, but something about him reeked of Russian. People could just tell. He stunk with it. A cacophony of prejudice and disdain hung around his space at all times. An aura of unbelonging.
Depending on the customer, his sales pitches would change. The miraculous claims would change. To men, the pill was a consequence-free steroid and hair growth solution wrapped in one, promising to reverse male pattern baldness and increase muscle mass tenfold. To women, it was a weight-loss pill that you took right before eating to block all of the calories from food. To the elderly, it was claimed to remove wrinkles, improve eyesight, and help you live longer. It was important to read your client within the first few seconds of them picking up the phone to determine which path you were going to take.
He hated himself for it. But he needed to survive.
Just as the phone started to ring, a hand reached over his shoulder and hit the hookswitch. The receiver cut out, the ringing replaced by a piercing buzz.
“What do you think you’re doing?” A gruff, deeply Brooklyn, deeply masculine-sounding voice grated Anton’s ears. The stench of cheap cologne and stale beer wafted into Anton’s face. It wasn’t good, but a temporary break from the body odor and smoke was welcome.
“Just makin’ one more call before I head out for lunch, Sal. It’ll only be a second.” Anton hated the sound of his voice. He hadn’t been able to get rid of the Russian accent despite daily practice. He repulsed himself.
“Nah, I’m sorry, you ain’t doin’ that bud. It’s already 1:15. Your lunch break ended fifteen minutes ago. I’m not gonna pay you for an extra hour of work, especially if you keep losin’ customers.”
“I almost had this last one.”
“No, you didn’t. I heard the conversation—you hung up early.”
“That’s not—” Anton set the phone down and looked up. Sal had a face only a mother could love. He was a portly, bald man with layered five-o’clock shadows and yellow teeth. His head fell just below the cubicles on a good day and he had a waddle that paired with his physique. Today he wore his signature dingey yellow button-up half untucked, top dozen buttons unbuttoned, and some stained gray slacks. His used-to-be-white wife-beater tank top looked worse than usual today. The look was all pulled together with a gold chain that was way too small for his neck.
“Come on, Sal. Just one more call, please. I can get the sale on this one. I promise ya’,” Anton pleaded.
“Ant, come to my office. We needa chat.”
“Fine.” Anton took a moment to rub his eyes a little longer, then followed Sal into his tiny office, which was worse off than the rest of the place. Papers, trash, and empty bottles were everywhere. The cologne and stale beer smell grew to unbearable lengths, almost strangling Anton. Sal grabbed a bottle from a drawer by his desk that had been left ajar and poured a couple glasses of whiskey.
“What’s been goin’ on with you, Ant?” Sal took a sip of his glass while holding out the other.
Anton grabbed it gratefully and took a sip.
He shrugged.
“You used to be one of my best sellers, man.” Sal finished the rest of the glass in one gulp. “Hell, you were the best. You could sell hay to a farmer! If you get your numbers back up to what they were before, you could even take my spot in a few years.”
“I’m fine.” The thought of standing where Sal stood, living where Sal lived—Anton could feel heat rising in his head. Hot tears brimmed in his vision.
“You sur—”
“I’m fine. Look, I’ll go out to lunch. Happy?” Anton downed the rest of his glass and walked out. He walked to his desk, punched his timecard, grabbed his coat, and walked out the door into the dank Brooklyn street.
It was dark and wet. December. Slush piled on the sidewalks and gutters. The only light came from a single street lamp hanging right above Anton, casting his inky figure in a dull haze. A fallen Angel .
He stroked his beard with trembling fingers. Why was he doing this? Was this the best that his life could get? He’d been busting his ass for this guy for almost two years and had nothing to show for it. It all meant nothing to him now. He didn’t want to be a liar peddling miracle pills. He wanted honest work. He wanted a job that he could go home and be proud of. He didn’t mind making a lower income if it meant he didn’t have to work at the call center. His aged back meant he wasn’t fit for manual labor, but those were the only jobs that were willing to hire a middle-aged Russian.
Anton reached for the flask in his jacket pocket, wishing that it had enough in it to get him blackout drunk. He directed his eyes down the empty street, waiting. It was dark. Maybe if he just laid down across the yellow line, someone could unknowingly run over him, and it wouldn’t be anybody’s fault. It would just be considered a tragic accident.
He started to walk in the direction of his apartment.
None of his family joined him when he came to America. Most took his ex-wife’s side after the divorce; the others couldn’t afford it. The memories hurt. He took another swig. Anton approached his apartment building and looked up. The building was tall—it had to be. He needed it to be tall. Anton used his key, opened the door, and started to climb the stairs.
“Man, this is a lot of stairs,” He muttered to himself. He came to the door on the top floor, breathing heavily. It was propped open, as always, for workers and tenants who needed to sneak out for a smoke. He strode onto the roof.
It wasn’t the tallest building in Brooklyn—not even close—but it was still impressive for a dilapidated apartment complex. He could see the top of at least five other buildings, all in the same condition as the one upon which he stood.
Anton slowly stepped towards the edge and looked down. The street below was empty. That was good. He wouldn’t hit anybody.
His breath caught in his throat and his knees began to shake. A drop of sweat fell off his forehead and off the building . . . down . . . down . . . down . . . until it finally fell out of view. Anton pictured his children, his brothers and sisters, even his ex-wife. His life wasn’t what he wanted, but was this better? Was this what he wanted? To be another tragedy. Another statistic. As insignificant a detail that the worst part of himself always thought he was. Anton stepped backward, away from the ledge. He wasn’t a coward. His life wasn’t all that bad. He could turn this around. Maybe he’d move somewhere out west, like California. It’s closer to Russia—there would be more people like him there, right?
He wasn’t stuck in this job. He wasn’t stuck in this life. He was going to find something better, something more meaningful, something honest.
For the first time in a long time, he felt hopeful.
He stormed down the stairs and ran through the wet street. His boots kicked up slush and mud, spraying and hitting the back of his thighs and back. When the call center came into view, a pang of doubt poked him in the chest. At least, that’s what he thought it was. He ignored it. He’d made up his mind.
He swung open the door to the call center and made his way towards Sal’s office. The sick, familiar smell hit him like a brick wall. He brushed it off and kept walking. A sharp throbbing pain seized his left arm. He shook it out, then stretched it out against his side.
“Ay, Ant! Back so soon? What happened to lunch?”
Anton’s brain brimmed with fog. When had that happened? Why was he here? What was he doing?
Oh, right. He composed himself in the face of Sal’s confusion.
“Listen Sal, I can’t do this anymore. I’m not going to sell lies. I’m not going to live the rest of my life here slowly being crushed under your thumb. I’m going to do something with my life. I’m done. I qui—” An intense pain seized Anton’s chest, more powerful than the pang he’d felt earlier. It took the breath from him. He fell to one knee.
“Ant? Oh my God, Ant! Somebody call—”
He tipped to his side, clutching his arms close. His vision faded. Sal’s voice floated around his head, chasing the stars in his eyes.
He was pronounced dead by first responders.