Knock! Knock!
The year, 1964. The place, a beat up country road that looks the same as every other old stretch of highway in the U.S. The car, a ’56 Chevy, blue paint faded from criss-crossing the east coast every summer since it left the lot. The man in the front seat, Joey Samuels, All Pro linebacker, ten year veteran for the Baltimore Lords, made the game saving tackle to ensure a Big Ten title when he played in college. The suit on his back is the same one he wore yesterday and the day before that, only with a fresh white shirt, of which he carries three. The briefcase in the passenger’s seat is full of paperwork. In the backseat is a vacuum cleaner along with all the attachments a housewife could ever need to keep her cozy, little nest clean for her husband, kids, and the occasional dinner guests. The business cards in Joey’s suit pocket read ‘Joey Samuels: Hoover Representative’.
Despite being one of the best players in pro football, during the hot months of the off-season Joey Samuels puts on a different uniform and tackles a different opponent: suburbanites. Joey sells vacuum cleaners and accessories door to door, moving from one small town to the next, in a car with no air conditioning and a busted radio.
After the second child arrived, he realized the money he made playing ball just wouldn’t be enough for a growing family. His wife’s friend had a husband who suggested he come work for him as a Hoover salesman. He said Joey would be perfect for the job: “Handsome guy like you with notoriety as a football player, the vacuums will practically sell themselves.” Joey didn’t like the idea of being away from his family in the off-season. He barely spent time with them during the season as it was, but the job seemed like the best he could do, so he said yes, and started that summer.
Joey Samuels immediately hated his job.
Knock! Knock!
“Hi, my name is Joey --”
Slam!
Knock! Knock!
“Hi, my name is Joey Samuels. If I could just have a moment of your time this afternoon --”
“Whatever you’re trying to sell, I ain’t buying it, bub.”
Slam!!
Knock! Knock!
“Hi, my name is Joey Samuels. If I could just have...”
In the doorway were two young kids, a boy and a girl. The boy was wearing an army helmet and a red scarf was tied over his mouth. The girl, obviously the older of the two, held the boy by the shirt collar, making sure he couldn’t move.
“Are your parents home?”
“No,” said the girl. The little boy tried to speak, but only a muffle could be heard. “You can try to come back later if you want mister, but right now me and my brother are playing a game of commie prisoner and I just caught Castro. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an interrogation to get to.”
“Uhh…”
Slam!!!
Knock! Knock!
“Hi my name is Joey Samuels. If I --”
“Hold on a second,” said the old lady. “Do you have any idea how silly a man your size looks lugging that vacuum cleaner around?” She laughed, waving one hand in the air, the other hand on her heart.
Slam!!!!
Joey Samuels simply does his job as best he can.
And he’s hated for it.
But Joey understands. He’d done the same thing when people knocked on his door. He’d cussed out those types who came around carrying bibles and looking for handouts.
So he doesn’t blame people for the way he’s treated, but he still doesn’t like it.
What really bugs Joey is when someone recognizes him as a football player. The embarrassment is almost unbearable.
“Oh my God! You’re, yeah you are, you’re Joey Samuels aren’t you! The Joey Samuels! I don’t wanna buy nothin’. Sorry man, I already got a vacuum, but could I get a signature? Oh man, let me find my kid’s football. I’ll be right back.”
He thinks of his wife and kids to avoid going off and giving someone a piece of his mind, tells himself he’s doing it for them over and over again like a mantra.
So, despite the annoyance, he usually smiles and gives the autograph anyway.
On top of this, being on the road is just plain crappy. The rooms are paid for by the company, but since they’re free, they always end up being dingy and small, with cold water showers and no TV and creaky mattresses. Most nights he reads whatever magazines he can find in the lobby and plays solitaire with a deck so old it looks weathered from finger sweat.
The highway diners are always the same. Big signs say things like “Homemade Eats” and “Old Fashioned Home Cooking”, but the food hardly reminds him of his wife’s spaghetti with meatballs or sharing dinner with his family while watching The Honeymooners. Instead, at these places he ends up drinking yesterday’s coffee and eating steak and eggs better suited for pig slop.
Nothing can keep Joey from how lonely the road gets. He talks to the kids and the wife every few days, but hearing about who lost a tooth or trips to the local pool only makes things worse. Lately, he’s taken up drinking alone by the fifth, and getting stink drunk leaves him feeling pathetic, far from the father and husband he is at home.
So, despite being a great football player, and having a nice family, Joey Samuels is not a very happy guy.
***
One thing about cheap hotel rooms though, Joey can always rely on the alarm clock to be absurdly obnoxious when it goes off. Joey rolls over in the bed that is just a hair too small (his feet hang at least six inches over the edge), and he slaps down on the clock, silencing the shrill noise.
Lying on his back, Joey feels like spiders have crawled into his stomach and laid eggs that are just now hatching. He stumbles to the bathroom, falls to his knees, and throws up in the toilet. Upon standing, he looks in the mirror, happy to know his wife won’t see him like this. Turning back to the toilet he takes a piss on top of the puke, watching his stream push chunks from one side of the bowl to the other, oddly fascinated, but still disgusted with himself. After he flushes last night’s dinner and drink, he makes sure to brush his teeth extra long for fear that potential Hoover customers might be deterred by the smell of hangover.
Sitting down on a vinyl covered chair, Joey does his best to suppress burps and looks over his schedule, reviewing what suburbs he’ll be working that day. The company gives out little carbon copy maps of the houses. They show which houses bought a Hoover last year and which ones didn’t. Joey is supposed to go to last year’s customers and ask them to fill out a survey, but he never does. He just crosses out those houses and goes everywhere else: the company doesn’t pay him for the surveys.
Rather than hanging his suit up in the closet, he lays it on the other side of the bed. He knows it won’t get wrinkled there. He’s so used to sleeping with his wife that he never rolls all the way over. But some mornings he finds himself cuddling the suit.
He picks it up, finds his last clean shirt, and gets dressed.
Pulling his things out upon arrival and then packing them up upon departure is a robotic experience for Joey. Fold this shirt three times, fold the underwear just twice, don’t forget the shaving kit again, and on and on and on...
Once he’s sure everything is packed, he grabs his bags, and leaves his hotel room only to look forward to the promise of its clone in the next town.
At the front desk it’s the same, monotonous checkout routine, until the clerk says, “I nearly forgot. A call came for you last night. I tried your room, but there was no answer, so I took a note.”
Joey sets his things on the floor, and takes the note from the clerk:
Joey, it’s Dave. Got the hotel number from your boss. Have something important to tell you. Call me ASAP.
Joey tucks it into his jacket pocket.
“Do you mind if I use your phone real quick before I leave?”
The clerk silently pulls the phone out and sets it on the counter before sitting down and picking up his newspaper.
Joey pulls out his little black book.
Dave is a guy from the team. He comes from a good family, so he doesn’t have to work during the off-season, but he’s a nice guy, and Joey likes him.
In the D's, Joey finds the number and dials.
After a few rings Dave answers.
“Hey Dave, it’s Joey. I just got your message. So, what’s up?”
“Oh, umm, well, Joey I don’t know how to tell you this --”
“Dave, just spill it. I got to go.”
“Well, night before last I went out to dinner with my wife. We went to that little Italian joint on the other side of town, uh, Giovanni’s or something --”
“You mean Giuseppe’s?”
“That’s it. I’m not big on pasta and stuff, but the wife, you know, she loves --”
“Dave, I’m in a hurry here.”
“So anyway, were sitting there eating dinner and I look across the room and I see your wife.”
“We go there all the time. The kids love the lasagne. So what?”
“You see though, that’s the thing. She wasn’t with the kids.”
“Huh, I don’t read you.”
Dave pauses.
“She was with some guy at a dark little table in the back with a candle on it. At first I thought nothing of it, but then I saw the guy grab her hand and kiss it, and she just smiled. So I thought you should know.”
Joey turns away from the front desk, not wanting the clerk to hear him.
“Are you sure it was her? Are you sure it was my wife? I mean it could’ve been anyone. You said it was dark in there.”
“Joey she walked right by us when she left, no more than ten feet away, holding hands with the guy. I’m sure it was her.”
Joey says nothing.
“Hey Joe, you still there?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m still here. Look, Dave, you did the right thing calling and telling me and all, but I really gotta go, I’m late as it is. But you tell the family I said hello and I’ll be sure to stop by and take you out for a few drinks when I get back in town, alright?”
“Sure, sounds good, Joey,” Dave replies. “Hey, you take care of yourself. I know it can be hard on the road.”
“Will do, Dave, will do. Have a nice day now.”
Joey holds the receiver in his hand for a few moments, just looking at it, giving himself a mental pinch, before placing it back on the hook.
He realizes he’s started to sweat, and his heart’s thumping at his ribs.
“Hey, uh, I know I already checked out and everything,” he says to the clerk, “but do you mind if I go back to my room so I can make a personal call?”
The clerk lowers the newspaper. “I really shouldn’t, but for the great Joey Samuels, I’ll make an exception.”
Joey stares at the clerk. “I didn’t think you knew. I mean, you didn’t say anything.”
“I knew it was you the second you walked through the door, but I didn’t think you wanted to be pestered with it, you know?” He hands Joey the room key.
“Thanks,” Joey says, indicating the key. “Uh, you want an autograph?”
“Not necessary. I mean what good is an autographed napkin or something anyway. Seems a bit silly to me.”
“I agree.”
Joey starts back to the room, leaving his luggage in the lobby to pick up after he calls his wife to find out just what the hell is going on while he isn't home.
***
Joey loosens his tie as he holds the phone to his ear, waiting for his wife to pick up.
He’s scared, much more so than he ever felt on the football field.
“Samuels’ residence, this is Claire.”
“Claire, it's Joey.”
“Joey! How are you? I didn’t expect to hear from you for a few days. The kids are playing in the backyard. Want me to get ‘em so you can say hello?”
“No. That’s fine,” he sighs, not sure how to continue, but the anger comes quick and easy, startling him as much as his wife. “What the fuck were you doing at Guiseppe’s the other night with some guy, Claire?”
“What are you talking about, honey?” He hears guilt vibrating in her voice, along with astonishment.
“Next time you wanna step out on your husband maybe you should look around the room first sweetheart, or better yet, not take your date to our favorite damn restaurant.” He waits for a response, but none comes, so he keeps going. “Dave was there with his wife. He told me just now, on the phone. Said you were in the back cuddling up with some clown.”
“Well, Joey, your friend must be mistaken, because I was --”
“Shut up! Shut the hell up! We both know you were there, so just quit with that crap right now. Who is this guy huh? The milk man or some shit?”
“Joey, I don’t think we should discuss this right now. Maybe when you’re back in town.”
“When I’m back in town!?” Joey mocks his wife. “Why? So you can keep seeing him until then, Claire?” Another silence. “Did you even stop to think about me and the kids or did this guy make you so wet that none of it mattered to you anymore and you just had to spread your legs. You were willing to risk our marriage --”
“What marriage!?” Claire erupts. After a moment she continues in a quieter, but still angry, tone. “During the season you’re on the road with the team every other week, and when you’re at home you’re at practice half the time. Now, during summer, you’re on the road for three weeks out of the month. You’re never here Joey! I’m by myself all the time, dealing with the kids, doing everything else to take care of this family, all by myself. Do you know what that’s like, Joe? I know you’re out there all alone on the road, but I’m here all alone too damnit! I’m only in my mid-thirties, and I still see younger boys looking at me in the store, and so, yeah, I decided to get some action for myself, to go get the things you can’t give me on a regular basis. I don’t want to look back at my life and think ‘Gee, I was a real pretty girl once and I did nothing with it’. So there, you happy now?”
Joey thinks to himself: She cheated on me, right? So how come I’m the bad guy? How come I feel like shit now?
“No, I’m not happy! I just found out my wife is screwing another guy! Happy is the last damn thing I feel right now, Claire.”
“Joey, there’s nothing I can say to make you feel any better. I cheated and I got caught, and if I could do it all over again, knowing I might still get caught, I would. ‘Cause at least for a few hours, I felt alive, connected with someone else, and he makes me --” Joey hears his kids in the background. “The kids are coming in. I gotta go now.”
“Wait, Claire, don’t hang up this --”
“Goodbye, Joey.”
And the line dies.
Joey sits down on the edge of the bed, able to hear the dial tone whining, and he cries for the first time since his team lost the little league championship football game when he was nine. This lasts a long time. When he’s done, he wipes his face with a handkerchief, goes to the lobby to grab his things, and then drives on down the road to the next town on his list.
***
Knock! Knock!
“Hi my name is Joey --”
“Samuels, of the Baltimore Lords,” says the short man standing in the doorway. “Yeah, I know who you are, but what I can’t figure is why big, bad Joey Samuels is standing on my porch holding a friggin' Hoover? Couldn’t possibly be because the Lords stunk last season, could it? Or maybe ‘cause you had the worst year of your whole career? Is that it?”
“So you’re a fan?” Joey says as politely as he can, considering the morning he’s having.
“Yeah I’m a fan, and let me tell you something: You guys are trash! A bunch of has-beens past your prime, most of you barely played worth a damn to begin with.”
“But we won the title a couple years back, so obviously some of us could play worth a damn, or we wouldn’t have won,” Joey replies, his voice heating up.
“That game was a fluke. Hell, that whole season was a fluke. You got all the breaks, I mean every single one of ‘em, or no way, no how you could’ve won anything. A bunch of has-beens and losers, that’s what you are. And you being here is only more proof of that. Joey frickin’ Samuels lugging a vacuum cleaner door to door like a regular Arthur Miller or some crap.”
The man in the doorway almost laughs in Joey’s face, but before the sound works its way up from his gut, Joey grabs him by the throat, drops the Hoover and the accessories kit, and lifts the man clear off the ground.
Joey, his face flushed red, carries the little man inside, closing the door with his free hand, and tosses the man against the wall. Joey hears the thud of the man’s head on impact. The man, scurrying to his knees, reaches for his head and shrieks in pain.
The man’s eyes look like he might beg and plead for Joey to stop, but he doesn't have time.
Joey kicks him hard in the face, and blood explodes from the man’s mouth as he crumples face down to the floor.
Joey drags him by the collar him to the center of the foyer.
The man sobs loudly, and, for a split-second, Joey is reminded of a moment his son fell down the steps and scraped his elbow, but this doesn’t stop Joey from stomping the man’s stomach a few times.
The man tries to speak, but there’s too much blood in his mouth to hear anything besides grunted syllables.
Joey leans over. “What was that buddy? You want to say something else funny?”
All Joey hears is a sound similar to bubbles bursting as air tries to push through the gore, like a clogged sink that won’t drain right.
Joey gets down on the floor and straddles the man at the waist, making sure he can’t move.
Joey throws punch after punch, over and over ‘til his arms go limp and his head slumps back, huffing for air.
He looks down at the poor man who insulted him at just the wrong time. He’s breathing, Joey feels the man’s chest quiver and shake beneath his legs, but other than that the man looks dead. Blood is everywhere, gushing over his cheeks and on to the carpet.
Joey points at the spot. “You know, I can sell you a stain removal attachment for that. Lift the red right up from the carpet in minutes.”
He knows he shouldn’t, but Joey still feels really good.
He wonders if this is what his wife meant by feeling alive, being connected.
After a few minutes, Joey stands up and wipes the sweat from his face and neck. As he does, he sees the man’s little eyes - the only thing Joey can make out through the mess he’s made. The man’s eyes, so confident when he was cracking jokes before, now stare up at Joey with only fear and pain, tears streaming out to mix with all the blood. Joey smiles back before straightening his tie, running a comb through his hair.
Then he grabs his Hoover and accessories kit and leaves the house.
***
Knock! Knock!
“Hi, my name is Joey Samuels. If I could just have a moment of your time today to share with you the exciting new advances that Hoover has made in the way we care for the places we call home, I would greatly appreciate it.”
** That was a bit longer than usual, so those of you who made it all the way here, to the end, thanks truly for reading. I wrote this story a long time ago it seems, but it was only about three years. One night I thought about how professional athletes were paid peanuts back in the day and most of them had to get off-season jobs (something no pro athlete has to do now). I imagined how that would affect the dynamic of family life, went to my PC in the wee small hours, and ended up with someone beat to a pulp in the end.
There is this sweet sense of accomplishment when one of my older stories is published, like I had something to begin with, from the start. Reading over this story now, I am not sure how I feel about it anymore. But it's a part of my writer's road, so it deserves to be up with the rest. Hope you enjoyed it.
"Knock! Knock!" was first published in Issue #3 of The Creepy Gnome.
Despite being one of the best players in pro football, during the hot months of the off-season Joey Samuels puts on a different uniform and tackles a different opponent: suburbanites. Joey sells vacuum cleaners and accessories door to door, moving from one small town to the next, in a car with no air conditioning and a busted radio.
After the second child arrived, he realized the money he made playing ball just wouldn’t be enough for a growing family. His wife’s friend had a husband who suggested he come work for him as a Hoover salesman. He said Joey would be perfect for the job: “Handsome guy like you with notoriety as a football player, the vacuums will practically sell themselves.” Joey didn’t like the idea of being away from his family in the off-season. He barely spent time with them during the season as it was, but the job seemed like the best he could do, so he said yes, and started that summer.
Joey Samuels immediately hated his job.
Knock! Knock!
“Hi, my name is Joey --”
Slam!
Knock! Knock!
“Hi, my name is Joey Samuels. If I could just have a moment of your time this afternoon --”
“Whatever you’re trying to sell, I ain’t buying it, bub.”
Slam!!
Knock! Knock!
“Hi, my name is Joey Samuels. If I could just have...”
In the doorway were two young kids, a boy and a girl. The boy was wearing an army helmet and a red scarf was tied over his mouth. The girl, obviously the older of the two, held the boy by the shirt collar, making sure he couldn’t move.
“Are your parents home?”
“No,” said the girl. The little boy tried to speak, but only a muffle could be heard. “You can try to come back later if you want mister, but right now me and my brother are playing a game of commie prisoner and I just caught Castro. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an interrogation to get to.”
“Uhh…”
Slam!!!
Knock! Knock!
“Hi my name is Joey Samuels. If I --”
“Hold on a second,” said the old lady. “Do you have any idea how silly a man your size looks lugging that vacuum cleaner around?” She laughed, waving one hand in the air, the other hand on her heart.
Slam!!!!
Joey Samuels simply does his job as best he can.
And he’s hated for it.
But Joey understands. He’d done the same thing when people knocked on his door. He’d cussed out those types who came around carrying bibles and looking for handouts.
So he doesn’t blame people for the way he’s treated, but he still doesn’t like it.
What really bugs Joey is when someone recognizes him as a football player. The embarrassment is almost unbearable.
“Oh my God! You’re, yeah you are, you’re Joey Samuels aren’t you! The Joey Samuels! I don’t wanna buy nothin’. Sorry man, I already got a vacuum, but could I get a signature? Oh man, let me find my kid’s football. I’ll be right back.”
He thinks of his wife and kids to avoid going off and giving someone a piece of his mind, tells himself he’s doing it for them over and over again like a mantra.
So, despite the annoyance, he usually smiles and gives the autograph anyway.
On top of this, being on the road is just plain crappy. The rooms are paid for by the company, but since they’re free, they always end up being dingy and small, with cold water showers and no TV and creaky mattresses. Most nights he reads whatever magazines he can find in the lobby and plays solitaire with a deck so old it looks weathered from finger sweat.
The highway diners are always the same. Big signs say things like “Homemade Eats” and “Old Fashioned Home Cooking”, but the food hardly reminds him of his wife’s spaghetti with meatballs or sharing dinner with his family while watching The Honeymooners. Instead, at these places he ends up drinking yesterday’s coffee and eating steak and eggs better suited for pig slop.
Nothing can keep Joey from how lonely the road gets. He talks to the kids and the wife every few days, but hearing about who lost a tooth or trips to the local pool only makes things worse. Lately, he’s taken up drinking alone by the fifth, and getting stink drunk leaves him feeling pathetic, far from the father and husband he is at home.
So, despite being a great football player, and having a nice family, Joey Samuels is not a very happy guy.
***
One thing about cheap hotel rooms though, Joey can always rely on the alarm clock to be absurdly obnoxious when it goes off. Joey rolls over in the bed that is just a hair too small (his feet hang at least six inches over the edge), and he slaps down on the clock, silencing the shrill noise.
Lying on his back, Joey feels like spiders have crawled into his stomach and laid eggs that are just now hatching. He stumbles to the bathroom, falls to his knees, and throws up in the toilet. Upon standing, he looks in the mirror, happy to know his wife won’t see him like this. Turning back to the toilet he takes a piss on top of the puke, watching his stream push chunks from one side of the bowl to the other, oddly fascinated, but still disgusted with himself. After he flushes last night’s dinner and drink, he makes sure to brush his teeth extra long for fear that potential Hoover customers might be deterred by the smell of hangover.
Sitting down on a vinyl covered chair, Joey does his best to suppress burps and looks over his schedule, reviewing what suburbs he’ll be working that day. The company gives out little carbon copy maps of the houses. They show which houses bought a Hoover last year and which ones didn’t. Joey is supposed to go to last year’s customers and ask them to fill out a survey, but he never does. He just crosses out those houses and goes everywhere else: the company doesn’t pay him for the surveys.
Rather than hanging his suit up in the closet, he lays it on the other side of the bed. He knows it won’t get wrinkled there. He’s so used to sleeping with his wife that he never rolls all the way over. But some mornings he finds himself cuddling the suit.
He picks it up, finds his last clean shirt, and gets dressed.
Pulling his things out upon arrival and then packing them up upon departure is a robotic experience for Joey. Fold this shirt three times, fold the underwear just twice, don’t forget the shaving kit again, and on and on and on...
Once he’s sure everything is packed, he grabs his bags, and leaves his hotel room only to look forward to the promise of its clone in the next town.
At the front desk it’s the same, monotonous checkout routine, until the clerk says, “I nearly forgot. A call came for you last night. I tried your room, but there was no answer, so I took a note.”
Joey sets his things on the floor, and takes the note from the clerk:
Joey, it’s Dave. Got the hotel number from your boss. Have something important to tell you. Call me ASAP.
Joey tucks it into his jacket pocket.
“Do you mind if I use your phone real quick before I leave?”
The clerk silently pulls the phone out and sets it on the counter before sitting down and picking up his newspaper.
Joey pulls out his little black book.
Dave is a guy from the team. He comes from a good family, so he doesn’t have to work during the off-season, but he’s a nice guy, and Joey likes him.
In the D's, Joey finds the number and dials.
After a few rings Dave answers.
“Hey Dave, it’s Joey. I just got your message. So, what’s up?”
“Oh, umm, well, Joey I don’t know how to tell you this --”
“Dave, just spill it. I got to go.”
“Well, night before last I went out to dinner with my wife. We went to that little Italian joint on the other side of town, uh, Giovanni’s or something --”
“You mean Giuseppe’s?”
“That’s it. I’m not big on pasta and stuff, but the wife, you know, she loves --”
“Dave, I’m in a hurry here.”
“So anyway, were sitting there eating dinner and I look across the room and I see your wife.”
“We go there all the time. The kids love the lasagne. So what?”
“You see though, that’s the thing. She wasn’t with the kids.”
“Huh, I don’t read you.”
Dave pauses.
“She was with some guy at a dark little table in the back with a candle on it. At first I thought nothing of it, but then I saw the guy grab her hand and kiss it, and she just smiled. So I thought you should know.”
Joey turns away from the front desk, not wanting the clerk to hear him.
“Are you sure it was her? Are you sure it was my wife? I mean it could’ve been anyone. You said it was dark in there.”
“Joey she walked right by us when she left, no more than ten feet away, holding hands with the guy. I’m sure it was her.”
Joey says nothing.
“Hey Joe, you still there?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m still here. Look, Dave, you did the right thing calling and telling me and all, but I really gotta go, I’m late as it is. But you tell the family I said hello and I’ll be sure to stop by and take you out for a few drinks when I get back in town, alright?”
“Sure, sounds good, Joey,” Dave replies. “Hey, you take care of yourself. I know it can be hard on the road.”
“Will do, Dave, will do. Have a nice day now.”
Joey holds the receiver in his hand for a few moments, just looking at it, giving himself a mental pinch, before placing it back on the hook.
He realizes he’s started to sweat, and his heart’s thumping at his ribs.
“Hey, uh, I know I already checked out and everything,” he says to the clerk, “but do you mind if I go back to my room so I can make a personal call?”
The clerk lowers the newspaper. “I really shouldn’t, but for the great Joey Samuels, I’ll make an exception.”
Joey stares at the clerk. “I didn’t think you knew. I mean, you didn’t say anything.”
“I knew it was you the second you walked through the door, but I didn’t think you wanted to be pestered with it, you know?” He hands Joey the room key.
“Thanks,” Joey says, indicating the key. “Uh, you want an autograph?”
“Not necessary. I mean what good is an autographed napkin or something anyway. Seems a bit silly to me.”
“I agree.”
Joey starts back to the room, leaving his luggage in the lobby to pick up after he calls his wife to find out just what the hell is going on while he isn't home.
***
Joey loosens his tie as he holds the phone to his ear, waiting for his wife to pick up.
He’s scared, much more so than he ever felt on the football field.
“Samuels’ residence, this is Claire.”
“Claire, it's Joey.”
“Joey! How are you? I didn’t expect to hear from you for a few days. The kids are playing in the backyard. Want me to get ‘em so you can say hello?”
“No. That’s fine,” he sighs, not sure how to continue, but the anger comes quick and easy, startling him as much as his wife. “What the fuck were you doing at Guiseppe’s the other night with some guy, Claire?”
“What are you talking about, honey?” He hears guilt vibrating in her voice, along with astonishment.
“Next time you wanna step out on your husband maybe you should look around the room first sweetheart, or better yet, not take your date to our favorite damn restaurant.” He waits for a response, but none comes, so he keeps going. “Dave was there with his wife. He told me just now, on the phone. Said you were in the back cuddling up with some clown.”
“Well, Joey, your friend must be mistaken, because I was --”
“Shut up! Shut the hell up! We both know you were there, so just quit with that crap right now. Who is this guy huh? The milk man or some shit?”
“Joey, I don’t think we should discuss this right now. Maybe when you’re back in town.”
“When I’m back in town!?” Joey mocks his wife. “Why? So you can keep seeing him until then, Claire?” Another silence. “Did you even stop to think about me and the kids or did this guy make you so wet that none of it mattered to you anymore and you just had to spread your legs. You were willing to risk our marriage --”
“What marriage!?” Claire erupts. After a moment she continues in a quieter, but still angry, tone. “During the season you’re on the road with the team every other week, and when you’re at home you’re at practice half the time. Now, during summer, you’re on the road for three weeks out of the month. You’re never here Joey! I’m by myself all the time, dealing with the kids, doing everything else to take care of this family, all by myself. Do you know what that’s like, Joe? I know you’re out there all alone on the road, but I’m here all alone too damnit! I’m only in my mid-thirties, and I still see younger boys looking at me in the store, and so, yeah, I decided to get some action for myself, to go get the things you can’t give me on a regular basis. I don’t want to look back at my life and think ‘Gee, I was a real pretty girl once and I did nothing with it’. So there, you happy now?”
Joey thinks to himself: She cheated on me, right? So how come I’m the bad guy? How come I feel like shit now?
“No, I’m not happy! I just found out my wife is screwing another guy! Happy is the last damn thing I feel right now, Claire.”
“Joey, there’s nothing I can say to make you feel any better. I cheated and I got caught, and if I could do it all over again, knowing I might still get caught, I would. ‘Cause at least for a few hours, I felt alive, connected with someone else, and he makes me --” Joey hears his kids in the background. “The kids are coming in. I gotta go now.”
“Wait, Claire, don’t hang up this --”
“Goodbye, Joey.”
And the line dies.
Joey sits down on the edge of the bed, able to hear the dial tone whining, and he cries for the first time since his team lost the little league championship football game when he was nine. This lasts a long time. When he’s done, he wipes his face with a handkerchief, goes to the lobby to grab his things, and then drives on down the road to the next town on his list.
***
Knock! Knock!
“Hi my name is Joey --”
“Samuels, of the Baltimore Lords,” says the short man standing in the doorway. “Yeah, I know who you are, but what I can’t figure is why big, bad Joey Samuels is standing on my porch holding a friggin' Hoover? Couldn’t possibly be because the Lords stunk last season, could it? Or maybe ‘cause you had the worst year of your whole career? Is that it?”
“So you’re a fan?” Joey says as politely as he can, considering the morning he’s having.
“Yeah I’m a fan, and let me tell you something: You guys are trash! A bunch of has-beens past your prime, most of you barely played worth a damn to begin with.”
“But we won the title a couple years back, so obviously some of us could play worth a damn, or we wouldn’t have won,” Joey replies, his voice heating up.
“That game was a fluke. Hell, that whole season was a fluke. You got all the breaks, I mean every single one of ‘em, or no way, no how you could’ve won anything. A bunch of has-beens and losers, that’s what you are. And you being here is only more proof of that. Joey frickin’ Samuels lugging a vacuum cleaner door to door like a regular Arthur Miller or some crap.”
The man in the doorway almost laughs in Joey’s face, but before the sound works its way up from his gut, Joey grabs him by the throat, drops the Hoover and the accessories kit, and lifts the man clear off the ground.
Joey, his face flushed red, carries the little man inside, closing the door with his free hand, and tosses the man against the wall. Joey hears the thud of the man’s head on impact. The man, scurrying to his knees, reaches for his head and shrieks in pain.
The man’s eyes look like he might beg and plead for Joey to stop, but he doesn't have time.
Joey kicks him hard in the face, and blood explodes from the man’s mouth as he crumples face down to the floor.
Joey drags him by the collar him to the center of the foyer.
The man sobs loudly, and, for a split-second, Joey is reminded of a moment his son fell down the steps and scraped his elbow, but this doesn’t stop Joey from stomping the man’s stomach a few times.
The man tries to speak, but there’s too much blood in his mouth to hear anything besides grunted syllables.
Joey leans over. “What was that buddy? You want to say something else funny?”
All Joey hears is a sound similar to bubbles bursting as air tries to push through the gore, like a clogged sink that won’t drain right.
Joey gets down on the floor and straddles the man at the waist, making sure he can’t move.
Joey throws punch after punch, over and over ‘til his arms go limp and his head slumps back, huffing for air.
He looks down at the poor man who insulted him at just the wrong time. He’s breathing, Joey feels the man’s chest quiver and shake beneath his legs, but other than that the man looks dead. Blood is everywhere, gushing over his cheeks and on to the carpet.
Joey points at the spot. “You know, I can sell you a stain removal attachment for that. Lift the red right up from the carpet in minutes.”
He knows he shouldn’t, but Joey still feels really good.
He wonders if this is what his wife meant by feeling alive, being connected.
After a few minutes, Joey stands up and wipes the sweat from his face and neck. As he does, he sees the man’s little eyes - the only thing Joey can make out through the mess he’s made. The man’s eyes, so confident when he was cracking jokes before, now stare up at Joey with only fear and pain, tears streaming out to mix with all the blood. Joey smiles back before straightening his tie, running a comb through his hair.
Then he grabs his Hoover and accessories kit and leaves the house.
***
Knock! Knock!
“Hi, my name is Joey Samuels. If I could just have a moment of your time today to share with you the exciting new advances that Hoover has made in the way we care for the places we call home, I would greatly appreciate it.”
** That was a bit longer than usual, so those of you who made it all the way here, to the end, thanks truly for reading. I wrote this story a long time ago it seems, but it was only about three years. One night I thought about how professional athletes were paid peanuts back in the day and most of them had to get off-season jobs (something no pro athlete has to do now). I imagined how that would affect the dynamic of family life, went to my PC in the wee small hours, and ended up with someone beat to a pulp in the end.
There is this sweet sense of accomplishment when one of my older stories is published, like I had something to begin with, from the start. Reading over this story now, I am not sure how I feel about it anymore. But it's a part of my writer's road, so it deserves to be up with the rest. Hope you enjoyed it.
"Knock! Knock!" was first published in Issue #3 of The Creepy Gnome.
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