Towards Better Democracy

Good words, well written, better the world. Good literature betters the world immeasurably.

The Fuller Brush Salesman


The Fuller Brush Salesman

The Fuller Brush salesman came by today, late. Engaged his spiel
with the charm of the smile of a snake. Bared teeth, weaseling words.
I’m not in the mood to listen. And I’ve no need for his brushes. Got
enough already, I have. But, I stand here and listen anyway in my
pink fluffy house slippers, bought by m’husband last year. Them with the Mickey
Mouse eyes popping out in disbelief. My arms are akimbo. The stockings
I have on are old. But he’ll not notice while he’s all carried away.

Water’s on the stove. It’s not boiling yet. I have to wait awhile anyway.
May as well. Jake’s supper is in the oven as usual. I think this pinnie’s
clean. Neighbours notice things like that. Fussy, nosey too. You see
the squint in their eyes, the bitches.

Jake’s sure to be at the pub as he usually is, roll home around ten after
ten when they close. He won’t be drunk. That’s all right.
He’s probably talking to that fancy girl of his, instead of his mates.
What he sees in her … buggered if I know.

“Just a minute,” I tell him.

I’ve just had a thought. That floosie of his, we’ll fix that.

“Be back in a mo’.” Stove off, I scuttle back, quick as a flash.

“Why don’t you shut up and come inside.

“I’ll show you the brushes I’ve got and you tell me which one’s I need to
throw away.”

He’s shut up but he hasn’t shut his mouth He kinda stares, the fool. I’ll
be quick. Plenty of time though. Still, wouldn’t want to be with this
fella all night.

“Shut the door behind you. Close it firm, mind.”

Jake’s got charm right enough he has. This man’s a nut. Still, twenty, no, make
it thirty, that’ll be enough. Then ‘ll send him packing. Make sure he takes his
brushes. No telling …

He’s in the lobby. Waiting f’me to tell ‘im what to do next.

For once I didn’t look up and down the street to see any of them nosey parkers are
peeking out. Fucking bitches, fuck them … Probably jealous. Serves them right. They
ain’t got my looks.

“Follow me up,” Pads behind me like a dog as I climb the stairs.

Malcolm D B Munro
Saturday 7 May, 2016

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Filed under: Arts, Media, Music, poetry, songs, stories

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