Door to Door

A traveling salesman is nearing the end of his career.

Door to Door

Marty Trumble shifted his glasses and straightened his fedora, massaging the wrinkles on his face and wondering where the younger man went. He popped open his briefcase just to make sure everything was in place, then closed it with a snap before heading out. Moving slower by the day, the third floor was admittedly getting more difficult on his knees.

One of the doors on the second level opened just as he passed. “Morning, Marty,” Stella Donovan greeted.

“Morning, Mrs. Donovan,” he tipped his hat.

“Off to work?”

“Same as every day,” he answered on his way.

“Maybe you should consider retiring!” she shouted as he left, stepping into the chill of a late autumn morning.

Breeze coaxed leaves clicked down the street, and Marty was suddenly grateful he’d brought his woolen overcoat today. Unfortunately, he discovered the underground hover-rail line backed up all the way up onto the sidewalk, and with heavy sigh, he joined the queue. The wait was familiar now, especially with the 10,000% petrol tax. Even the fission tax was a burden, and a lot of people turned to walking. That was until the pedestrian tax made anything beyond 5,000 steps a heavy fine, which of course led to an obesity tax, and then a gravity tax based on your daily usage. Not long after, someone figured out how to resist gravity, though only the wealthiest could afford it. Floating to their destinations earned the rich a scowl or two along the way.

Thankfully, Marty kept his taxes low by eating less, which was more a byproduct of slow sales than anything else. His business had all but dried up, just a handful of customers to check on.

His first stop, an antique clock repair shop. A chime at the door and Marty greeted, “Good morning,” setting his briefcase down upon the display case and turning it toward his customer.

“Marty, shouldn’t you hang it up?” the owner scoffed. “I mean, with paper taxes so high, no one uses rubber stamps and stationery anymore. Everything’s digital. Sorry.”

He shrugged, “Well, you never know.”

The next stop was Bethany’s Blooms, just around the corner, and the smell of freshly cut flowers welcomed him inside. He set his case down once more. “Hello, Bethany.”

“Sorry, Marty,” she grimaced. “We just don’t need anything. We can’t even put cards on our arrangements anymore, and the bouquet tax might be the end of us. I hope you have some luck somewhere else.”

Next, Marty headed toward Ellison Industrial, an investor just a couple of blocks away. Andrew Ellison had been one of his best customers, though all that changed when his son took over. Still, it was worth a shot.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked from behind the desk.

“I was wondering if I could speak with Mr. Ellison,” Marty stated humbly.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Well, no, but Andrew Ellison….”

“Stuart Ellison runs everything now,” she interrupted. “He’s very busy, and I’m sure that…” She paused as the very same man entered just behind Marty. “Good morning, Mr. Ellison.”

“Mr. Ellison, If I could have a moment of your time,” Marty prodded, catching the man at the elevator.

“Sorry, very busy right now,” he replied. “I just got news, another tax that’s going to change everything.” He boarded the elevator and Marty was tenacious enough to join him. Stuart rolled his eyes, retreating to the back.

“I knew your father,” Marty began. “He was great man.”

“Yes, he was,” Stuart agreed.

Opening his case, Marty displayed his selection, nicely aligned and neatly ordered. “We did business for years – all the stamps and supplies you needed.”

“Hmph,” Stuart scoffed. “I thought your kind was extinct – the traveling salesman.”

“At your service, sir.”

Curiously, Stuart leaned in, surveying the merchandise, mind racing. “Everything I’ll need, huh?”

“As long as you’ll need it,” Marty confirmed, the doors to the elevator opening.

“I’ll take the lot,” Stuart grinned, shaking Marty’s hand. “They just passed a new internet tax. Turns out data centers are destroying the environment, social media affects mental health, and electromagnetic radiation is toxic. With this new tax, paper is the future. Time to get ahead of this thing. Meet me in the downstairs conference room in ten minutes. Today’s your luck day.”

In disbelief, Marty could only manage, “Th…thanks,” before the elevator doors closed between them.