been around the world and knows what it takes to be captain of his own fate. Mustache and beard sold separately.
096-065—$54.95
871-063—$34.95
It amazes the boy detective that hair replacement is an actual business. It is not amazing enough, however, to keep him from wondering what he is doing there in the first place. Once he takes a seat in a small gray cubicle, Melinda hands him a phone receiver, which is connected to a large, greenish-gray computer; it is all plastic, like an appliance from the ’70s, and seems strangely out-of-date.
“Terrific! How about we start you off with something nice and easy, then? Super. Have you ever used a left-handed phone before, Billy?”
“No.”
“Well, you’ll get used to it quick. Now, the computer here does all the hard work—the dialing and account information—all you have to do is talk. Isn’t that easy? Now, Billy, Mammoth Life-Like maintains its competitive edge in the hair-replacement market by exclusively targeting the unwell and also the elderly. What happens is we buy lists of hundreds of prospective clients from credit card companies—prospective clients who are, let’s just say, not healthy: cancer patients, car-accident victims, survivors of fires and other natural disasters—clients who are getting on there in years. Sometimes it takes a while before we know whether a prospective customer is dead or not, which, believe it or not, isn’t necessarily a ‘dead end’ in itself—sorry for the pun, Billy. Believe it or not, sometimes the person who answers is also a cancer patient, sharing a hospital room. Or maybe they were in the same car accident or fire and managed to live, or maybe—maybe, just maybe—they’re also getting on there in years. The important thing is not to be discouraged. This will give you an idea of what to expect while you’re trying to improve the overall hair quality of someone’s life.”
Billy nods, staring down at the telephone receiver.
“So OK, here’s a beginning script. I’ll give you a few minutes to get comfortable, make a few calls, you know, just have fun with it!”
“Terrific,” Billy mumbles to himself as Melinda quickly exits.
The boy detective picks up the phone and watches as the computer noisily begins to dial, its gears and sprockets turning wildly. Busying himself, his heart pounding, he nervously flips through the Mammoth Life-Like hair catalog and stares at the strange words on the salesperson script.
Out there in the world, somewhere, a lonely customer—a middleaged widow in a yellow housecoat—answers the ringing phone, her hands weak, her eyes gray and sad. In the background, her children are screaming and fighting. The customer tugs on her stringy blond hair and black mascara streaks down her face as she stares at a photograph hanging in the hallway, a picture of her husband: a square-faced brickmason, recently deceased.
“Hello?” the woman whispers.
“Hello,” Billy whispers back.
“Yes? What? What is it?”
“I’m sorry …” Billy says, his breath coming quickly. “I …”
“Glen … is that you? Oh God, just say something. Please, say something … anything …”
Billy sighs, holding the phone nervously, unable to speak.
“Oh, Glen, you don’t have to talk at all. I miss you. I miss you so much. Just, shhhh, just be quiet. I’m so sorry. I miss you. I miss you so much. When are you coming back? Just tell me when.”
“I …” the boy detective sighs.
“No, no, you’re right. I need to be strong on my own. I need to make it on my own.”
“Yes.”
“The kids, Jesus, Glen, they miss you, too. We all do. You, you would have been proud of little Leonard. He went right up to the casket and kissed his daddy’s cheek and … Oh, Glen, what am I going to do without you? What am I going to do?”
At that moment, the boy detective remembers Caroline in her small white coffin, her long blond hair spread out like a glowing halo, the image exactly matching the
096-065—$54.95
871-063—$34.95
It amazes the boy detective that hair replacement is an actual business. It is not amazing enough, however, to keep him from wondering what he is doing there in the first place. Once he takes a seat in a small gray cubicle, Melinda hands him a phone receiver, which is connected to a large, greenish-gray computer; it is all plastic, like an appliance from the ’70s, and seems strangely out-of-date.
“Terrific! How about we start you off with something nice and easy, then? Super. Have you ever used a left-handed phone before, Billy?”
“No.”
“Well, you’ll get used to it quick. Now, the computer here does all the hard work—the dialing and account information—all you have to do is talk. Isn’t that easy? Now, Billy, Mammoth Life-Like maintains its competitive edge in the hair-replacement market by exclusively targeting the unwell and also the elderly. What happens is we buy lists of hundreds of prospective clients from credit card companies—prospective clients who are, let’s just say, not healthy: cancer patients, car-accident victims, survivors of fires and other natural disasters—clients who are getting on there in years. Sometimes it takes a while before we know whether a prospective customer is dead or not, which, believe it or not, isn’t necessarily a ‘dead end’ in itself—sorry for the pun, Billy. Believe it or not, sometimes the person who answers is also a cancer patient, sharing a hospital room. Or maybe they were in the same car accident or fire and managed to live, or maybe—maybe, just maybe—they’re also getting on there in years. The important thing is not to be discouraged. This will give you an idea of what to expect while you’re trying to improve the overall hair quality of someone’s life.”
Billy nods, staring down at the telephone receiver.
“So OK, here’s a beginning script. I’ll give you a few minutes to get comfortable, make a few calls, you know, just have fun with it!”
“Terrific,” Billy mumbles to himself as Melinda quickly exits.
The boy detective picks up the phone and watches as the computer noisily begins to dial, its gears and sprockets turning wildly. Busying himself, his heart pounding, he nervously flips through the Mammoth Life-Like hair catalog and stares at the strange words on the salesperson script.
Out there in the world, somewhere, a lonely customer—a middleaged widow in a yellow housecoat—answers the ringing phone, her hands weak, her eyes gray and sad. In the background, her children are screaming and fighting. The customer tugs on her stringy blond hair and black mascara streaks down her face as she stares at a photograph hanging in the hallway, a picture of her husband: a square-faced brickmason, recently deceased.
“Hello?” the woman whispers.
“Hello,” Billy whispers back.
“Yes? What? What is it?”
“I’m sorry …” Billy says, his breath coming quickly. “I …”
“Glen … is that you? Oh God, just say something. Please, say something … anything …”
Billy sighs, holding the phone nervously, unable to speak.
“Oh, Glen, you don’t have to talk at all. I miss you. I miss you so much. Just, shhhh, just be quiet. I’m so sorry. I miss you. I miss you so much. When are you coming back? Just tell me when.”
“I …” the boy detective sighs.
“No, no, you’re right. I need to be strong on my own. I need to make it on my own.”
“Yes.”
“The kids, Jesus, Glen, they miss you, too. We all do. You, you would have been proud of little Leonard. He went right up to the casket and kissed his daddy’s cheek and … Oh, Glen, what am I going to do without you? What am I going to do?”
At that moment, the boy detective remembers Caroline in her small white coffin, her long blond hair spread out like a glowing halo, the image exactly matching the
Similar Books
