Pitch Man
By Joan Raymond, Writers of Kern
John proposes his newest innovation, waving his hands as he explains. I’m not even paying attention – another money-making idea… ‘Best in the world, ever’… I’m so tired of his crazy ideas. Last week, he invented a bib for adults to wear – something about making sure the catsup-never-ruins-your-clothes-while-driving-to-work-before-an-important-meeting-again. Sunday he called with an idea of teaching cockroaches to dance, then going on “America’s Got Talent” and winning the million-dollar contract. Seriously? Who would pay to see dancing cockroaches? The judges will stomp on them before the first buzzer sounds. But here he is, again, pitching me some unique, amazing, (insert descriptive word here) novelty that he wants me to get excited about. I nod and pretend to listen. What can I say; I’m his big brother – the only family he’s got.
Oh wait – he’s getting to the good part. He brought diagrams this time. Spread across our tiny Starbucks table among the spilled latte, cheesecake brownie crumbs, a crumpled napkin, my cell phone, and his car keys. All sketched out in meticulous details – inspiration to invention, step-by-freaking-step for the last sixty-three minutes.
I smile and nod again. I’ll give him ten more minutes, encourage him and be on my way. He thinks I’m captivated by his imagination, wowed by his ingenious ideas, mesmerized by his presentation. To be honest, I’ve visualized my to-do list, recited the alphabet backwards – twice, and mentally written the acceptance speech for my Nobel Peace Prize for Patience. Do they even have that category? Doesn’t matter, I deserve it after my self-control.
I sip my fancy, frothy, whipped, whatever-it’s-called beverage and attempt to nudge him into making a closing statement. Oh no, he’s taking another breath and turning to the next set of sketches. Why doesn’t work call, tell me it’s an emergency? Maybe I should make an excuse… I left the water running. I forgot my root canal appointment; anything to bring this barreling, freight train of a presentation to an end.
I could blame explosive diarrhea… I’ve been lactose intolerant since we were kids. Mom made me drink soy milk, disgusting crap like that. He doesn’t have to know I took something before we met. I could grasp my gut, moan and sprint towards the restroom. He’d be none the wiser. But, that might just give him a chance to catch his breath. He’s attempting a hat trick, three scores in his invention game. A hat trick indeed. More of a shut out on my part I guess.
Oh wait… my cell phone is ringing. He stares at it, as do I. It’s vibrating around the table. My eyes strain to make out the caller ID. He looks at me; his eyes beg me to ignore it. Ignore the one chance I have to break free? Finally, my opportunity to leave an insane man. I reach down…turn it off…and look him in the eyes. “Go on, I’m all ears.” What can I say, he’s my baby brother, the only family I have.
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