The Knowledge Holder

Chapter 1

The appointment unfolded with tiresome predictability. My client, wearing a finely woven pastel sweater and coordinating pinkish blush of anticipation, sat with an unsettled, erect posture across from me. She had just purchased a new home. With it came the standard new home backyard, which was nothing but dirt.

Have you had a pool before, Ms. Becker? A more clever opening I’m sure had not been discovered.

No, but I’ve always wanted one, and I promised myself this would be the house. This was really good for me to hear, as I not only had to design the pool but sell it as well. With her comment she was in fact assuring me that I had already closed the sale and that I’d have to be some sort of blockhead to screw it up. In sales lingo, this is known as a laydown. Losing a laydown sale is like missing your mouth trying to take a sip of water. Since my shirt had been soaked more than once, I proceeded with my usual professional presentation and hoped for the best.

Such is the life of a swimming pool salesman, or Design Specialist, as my business card so eloquently misrepresents. My office is situated along a quiet hallway in a medium-sized Phoenix homebuilder’s design studio, pressed between a landscaper’s botanically embellished space, and a lighting specialist’s optimistically luminous showroom. When a contract is written for a new home, the buyers are asked if they have any interest in adding a pool. A yes answer gets them a two-hour riveting sit-down with me, Greg Simon, Design Specialist.

Sales started to crumble for my homebuilder about a year ago, and seemingly the next day you could shoot a cannon through my leather-bound appointment book and not hit a drop of ink. Other reps in my company would have proclaimed impending doom and glommed on to an extra account or a part-time gig hawking suds at Chase Field by now. But fortunately for me, I had strung together a number of good years during the boom—very good years—and was quite content watching my workload atrophy into a part-time job. I wasn’t flush with cash or anything, but my intermittently functioning, fertile shard of brain somehow prevented quintessential me from squandering my hard-earned riches. A few good appointments a month and my wallet and I were both rosy with contentment.

In any case, Ms. Becker and I were getting along pretty well, as was her pool design. That’s when things took a turn.

I thought I was just as boring as hell, since she was nodding off listening to me ramble on about the virtues of an in-floor cleaning system. It wasn’t until she actually fell off her chair that I realized maybe it wasn’t just me.

I rushed around my desk to where she had been sitting, hoping she had just slid off during a mini lapse of consciousness. Who could blame her, with my monotone and all? Maybe it was the immediate change of the shade of her skin to something in the pallid family, or maybe it was the way her eyes were wide open while actually not looking at anything that tipped me off. She was dead. This was not the sort of laydown I was hoping for.

To my credit, I didn’t even consider the loss of a sale as I dialed 911. I was, I guess, more scared than anything. I had never seen a dead person before. I was sure though. As a big fan of television crime dramas, I’d had as much exposure to dead bodies as most detectives or old-timey, half-baked coroners.

It seemed that I had just finished my conversation with the 911 operator when the paramedics arrived. This was a good thing, as I was a little more than weirded out by the corpse on the floor of my office. Just before the cavalry appeared, my head was jumping with thoughts of what I should be doing. Was it appropriate or necessary to be thinking of CPR? Not that I knew how to perform this on someone, but again, you watch enough television you should be able to attempt almost anything. Once, I made chicken piccata after watching some Food Network show. It wasn’t bad really and not as hard to make as I thought it would be.

It turns out, the paramedics did all these things for me, or I guess instead of me and for Ms. Becker. After all was said and done, I was right. She was gone. She was packed up and rolled away. I was left with maybe even a more creepy feeling than I’d had when she was still lying there on my office floor.

Chapter 2

With no other work to do and no more appointments slated for me to rankle into a state of eternal rest, I edged out of the design studio and scurried to the relative chill of my home.

It wasn’t a huge house, but much bigger than the typical home for one. Jane and I had it built six years ago, and it was perfect for the girls and us. Jane died about a year later, and my youngest, Stephanie, started college in Tucson last fall leaving me on my own. Even though I could easily be comfortable in a more modestly apportioned condo, a commodity as thick in Phoenix as cards in a Hallmark store, I couldn’t part with what symbolized a big chunk of my life. Plus, Stephanie and my older daughter Annie would return from school during breaks, holidays, and the occasional weekend, and would probably kill me if I so much as touched their rooms, let alone sell the place.

It had been a strange day, and, after tumbling with a jarring thud onto the family room couch, I started thinking about it. A woman had actually died in my office, sitting across from me…while I was talking to her. That was enough thinking. I had plenty of beer in the fridge and a large television in front of me. It didn’t take much to distract me, but enough of this combination and I could almost forget my name.

Four beers and one Phoenix Suns whisker-wide overtime triumph later, the news came on. I was feeling pretty good and relaxed when the local anchor announced an upcoming story regarding the death of some celebrity. As I was playing along, trying to guess whom it could possibly be, the thought of my own personal encounter earlier that day came rushing back to me. Thanks, Mr. Newsman.

I didn’t want to think of Ms. Becker, no disrespect, and I was tired enough so I climbed into bed.

Somehow I was able to put the day’s events out of my mind as I waited for the residual effect of the beer to carry me into a deep sleep. I started thinking of Jane. About once a day she would pop into my head; I’d acknowledge her presence with a silent I love you, and move on. She’d been gone for five years, and as time passed, I spent less of it remembering her and our twenty years together. But here she was, front and center. I miss you and wish you were here were my thoughts directed at the vision in my head.

Immediately I was flush with the guilt that always accompanied these meetings. Guilt about the handful of women I’d spent time with since her demise. Actually, it was two women; I guess I exaggerate even to myself. Guilt about maybe not doing the right things for our daughters. After six months of shopping with them for clothes and essentials, I gave them each a card and hoped they understood the concept of credit limits. Even guilt about not making the bed every day, or pretty much ever. If Jane could stare down at me from the heavens above, she’d have astigmatism by now over that one…if Jane could stare down at me. A cold feeling rushed over me suddenly as I could clearly visualize that scene. I hadn’t felt numb like this before, at least while thinking of Jane. I laid down three black chips on a craps table in Vegas once, thinking for some reason they totaled fifteen bucks instead of the three hundred they represented. I had the same feeling then. I couldn’t lay in bed in my current state, so I got up to shake off my emotional upheaval.

Chapter 3

Habitually I would walk through my workdays without giving any thought to my surroundings. I opened the door to my office the next morning, noticing everything. Without much sleep behind me, and with little work to do, I couldn’t account for the focus. Everything I laid eyes on seemed vivid and purposeful. The whole office had an unusual, steady shine to it. My desk was rarely cluttered, I guess for fear of losing a task under a mound of paper and having to work twice as hard to recover. But today, instead of my worn, prosaic desk, it was a slick, unsullied desk, shiny and sharp. Very weird, I thought to myself. It was the same desk, but it wasn’t. Thinking that sitting behind it might clarify my perspective, I gave it a try; a dentist’s chair, with its ominous tangle of torture devices hovering above would have been less diverting. I quickly got up.

I didn’t know what was wrong with me, but had little doubt I was coming down with something. I went through the usual ritual of self-exam. Fever: I didn’t think so. If anything, I felt like I had the opposite of a fever, as if I had walked into an air-conditioned mall from a 110-degree parking lot. Aches, pains: none at all. Maybe I was suffering that prickly unease that preceded oncoming malaise. Maybe it’s that I had about two hours of sleep last night. Lucky for me, or sadly if you were the government expecting me to stimulate the economy, I didn’t have any appointments. I had to get out of my office.

It was too early for lunch, not that I had much of an appetite anyway, so I found my car in the parking garage and headed towards home.

I fumbled with the radio dials, hoping for a familiar favorite to snap me out of my funk. After a futile scan, I realized it must be one of those magical minutes that every station simultaneously dedicates for ads. If I owned a station, I would figure out how to have music playing when everyone else was running commercials. It would be very popular. Then I’d file for bankruptcy from lack of revenue. It would be easier if I just kept some CDs in my car to assure good music with no interruptions. I’ve thought of doing this a thousand times, always while I’m driving and listening to commercials. I turned off the radio, thinking I’d turn it back on in a couple minutes.

You’re next. It was Jane’s voice, clear as if she were sitting next to me.

What? I said out loud, as if she were. There was no response. There wasn’t anyone else in the car. This wasn’t helping my condition. I know I heard Jane’s voice, and I was clear on what she said. Sometimes when I’m dreaming I’ll hear someone talking to me; it’s so vivid it shocks me awake. This was a similar feeling, except I wasn’t sleeping. I heard Jane’s voice, and she said you’re next.

I concentrated on the road, hoping to jettison the unmistakable, yet ambiguous voice from my head. The desert sun stabbed through the windshield smacking my face with relentless, sharp light, and it seemed as if the whole world was glaring at me. I made it home without further incident and slid onto the couch, thinking maybe I should pop open a couple cold ones. Realizing it wasn’t even noon, I hesitated. I was confident enough in my sanity that I didn’t think a couple of beers would lead me off the cliff, but I didn’t want to push it. Instead, I chose to reach out to someone. Hear myself talk. Listen to reason. So I called Annie, my little senior in college.

Hi, sweetie, I said, hoping to sound like it’d been just another day. How’s everything?

Hi, Daddy! With these two words, I almost felt normal again. Sometimes I have good ideas. This call would be one of them.

Are you in the middle of something?

Actually, I was just walking to class. What’s up?

Nothing, sweets. I just wanted to hear your voice and make sure everything’s okay.

Everything’s good. Oh my god, I had the easiest exam in the world yesterday in Psych! I’ll definitely ace that class. Aren’t you proud of me?

Of course I am. You’re my little smart-as-a-cookie almost college graduate!

Aw. Alright, I’m at my class now, Dad. I gotta go. I love you!

Okay sweetie, love you!

Thanks to one of my little girls, I was back on track—kind of. As I poked about for the End Call button on my phone, my eyes found a ten-year-old family picture I had propped up by the TV. At least once a day I’d get lost in it, reliving that moment in time. Jane and I were the bookends—our daughters between us. The girls were like miniature versions of Jane, each a different height, but all with the same beautiful features: shoulder-length brown hair highlighted with streaks from the sun, eyes that were not quite blue, not quite green, but an amazing blend of both. The one characteristic that defined their connection more than any other, though, was that smile—warm, genuine, and electric. They were triplets born at different points in time.

My girls are ten years older now, but time has only enhanced their beauty—and their resemblance to Jane.

Unable to justify the schlep back to the office, I grabbed the last of a six-pack from the fridge and slumped deep into the cradling folds of my couch.

I stayed up late, wanting to be as tired as possible before I hit the sack. When my head hit the pillow, I hoped to be immediately unconscious. If I were to dream, I wanted to be asleep when it happened.

Chapter 4

I didn’t have any bad dreams, or dreams at all that I could remember. I woke to a moment of sobriety, the day not yet wilted by the demons in my head. Then my personal trauma of the day before hit me in the gut. Nothing was wrong, I told myself. Weird things happen all the time, probably to everybody.

After Jane died, I began to seriously consider my own mortality. I wasn’t overwrought with anxiety or unnerved with the idea I could go any minute in a freak accident, like Jane, but I found myself regularly assessing my mental and physical health, searching for any signs of decay: if I forgot what I had eaten for dinner the night before, minus ten points—if I remembered the expiration date of the milk I had in the fridge, plus ten points. I refused to go to bed at night until any red balance had been wiped out. But because my reeling mind now had other, thornier tasks to handle, I was rethinking this little OCD game of mine. I needed my sleep.

For a guy in his late forties, I thought I was still holding up okay, at least physically. Strands of gray had begun a slow trespass across my scalp, but my brown hair doggedly held its ground, refusing to lose this turf war. My jowls were still taut and positioned appropriately; they hadn’t started their descent towards my chest, a fear of mine since I was old enough to notice such things. At five-foot ten, I wasn’t exactly a skyscraper, but I did have a decent build, thanks to a gym membership and a mostly protein and alcohol diet. Jane used to say I was cute, but as much as I loved her, she tended to misjudge things sometimes.

Whatever was going on with me, it was probably stress related. I didn’t think I was living a stressful life, but I’m sure if I visited a therapist, stress would be his diagnosis. That was a