Make Money and Travel

by David Hagerty

Justin felt the road rumbling beneath him as the panel van bumped along the freeway. Because the van had no seats in the rear, he and the other five members of his crew had to sit cross-legged on their luggage. None of them seemed bothered by the rough ride. They sat in a circle - two girls and four guys - talking about how much money they expected to make. All of them looked foreign and strange to Justin: the Latin guy who dressed like a gangster, the two Goth girls who could have been sisters, the geek with the prominent Adam's apple, and the Indian with the lilting accent. To avoid looking at the others, Justin stared at the space between them, listening.

“My mom would have a fit if she knew where I was,” said one Goth girl who said her name was Venus.

“Mine doesn't even know where she is most of the time,” said the other girl, who went by Virus.

Justin looked them over but found their breasts and hips were disguised by black T-shirts and combat fatigues. Only their black, spiked hair stood out.

“Not mine,” Raul, the gangster, said. “My dad's just glad I'm out of L.A. ”

“What about you?” Arun said to Justin.

“My mom didn't want me to go,” Justin said, “but I knew she couldn't afford me hanging around any longer.”

From his seat on the floor, Justin couldn't see anything through the front windshield except the blue and white sky. Not that he would have recognized anything anyway. Today was his first in Phoenix . In fact, it was his first time on an airplane and his first time outside of Des Moines . Their group leader, Phil, had met them by the baggage claim with a sign that read “Enterprise Subscription Sales.” Now, an hour later, with their driver Javier speeding toward the unknown, Phil twisted around in the front seat to speak. He looked tan and fit, his arms stretching the sleeves of his monogrammed polo shirt, his hair bleached blond by the sun.

“You all are raising money for the Saguaro High School athletics department,” Phil said, “for a trip you're taking to Flagstaff .”

Phil handed them each a flier with photos of boys playing football and baseball on the cover. Inside was a list of dozens of magazines, everything from Tiger Beat to Playboy.

“Does that money come out of our pay?” said Simon, the skinny guy with the Adam's apple.

“It's just your sales pitch,” Phil said. He stared at Simon through his sunglasses, the Bolle logo still stuck to one lens. “Your cut is 20 percent of every subscription you sell. Don't worry about the money, you'll make plenty if you just do what I tell you. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“You from Philly?”

“How'd you know?”

“Because nobody here wears an Eagles parka.” Simon looked down at his green overcoat and heavy hiking boots stained by snow and slush. “You need to lose that gear. You're in the desert now.”

Justin looked down at his own clothes, faded jeans and a red wool sweater, and thought how ridiculous he looked. Compared to Phil's tight-fitted polo, Justin's clothes sagged off his bony knees and concave chest.

“Don't bother with old people,” Phil continued, “they're too cheap. And people with young kids are a waste of time, too. Focus on single people. Gang up on them. Get three of you and surround them so they feel like they have to buy something or you won't let ‘em leave.”

The van veered to the right and slowed, then turned sharply left. The road rhythm changed to the smooth hum of asphalt. A minute later, they swung right and lurched to a halt. Phil jumped out and threw open the back slider, letting the sun pour in on them. Justin squinted and held his hand up against the brightness, waiting for the image to come into focus.

He stepped out into acres of parking lot half filled with cars. A large building, painted pink and yellow, announced itself as the Desert Sky Mall. The morning sun already felt hot. Justin was about to reach into the van for his backpack and skateboard when Phil grabbed his arm and pulled it back.

“Don't worry about your stuff, Javier will take care of it.”

The driver looked at Justin and nodded, then slammed the van door and took off. Phil led the six of them inside the mall and through the central hallway until they arrived in front of Mervyns.

“Always set up near an ATM,” Phil said and nodded to one twenty paces away.

Phil handed each of them a stack of the brochures, a pen, and a clipboard with the Enterprise logo on it.

“Okay, team up and spread out. I want you to cover the entrances to all the stores on this corner.”

The six of them stood staring at each other like middle-schoolers during a square dancing class until Venus and Virus walked off together, arms interlocked. Justin looked at the three guys, nodded to Simon, and headed to the main entrance of the department store.

His first twenty minutes were a complete waste of time, with almost everyone ignoring his polite “excuse me.” Of the three that stopped, the pimply girl wearing tennis whites said she had no money, a middle-aged man in a gray suit said he was in a hurry, and a smiling man wearing a white shirt and bow tie tried to convince them to attend Sunday services at the Seventh Day Adventist church.

Phil must have been watching, because he emerged from behind a pillar, snatched the clipboard out of Justin's hand and strode up to the nearest person, a woman in a sun dress, straw hat, and bug-eye sunglasses.

“Miss, could you help support high school athletes . . .” Phil began.

Within three minutes, the mall matron was handing over $45 cash and giving Phil her phone number.

“That's how it's done,” Phil said, handing the clipboard back to Justin while watching the sun dress walk away. “Don't give them a chance to say no.”

***

A few hours later, Phil rounded up the crew and bought them lunch at the Hamburger Hut in the food court of the mall. As he ate, Phil looked over their sales logs for the morning.

“Not bad for your first day.”

He hesitated when he got to Justin's sheet.

“Justin, don't be so scared, man. You want to make money at this, right?”

His mouth too full to speak, Justin glanced up and nodded. This was his first meal in nearly a day.

“All right, man, eat up. You're going to need your energy this afternoon.”

Phil reached across the table and dropped a red pill on his tray.

“What's that?”

“Gives you energy.”

Justin stared as though it would shed its skin to reveal its contents. He'd tried E and GHB at raves, but never liked the headache they gave the next day.

A moment later, Phil reached across and swiped the pill back, looking around them casually as he did so.

“You don't want it?” He stared at Justin with anger.

“What is it?”

“What, you think I'm going to poison you? I'm trying to help.”

He turned to the others, who were fixated on his closed palm.

“Anybody else want one?”

Two of the boys stuck out their palms like beggars, then the two girls followed. Only Justin and the skinny boy held back, and that was not for long. When the others had swallowed theirs, Justin accepted one and allowed it to dissolve on his tongue. After the gelatin coating melted, the pill tasted bitter and chalky, so he washed it down with a swig of Coke.

***

The afternoon was worse than the morning, with only two sales, one by check (which was not preferred, Phil said, since they tended to bounce). Justin felt jittery and distracted, stammering to customers who fled from him as though they were afraid. No matter how many times he rehearsed the pitch in his mind, the words wouldn't come out smoothly. By the time they left the mall, it was dark and Justin felt relieved to be getting away.

Only a month earlier, he'd been studying for his graduation exams when he saw the ad in the back of Skater: “Earn $1,000 a week and travel for free.” The day after accepting his diploma, with no other options besides the military, Justin asked his grandma for a plane ticket as his graduation gift. Today made boot camp seem more appealing.

The van was waiting outside the mall and drove them to a motel where Phil rented them three rooms. He claimed one for himself; the girls dashed toward a second and slammed the door behind them; that left the four guys to decide how to divvy up two queen beds.

“I'm not sharing with you fags,” said Raul, who lay down on one bed to claim it. Justin knew his homeboy get up - slicked back hair, numbered sports jersey, blue jeans with a crease ironed in - from watching crime shows on TV. He decided not to argue.

For him it was nothing unusual to share a mattress. He'd done so with his brother for years. However, he didn't want the others to get the wrong impression.

“I'm not sharing either,” he said.

He pulled a pillow off the bed and threw it to the floor next to the closet. Simon and Arun looked at each other, shrugged, sat on the bed and began removing their shoes.

***

Justin slept poorly that night, uncomfortable on the itchy carpeting and still shaking off the jitters from the red he had downed at lunch. When morning arrived he dreaded heading out with the sales crew but forced himself. Claiming illness so soon would mark him as a slacker, and he wanted to prove himself to his new teammates.

The next several days went no better than the first, though. He usually finished last among the sales crews in daily receipts. The others found a style of their own - the girls flirting with older male customers, the boys playing off the sympathies of grandmothers and housewives - while he chased after people tongue tied. Even Simon prospered with his knack for selling to Mormons.

On Friday night, Justin was relieved to have a day off coming. Phil had other thoughts, though.

“You haven't earned anything yet,” Phil said.

Justin glanced away from him and searched the motel room for distractions, finding none. The numbered motels where they stayed - with names such as Route 46 Inn or Hotel 8 - all used the same generic decor of flowered print bedspreads and plywood furniture.

“I'm working hard,” Justin said.

“Your sales don't even pay for your share of the hotel and meals.”

Phil crossed his arms on his chest, flexing the biceps.

“You never told me I had to pay for that stuff.”

“What, you think we're going to take care of you?”

Quicker than Justin could react, Phil slapped the side of his head.

“Wake up, I'm not your mama. You need to produce.”

Justin's head throbbed above the left ear, making it difficult for him to think. He glanced around the motel room again for help, but found only smirks.

“Forget this then.”

It was the best thing Justin could think to say in the moment, and the way it came out, quiet and high-pitched made him feel ashamed.

“You want out?” Phil said.

He walked across the room and picked up the sales tallies.

“You owe me $137.50.”

Justin felt trapped. When he'd left home, he'd brought only $60, assuming that he'd be making good money on the new job. Most of that he'd used to buy himself summer clothes: two pair of shorts, a company polo shirt, and sunglasses.

“What about them?” Justin nodded to the two girls, who he knew were selling little more than he was.

“Don't worry about them, worry about paying off your debt.”

“I'll get it tomorrow.”

“I can't wait to see this.”

Phil pushed past him toward the door, shoulder checking Justin so that he fell backward onto the bed. He watched as Phil led the girls out with him, putting his hands inside the waistband of their jeans.

When they left, the other guys surrounded him.

“How are you going to get that much?” said Arun, who stared at him with concern.

The springs of the mattress pressed into Justin's spine. He reached to his temple to feel the sore spot above the left ear.

“I don't know.”

“Only way you're getting that kind of money is stealing it,” Raul said.

***

On Saturday morning, Phil sent Justin to solicit door to door.

“You've got until five to make what you owe me,” Phil said.

He pointed toward the gated entrance to Terra Firma Estates.

“Meet me back there.”

Justin nodded and watched the panel van drive away. Although he had no idea where he was, Justin could tell these people had money. Despite the desert heat, the houses all had green lawns that stood out among the cacti and red hills in the distance.

He began in a settlement of long, low houses with stucco walls and orange tiled roofs. After ringing the first bell, he waited at least a minute before an elderly man with wisps of gray hair plastered across his bald head opened the door.

“Could you please help us out with our sports fund drive . . .”

Before Justin could get out any more, the man pointed to a “No Solicitors” sign posted below the mailbox and slammed the door.

After that few people even opened their doors to him, ignoring his knock or closing the curtains as he looked in from the porch. He felt lucky to have his skateboard. Phil had allowed him to take it that day because he had so much ground to cover, but kept the rest of his things at the hotel as a guarantee he'd return.

By lunch time he had been chased by two private security guards in a souped-up golf cart and threatened with arrest by a police officer who lectured him about the city's permit laws for salesmen. Since he had no cash, Justin took two oranges from a tree for lunch. Still, he persisted. If he could make enough to pay off his debt he'd be free of Phil and the crew. What he'd do after that he didn't know since he had no money and knew no one in the state. Anything had to be better than the cheap motel tour they'd been on.

None of the afternoon clients offered an opening until he moved to a subdivision of older, ranch-style homes. There he spied a middle-aged woman sunbathing in a lounge chair on her front patio. She wore a midnight blue bikini that showed off the scar from a C-section. Leaning over her iron gate, Justin waited for her to say hello.

“Do you talk or just stare?”

“I couldn't tell if you was asleep.”

“Neither could my ex-husband.”

Justin stared until the woman smiled at the joke.

“So what do you want?”

After Justin gave her the sales pitch, the woman raised herself on one elbow and shaded her eyes with the other hand.

“You from Scottsdale high?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The woman paused and licked her lips against the dry air.

“My son goes there, only he didn't tell me they needed money for the sports teams.”

Justin cleared his throat and tried to remember the dodge Phil had told him.

“Nevermind, he probably wasn't paying attention. Come on inside.”

She unlatched the gate and led him to the front door, giving him a good view of the saddlebags around her hips as she walked down the entry hall.

“I've got to find my checkbook.”

She disappeared around a corner, leaving Justin alone in the front corridor. The adjacent living room held a cheap stereo system, a 13-inch TV, and a couch with cat scratches on the arm. It was nicer than his mother's apartment, but not by much.

The woman returned momentarily with her checkbook, sipping a glass of water. She set the ledger on a scratched glass table in the hallway and began inspecting the list of magazines Justin handed to her.

“You don't have Oprah, huh?”

“Only what's on the list. Sorry.”

“Don't apologize for what you ain't done.”

She balanced the water glass against her cheek as she read.

“All right, I guess I'll have to go with In Style.”

Justin glanced down at the checkbook on the table's edge.

“You think I could . . . ?” Justin said, nodding at the water in her hand. “I've been out all morning.”

“Oh, Christ!” she said, walking away and giving him another view of her butt. “There go my manners.”

From the back of the house, Justin heard glasses clicking and then a faucet running. In the half minute she was gone, he pulled a blank check from the back of the ledger.

She returned and handed Justin a tall glass which he drank in a single swallow.

“That's good, thanks.”

She wrote him a check and held it between her fingers like a cigarette. As he reached for it, she spoke.

“Listen, no offense, but you need some work on your pitch. Here in Scottsdale , most of the parents can afford to buy their kids all the sports gear they need.”

Though her words sounded harsh, her eyes were without judgment.

“Thank you,” was all Justin could think to say as he backed into the sun and closed the gate behind him.

***

The rest of the day he spent skating over the speed bumps of the subdivision trying to forget the disrespect he'd shown to the only person who'd offered him any kindness in his week on the job. By the time Phil pulled up in the van, Justin had resolved to write the woman a letter of apology and repay her as soon as he was able.

“So, how much did you get?” Phil said.

Justin handed him the ledger.

“You spent all day and only got one customer?”

Phil shook his head but walked back to the van. Justin followed until Phil stopped him with a palm on his chest.

“If you're coming with us, you got to pay for your own room.”

“I need my stuff.”

“Fine by me,” Phil said and turned away. “It's not like I could make any money selling it.”

They rode back to the motel in silence. It was only after they'd stepped inside that Phil started.

“We've got our first deserter.”

Justin felt the other boys staring at him but did not look at them.

“He wants to walk out without paying his freight.”

“I paid my share.”

“Yeah you paid, but you made nothing in profit.”

Justin saw Phil step toward him, saw his new Steve Austin's only a foot away.

“For a whole week you dragged down the team and now you think you can skip.”

The first punch landed in Justin's kidney and knocked him face first to the bed. He looked up to see Phil looming over him, fists clenched, and the others staring with a mix of horror and disgust. Justin rolled over the bed to keep it between him and Phil as a buffer.

“Why you being a jerk about it?”

Justin tried to disguise his fear, but his voice came out sounding whiny and high.

“I'm being a jerk?”

Phil turned and looked at the others like a boxer playing to the crowd. He stepped forward, backing Justin to the wall.

“I'll show you who's being a jerk.”

He hit Justin on the right ear and knocked him to the ground.

“Get up.”

A kick to the low back pushed Justin into a corner. Phil wasn't going to let him leave without a severe beating, and no one was going to help him. Justin felt the skateboard behind him, the hard deck pressed into the sore spot on his back. When the second kick came, Justin grabbed Phil's shoe and twisted it until Phil fell to the floor.

“That's good. I like it when you fight back.”

Phil crouched into a three-point stance like a linebacker. Justin gripped the skateboard in both hands and pushed himself to his knees. As Phil launched forward, Justin swung. The wood deck sounded like the crack of a baseball bat when it connected with Phil's temple and knocked him flat to the floor. Justin stood and looked down at Phil as the blood flowed over his forehead, staining his blond hair and the gray carpet beneath him.

Justin could hear the other boys breathing as they all waited for Phil to move. He didn't.

“You better get out of here,” Raul said.

His words sounded threatening, but his face showed no anger.

“Here, take this,” Raul said, handing Phil's wallet to Justin. “You going to need the money.”

He was trying to help, Justin thought, and seemed to know about staying out of trouble.

Justin skated away from the motel without knowing where he was going. At night the city became even more difficult to navigate, like an adventure video game he'd never played. Sitting in back of the van, he'd never gotten to know the city. A few times he thought an intersection looked familiar - a combination of gas stations, fast food joints or liquor stores he'd seen before - but they gave him no sense of direction. Twice he heard sirens and hid in dark doorways, but they passed far from him. Raul might have waited to report Phil's death, but he couldn't be sure.

His only clues to escape were the planes. When a jet flew low over him on the descent, its wings like an arrow pointing toward escape, he followed its path toward the airport. A couple times he got disoriented, but waited until another plane redirected him. Once he hit the airport's main access road, the sidewalks disappeared, forcing him into the street where taxis honked and buses passed close. A traffic officer whistled and pointed at him. For a moment Justin panicked, thinking he must know about Phil, but that was impossible. He looped around the cop and took a maintenance road up to the terminal.

Inside, the hanger was even more overwhelming with people lined up at all angles. Justin passed a dozen counters with neon signs for Delta and Avis and SuperShuttle, names he'd heard before on television. He chose the one with the shortest line.

“What's your destination?” asked the blond woman in a red and white polyester uniform.

“I need to get back to Des Moines .”

As she typed his name and address, relief spread though him like the haze of the drugs. He was going home.

“How would you like to pay for this?”

Justin pulled the bills from Phil's wallet and put them on the counter. He hadn't counted them, but saw there were at least five twenties in the roll.

“Um, I don't think that'll be enough,” the woman said, biting her lip again. “The total is $652.79 including tax.”

Why was it so expensive? That was more than five times what he paid to fly last week.

“Can you send me a bill?”

“I'm sorry. You don't have any credit cards?”

Justin thumbed through Phil's wallet clumsily until he found a silver Visa.

“This is a different name than the one you gave me.”

Justin glanced around the airport in search of help, but found only impatient faces in line behind him.

“If you call my mom, she could pay for it.”

“We would need to see the original credit card.”

She gave him a fake smile, obviously wanting him to leave. He had come to know that look well in the last week. Rather than draw attention by arguing, Justin left the counter and tried another airline with the same result. After half an hour he collapsed into a plastic chair in the baggage area. Begging might net him some money, but not enough. He had no idea where the bus or train station were, either, or how much a ticket there would cost. On the doorstep to escape, he was being turned away again.

He was startled by two airport security officers closing in on either side of him.

“You better come with us,” said a short and pudgy cop with a fake badge and gun belt.

“Why? I didn't do anything.”

How much did they know?

“Illegal boarding is a federal offense,” said a taller cop in mirrored sunglasses like Phil's.

They didn't know, yet, but they probably would soon. Justin stood up and stepped on the tail of his board to flip it into his hand.

“We'll take that,” the tall cop said.

Justin clutched the board to his chest, then felt his arms being pinned behind him. A pain in his shoulder forced him to bend over while the shorter cop shackled his wrists.

“Let's see who you are.”

Justin felt the cop reach into his back pocket and extract Phil's wallet.

“Funny, the photo doesn't look a thing like you.”

It was pointless to explain. Joining the sales crew had changed him. Overhead a plane roared away, taking with it the life he once knew.