Chapter 1
Pepper Gold wondered why he was always sweating. The mere thought of this morning’s meeting brought objectionable moisture. What’s the big deal? he thought. Another No-Fail Sales meeting. (“Customers need to be told what they want.”) Others never seemed to bead up in ordinary situations like this. Could be glandular, he told himself. His hands fussed with his hair as he read his speedometer: six. The 405 freeway needed another twenty lanes. He glanced at his reflection in the rearview. The dark brown eyes staring back at him seemed vaguely accusatory. “If you were on time for once,” he said aloud, “you wouldn’t be so damn stressed.” His voice sounded unconvincing, and he let his eyes slide back to the road. In any case, he’d tried to leave early, but Deedee got on another rant about landscaping. (No one interrupts Deedee Gold.) Still, he might have been okay if it hadn’t been trash day—his neighbor, Rurik, loitering at the curb. Pepper cursed himself for going out there; he should have known better. Rurik failed to grasp the most cherished American concepts: in a hurry, chop-chop, gotta dash.
The lane next to Pepper seemed to be moving. He spotted a small gap and lunged his blue Honda Civic into it before the person behind him finished dialing. Almost immediately that lane came to a complete halt. Los Angeles: the city where traffic was perfected. It seemed no matter when he backed out of his driveway, he arrived at work no earlier than ten past nine. By the time he hit the front door of Lebuffe Honda, his hallmark underarm rings terrorized him beneath his suit.
Pepper sprinted across the parking lot, entered the dealership, and made a beeline for the restroom. Once inside he stood before the mirror, mopped his forehead with a paper towel, then adjusted his bangs meticulously. He admired his new hair color. Chocolate, his stylist had called it, a shade darker than his old—uh-oh. A fishy spot. Above his left temple. He got right to work and, within a few virtuoso tweaks, fashioned winning hair.
“Perfection,” he said, eyeing the result. His endeavor to smile produced only a look of teetering insanity.
He removed a pack of Jolt gum from his pocket and popped a couple of the green-speckled pieces into his mouth. Caffeinated gum, he thought. Genius. It had never occurred to him that the twelve-odd pieces he chewed every day were the caffeine equivalent of six cups of coffee. Once more he checked his chocolate hair for flaws, then popped out the door and hightailed it down the hall.
The conference room was stifling as he stepped gingerly to an open seat.
“Late, Gold,” Leon Lebuffe said, thrusting a pudgy forefinger in Pepper’s direction. “What is it with you, chief? You need this more than anyone. You’re too busy to do your job, just say so.”
My job? Pepper thought. You’ve got my job, Peon Lepuffe.
Sid Lebuffe, Leon’s father, interrupted: “Okay, Leon. Let’s wrap it up. People have work to do.”
Leon leveled his best power stare at Pepper, then directed attention to the color-coded chart behind him. He tugged his belt over his conspicuous belly, and Pepper could have sworn he heard the snap on Leon’s pants come undone. He searched the others’ faces to see if anyone else had caught it, but all he found was zoned-out boredom.
“Sales are down six percent from last year,” Leon said. “Worse, service is down. Business is war, so come on, soldiers. People come here to buy cars, right? Their reluctance is only skin-deep. Betty and Bob Customer just need a little push. They need to be told what to want.”
“Good,” Sid said. “That’s it, then?” It didn’t sound like a question.
Leon look flustered. “I wanted to touch on—”
“All right, folks,” Sid interrupted. “Let’s get started.”
As Pepper filed out with the rest of the soldiers, he collided with Valerie Peek, causing an array of personal items to fly from her grasp.
“Shoot!” Valerie said.
Pepper rebounded with inspiring savoir faire: “Oh…uh…”
She squatted to retrieve her things, and he got an eyeful of D cups. He’d heard a rumor that Valerie had appeared in one of those Girls Gone Wild videos, but he wasn’t sure it was true.
“Sorry,” he said, picking up her BlackBerry and handing it to her.
“I hope it’s okay,” she said, examining it. “I’ve got everything in there.” She turned it on, pressed a few buttons, then shot him a dazzling, snowy smile. “All good.”
Pepper tried to think of something to say but nothing came. It was a simple law of physics: once the threshold of attractiveness was surpassed, mental functions shut down. Newton, perhaps. That coupled with the fact that he and Deedee hadn’t done it in six months (and eight months before that) did not make for impressive repartee with girls who had possibly gone wild.
“Uh…never tried a BlackBerry,” he said, mentally scrambling, then pulled his Palm Treo from his pocket. “I love my Palm, though.”
Valerie’s lips curled up mischievously. “Most guys do.” It was easy to understand why she was Lebuffe’s leading salesperson.
Pepper studied his shoelaces and mumbled, “Think I’ll go blind?” A rush of red advertised on his cheeks. “So…um…sorry again, Val. I guess I need my daily gallon of coffee.”
He heard Valerie’s muted laugh as he made a hasty exit.
Back in his litter box (tiny office, strange odor), mug full of Starbucks, Pepper fired up his crotchety Dell. The thing had actually yellowed like old newspaper. He doubted Sid Lebuffe would ever make good on his promise to buy new computers. Like other promises, he thought, looking down the hall at the sign on Peon Lepuffe’s door: GENERAL MANAGER. Daddy, can I have the job you promised Pepper Gold? Pepper who, son? What’s up with the A/C in this rathole? Pepper wondered, flapping the front of his shirt.
After an interminable wait, the screen lit up with the Windows logo. He checked the list on his e-mail inbox, then opened the one from numbernine@msn.com: his parents. They’d written to invite him to the “Peaceful Heart, Warrior Spirit” workshop that weekend at the Esalen Center in Big Sur. His mother Judy promised it would help him find his core; his father Ben suggested it would be a way to connect to the universe. Pepper’s tolerance was slippery. Most people got over being hippies. They hit sixty, drove miles out of their way to avoid left turns, complained about the difficulty of finding a decent veggie plate without “all that oil.” Why can’t my parents just be normal, meddling Jews? he thought.
He wrote back:
Sounds like a lot of laughs. You guys enjoy.
Pepper
He skimmed through the myriad junk e-mails, deleting. Lose Weight Without Losing Your Mind. Too late. New and Revolutionary Penis Enlargement Device. Device? Straight Talk on Hair Transplants. Hey guys, now we can transplant your pubes too! Meet a Real Live Porn Star. Meet one? He thought about it, then dragged his mouse until the cursor hovered over DELETE. Leaning back, he yawned nonchalantly as his eyes did black ops over his surroundings. No one around. He bit his lower lip. Finally, he scooted forward and blocked as much of the monitor as possible, then opened the message.
The Adultcon Porn convention, held in the Valley in October, offered a special opportunity to meet Porn’s hottest new sensation, Pearl, in person. Just me and twenty thousand other pinheads, Pepper thought. Feeling ashamed, he moved the mouse to close the message but accidentally opened the link. He tried to quit, but his old Dell could only accomplish one task at a time. It took so long for the link to load, he wondered if his computer had frozen. After an eternity, a picture of Pearl, naked and in the act, filled his screen.
“Jesus H!” a voice shouted. The worst voice at the worst time. “You’re on my f-in dime, Gold,” Leon Lebuffe said. “You want to look at sluts, do it on your next job. It’s coming sooner than you think.”
Pepper fumbled with the mouse, trying to remove the picture from his monitor. He clicked twice on QUIT but his computer refused. Desperate, he reached down and yanked the plug.
“No, no, no! What are you doing?” Leon screamed. “You can’t unplug it while it’s running. You’re gonna pay for that computer if there’s any damage.”
“I didn’t know that picture was…” Pepper wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “I was just reading my e-mail and the thing—”
“I’m not interested in your perverted sex life. Jesus H. I thought you were married.”
Pepper wondered how Leon, at five-six, managed to make a guy who had nearly half a foot on him feel as if he were about to get whipped.
“What do you want, Leon?”
“Why does everyone call me that? I’d like to remind you that I’m general manager of this dealership. It’s Mr. Lebuffe.”
Life is grand, Pepper thought, checking out Leon’s hairline. Unfortunately, there was no trace of oncoming baldness.
“I came here to tell you that if your sales don’t pick up, Gold, my father’s not going to save your ass this time. Changes are coming around here. So instead of strolling in late and perving out on porn, maybe you should get on the ball and give me a reason to keep you around.”
Message delivered, Leon strutted off in search of someone else to impress.
“Perving out,” Pepper muttered, as he plugged in his computer, which emitted a strange grinding noise as it booted. For a second he thought he might actually have to pay for the prehistoric thing. Eventually, though, it came to life. He retrieved his beloved iPod, which he kept hidden in his desk at work (Deedee claimed all rights to everything), cranked up some Radiohead, and logged on to his favorite poker site. Six months ago, before Sid Lebuffe had brought his son aboard and knighted him Sir General Manager, Pepper had been the top salesperson for seven years running. The words my next general manager had been used by Sid on many occasions, but only the last time had they applied to anyone but Pepper. General Manager with a piece of the pie. That pie had slices all over Southern California. Worse, he’d promised Deedee, who began sticking pictures of Beverly Hills houses for sale on their fridge. He’d wanted badly to make her happy. Now he just wanted to catch some decent cards. After twenty minutes he did manage jacks full, which would have been a high point had he not seen Leon, apple fritter in hand, chatting up Valerie in her office. She seemed to be laughing at something he’d said. Despite the extra sixty pounds jiggling on Leon’s stubby frame, he didn’t appear to be racking an anxiety-ridden brain just to come up with “I guess I need my daily gallon of coffee.”
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