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Quite suddenly, and inexplicably, he wondered what the future held. Looking at his watch, he discovered he was six foot three. In a panic, he set down his coffee and grabbed his briefcase. He didn't know he was that tall, but he was always three feet from every appointment. If his boss was feeling less than sympathetic, he might end up being fired because of it. Yes, without question, he had to make haste.

  With the briefcase full of displays and test models, he raced to his next scheduled client: an old woman who lived alone with her radio. The other employees had told him all about her radio. As it turned out, the radio made a good companion for her; it rarely shed and only once in awhile, in an act of sudden playfulness, would it chase the mailman from the property. Luckily, its cord was not long enough to make it around the corner, so the mailman didn't have to go far to seek safety.

  It didn't take him long to reach the old woman's house, or so he thought. Knocking on the door, he was immediately greeted by the radio, awakened from its deep sleep. He feared repercussions; he could hear its static hiss on the other side of the door. Checking his watch, he was six foot five.

  “Well,” he sighed, having ran all the way over, “only two inches; that's not too bad.”

  He felt secure his boss wouldn't mind these few extra inches, although he'd have a hard time getting through the front door when he returned to the office at the end of the day. Just as he was about to knock again, the door opened. The old woman, a scowl across her face, looked him up and down.

  “You're tall!” she snapped, obviously irritated. “You were supposed to be six foot three!”

  “I'm so sorry about this,” he rushed to explain, “I was in the cafe, enjoying my break after a long day's work, when I lost track of my height.”

  “Well, come on in,” she groaned, pushing the radio aside with her foot, so he could pass. The radio, feeling defiant in the presence of a stranger, let out an old jazz number.

  “That's a nice radio you have there,” he remarked, trying to get on her good side, in order to insure a sale.

  “My grandson bought it for me, last Christmas. God damned thing - it's a nuisance!”

  “Well I don't know about that,” he argued politely, petting the radio, which was now rubbing up against his leg. “It actually seems very well-mannered and affectionate.”

  “Not the radio,” she cried, “my grandson! God damn nuisance - face like a pig, and as useful as the sleeves on a vest! Come to think of it,” she rubbed her chin, “I once knitted him a vest with sleeves, and do you think he could tell the difference? Of course not!”

  “That's really interesting,” he quickly interjected, using his skill as a fast-talking salesman to get the deal in motion, “but before I get any taller, I have a wide assortment of watches to show to you.”

  “Watches!” she laughed aloud. “What the hell do I need a watch for? My height hasn't changed in the last 30 years! In fact, I think I'm shrinking! It would be useless for me to buy something like that now. Why, if I didn't have one foot in the grave, I’d be free to kick the bucket right now!”

  The old woman laughed for what was quickly becoming an inappropriate length of time. He knew it was going to be a hard sell; morbid old people always were. Yet, he did not want to return to the office empty-handed. It was time for action, before his purpose was crushed by laughter.

  “Well,” he suddenly blurted, “you could buy a watch right now and if you kick the bucket tomorrow, or perhaps shortly after I leave, you could leave it to your grandson.”

  The old woman suddenly stopped laughing. She gave him a serious look, making him feel very uncomfortable. He couldn't believe what he had just said; only a long, hard day could be blamed for letting a line like that slide. The back of his neck became sticky. He could see himself racing out the door with his tail between his legs, the radio in hot pursuit - obituaries blaring from its speaker. She was motioning for him to come closer. He slowly, reluctantly, leaned towards her; she was an old woman, but she looked like she could pack a wallop. He could hardly keep his eyes open; his face was hot with the fear of reprisal. Taking his collar, a stern look on her face, she drew him even closer, so she could speak directly into his ear. He squinted, shrugging his shoulders, preparing for the inevitable.

  “Would you massage my feet?” she asked.

  “Well,” he paused, shocked at the request, “I guess. I guess I could.”

  The old woman sat down in a comfortable chair, indicating that she expected prompt service. He didn't know what to make of the situation; he wasn't keen on massaging her feet, but, all things considered, perhaps he could still salvage a sale if he went through with it. To add to his dilemma, and general state of confusion, the radio leaped up onto the window sill and began to blast a weather report.

  “Must be a cat in the garden,” the old woman grumbled, taking off her slippers.

  While still seated in her chair, the old woman called out directions to him, as he searched throughout the house for various needful things. Returning with towels, baby oil, warm water, and a magazine for her to read, he set to work.

  “How did you get so tall?” she asked quite suddenly, setting down her magazine, after a prolonged moment of uncomfortable silence.

  “I was at the cafe,” he answered abruptly, not being in a mood to converse.

  “Doing what?”

  “Not too much,” he mumbled, massaging her ankles, “I was just wondering about my future.”

  “What's the matter, don't like being a travelling salesperson?”

  “No I don't, as a matter of fact,” he spoke with some enthusiasm, now that he had someone to listen to his troubles. “I've been a salesperson for far too long.”

  “How long?”

  “Oh, about three feet.”

  “You've really grown with the company then,” she began to rock in her chair, making the massage even more of a task for him.

  “I suppose so,” he sighed.

  “So what does your future hold?” she asked, watching him apply more oil to her feet.

  “I don't know,” he shook his head. “I just can't see myself at seven foot two.”

  Suddenly, the old woman became visibly saddened. She stopped rocking in her chair; she looked as if she was going to cry. Out of concern, he stopped massaging her feet.

  “Seven foot two,” she said, with a far-off voice, “that was my husband's height when he passed away.”

  “Oh, I'm so sorry,” he apologized, clasping her hand. He felt like a heel for saying the wrong thing once again, even though he had spoken with the utmost innocence, and with the best intentions.

  “I'm over it now,” she began, “please continue with the massage, and hand me a towel to get this oil off my hand. Yes,” she shook her head, wiping the oil from her hand, “it's hard to forget the loss of a loved one. He had a history of heart problems, and he was in a plane at the time, you see. I had always warned him about planes, and all his smoking and drinking, but he wouldn't listen. He began to suffer a heart attack, with no medical help on board. You see, the plane was full of circus performers. In all the chaos, a fanatical Moslem extremist mistook him for the British Minister of Defence and stabbed him in the back repeatedly. When he realised his mistake, he apologized to my husband and helped him back into his chair. Moments later, a Bengal tiger broke loose of its cage, back in the cargo bay, and raced into the cabin, mauling my husband beyond recognition. At that moment, the pilot accidently swallowed a bottle of Scotch. In a fit of blind rage, he crashed the plane into a bridge. My husband, the only survivor, but weakened by his ordeal, crawled out from the wreckage and was run over by a car full of drunken youths, who had just crashed through a barricade. You see, the bridge was blocked off, because it was set for demolition at that very moment. They tried to warn those youths, but it was too late. The bridge went up in a puff of smoke and my poor husband ended up in the river. He's not a strong swimmer, you know, but he managed to flop ashore, some few hundred kilometres downstream. As luck would have
it, a group of picnickers, some of them young medical students, rushed to his aid. Since he was famished after his ordeal, one of the young students gave him a bite of her chicken salad sandwich. He died soon afterwards, on route to the hospital. The coroner, upon investigating the cause of death, discovered that the sandwich the young student fed him was contaminated by Streptococcus bacteria. Yes, it was the chicken salad sandwich that did him in.”

  There was a moment of silence, as he digested the incredible tale she had just served up. He had no reason not to believe her; she was genuinely saddened by it all.

  “I don't know what to say,” he shook his head in bewilderment, having stopped the massaging to listen carefully. “I had no idea that you'd been through so much with the loss of your husband and all. And to think that I came over here with the sole, selfish intent of making a sale to someone as lovely as yourself, who deeply regrets the loss of a loved one, who must live her final days alone with her radio.”

  “It's a tough break,” she shrugged, “but I've gotten used to the long lonely days. That's why I greatly appreciate it when so much as a salesman comes around, especially yourself - you give such a good massage. But I suppose you must be going now.”

  “Yes,” he replied, “it's getting tall. But before I go, I'd like you to have this lovely watch - completely free of charge, of course!”

  “Why, you're too kind,” she smiled, showing him to the door. The radio could no longer be bothered with the comings and goings of strangers; asleep in the far corner, you could hear its gentle humming.

  “But I really don't know what I can do with a watch now,” she continued, “although I was a giant in my time.”

  “Well, it's the least I can do,” he explained, “to make up for having bothered you with my pettiness. I must remember,” he paused just outside the door, “to be more considerate with my clients, and less selfish. Of course, it would help if I could sell a few watches in the process!”

  “You shouldn't worry yourself with such thoughts,” the old lady laughed. “You're young and full of life! You've got many more inches ahead of you, before you reach the height of your career, so don't get all wrapped up about your future at this point. Besides, everyone has the same future ahead of them anyway.”

  “Oh really?” he began, being rather interested in the topic, as of late. “Well then, what is this common future we all share?”

  “Well,” she laughed, pointing at his watch, “we all end up six feet under!”

  A True Story About a Monkey