Progress in Ohio
Ron does not loosen his tie or roll his sleeves, his oxford shirt pressed and starched to the rigidity of a greeting card. He double checks his seatbelt, adjusts and readjusts the angle of the steering column, and slowly pulls out of the Business Commons’ parking lot. Only fifty shopping days remain before Christmas. Ron means to beat the rush. He cautiously navigates his town’s main commercial drag. The stretch of road only recently matured into a grand spectacle of season-specific decorations, marketable patriotism, multi-colored triangular flags, and aggravation. It began, Ron supposes, as a whisper of a proposal: polishing the Rust Belt. And then, like a fine fracture in a dam, it was a trickle: Target was the first. The bigger grocery chains (Kroger and Rainbow Foods) were next. And at the end of the second fiscal year, the rest of the big ones liked what they saw and all broke ground at once. He remembers the years of construction not as a time-lapse, but in snapshots, the way it was probably documented by the corporations, a progression in 8 x 10s. Traffic patterns had to be reconsidered: more lights, smarter merges. Ron distantly recalls when the town’s lone traffic light pulsed a steady Red, Red, Red. Being in sales himself, he feels uniquely able to appreciate the momentum. Where there is demand… he muses.
He parks sensibly at the mall, not so close as to risk a fender-bender but still taking advantage of the empty lot. Many of the town’s elderly and infirmed circle the walkways, their exercise air conditioned and set to a predictable soundtrack. Ron waves politely to the regulars. Like the vast parking lot, the mall is all but deserted. At this time of day, there is a Pompeian sense of abandonment, of endless opportunity and preparation left unfulfilled, expectant. Stores on either side lure him with colorful announcements of sales and needful things. Ron read somewhere that carefully selected music and odors are channeled into the shared spaces of the mall while still other music and odors are expressly piped into individual stores to encourage corresponding leisure and efficiency in each sphere. Genius! Ron thinks.
He enters a Gap, nose first. He cannot perceive any scent that might make him stay longer, leave quicker, or spend any more money. But just because he cannot smell it does not mean it is not there, Ron reminds himself, marveling. He loves the look of the shelves, the way the shirts and pants are uniformly folded and arranged in neat rows; each item adamantly pleading a quiet case. He picks up a collared button-down shirt with vertical stripes. He does not unfold it. Ron frowns with concentration, feeling the fabric, looking at the tag, holding it close, and then farther away. He finds a mirror and considers the shirt against his chest. Beneath thinning hair that arcs over top of his head, Ron’s features are sharp and, except for his cheeks, washed-out in the fluorescent light. He has always hated his cheeks, great betrayers of his private thoughts.
An employee sees him at the mirror and tries to catch his eyes in the reflection as she approaches. Ron is examining the shirt for imperfections, lifting folds and then quickly smoothing them over. He does not notice the salesgirl until she is immediately behind him, politely waving. Ron is startled by the intrusion. She is slim and well groomed, her eyebrows plucked to delicate apostrophes hanging above friendly green eyes. Her name tag reads: Samantha 
. Ron decides she is neither a beautiful girl, nor is she pretty in a traditional sense. But she is not unattractive and he imagines holding her close, maybe in a field, perhaps in the rain. He shakes the thought away, wary of his cheeks’ carelessness.
Ron immediately recognizes Samantha ’s sales pitch. The syntax, the diction, all taken verbatim from some type of corporate literature. Perhaps the language came via e-mail, meant to update the staff regarding newly arrived items, but more likely it is from an employee handbook. Ron recognizes the pyramid shape of the sales pitch: the most important information first, followed by progressively less important details. He enjoys hearing her push the shirt; Samantha ’s words, Ron knows, are the upshot of years worth of R and D. But in electric and spontaneous ways, she punctuates the predetermined pitch with coy smiles and endearingly apathetic shoulder shrugs. Ron is abruptly back in the field, holding her beneath rain clouds.
Samantha is waving for Ron’s attention again. He realizes he has been looking at the fresh coat of polish on his shoes. She asks if he would like her to hold the shirt at the front and if she can help him with anything else. Ron is having trouble holding her eyes and wishes that she would leave him. So he shakes his head silently. Samantha smiles and bounces back to her assigned post (which Ron knows corresponds to a code like 1-A or 3-C).
Sweat beads generously on his temples and above his upper lip. Ron removes a bleached white handkerchief from a back pocket and quickly dabs his face and neck. From his toes to his fingers, every nerve in Ron’s body urges him to leave the store. Shop elsewhere! the nerves call in unison like a Greek Chorus. Take a walk! Take a drive! She might be off tomorrow; come back tomorrow!
Now, above all else, Ron values modesty and propriety. He works in sales because he admires its austere foundation: he satisfies the need of the consumer-clean and straightforward. Ron despises the aggressive salesperson who, for personal gain, exploits the consumer’s private vulnerabilities. The boys from his first home office are now supervisors, and Ron works for a kid half his age. So while his idealism allows him ethical authority, Ron fears it costs him pragmatically.
Ron is sick of pussy-footing around the perimeter of his own life-sick and tired. He does not leave the store. He decides to thrust himself headlong into the moment. In corporate jargon, Ron understands the negative correlation between his progressing age and such opportunities. Thinking on opportunities passed, he allows himself a moment to mourn lost relationships and employment prospects. Ron knows well the fickle nature of circumstance, the way it approaches and passes, quick and sure as an Ohio evening’s thunderstorm.
He tries to be inconspicuous, glancing around the store from underneath heavy lids. Where is she? Which post now? Ron spots Samantha at the back, behind the cash register. Still holding the shirt neatly to his chest, Ron begins across the length of the entire store. He walks slowly, providing room to spin on his heels, place the shirt back on the end cap, and blow out of the store, out of the mall, out of the town, out of Ohio.
Each step closer is a fantastic new zenith and an equally unknown nadir. Ron’s ears are no longer attuned to the manipulative music, his nose indifferent to the engineered scents. He takes his place in line behind a couple in their early 20s. Ron observes Samantha ’s grace as she scans the UPC, refolds a shirt, slips items into an oversized plastic bag, and hands the bag to the young man. Ron sweats from his temples and lip again. And again, the relief of the cool handkerchief. Ron shifts his weight from right leg to left, the transaction in front of him almost complete. He pinches his cuffs taut to straighten the sleeves. He tightens the knot of his tie, now a rock against his throat. Ron nervously kneads creases and divots into the shirt he is no longer conscious of holding.
Samantha wishes the young couple well, and turns to Ron. He feels dangerously untrained, ill-equipped. He imagines the men with which she has been, all of the sets of eyes into which she has peered longingly. Her accrued love seen come and gone with the same gaze that she now turns on him. Ron feels utterly beset by the moment-the horror and the delight. He hurriedly puts the shirt on the counter and then is unsure what to do with his hands. After awkwardly scratching his arms a couple times, he shoves them deep into pockets. His eyes are on his shoes again, but he can feel her smile on the top of his balding head. Samantha leans down to intercept his gaze: “Just the shirt then?”
Ron wants to tell her about the music and the odor of the store and the mall. He wants to tell her how he has come to understand life as one sweeping sale. He wants to tell her about his day, about all his days. He wants to tell her about his home. He wants to take her there. He wants to make love to her. He wants, above all, to tell her about the field and the rain.
Ron’s mouth is so dry he gums only a whisper. Relieved, he does not think she heard.
