The Pitchman

This invention was supposed to change everything. Whatever you wanted changed, it would change it. You didn't want something changed, it wouldn't even touch it. This is what The Pitchman said. He called himself The Pitchman. Always put his hands around what he said, like he was framing it for your memory. Like it deserved its own box in your head. So when (hands up, framing it for eternity) The Pitchman told you about (hands) The Product, you listened. This was important. This was worth remembering. And it was going to change everything.

Someone raised a hand in the back row. Guy in a turtleneck. Sandy brown hair coming over his bulging collar. The Pitchman points to him and click-clicks with his fingers in the shape of a friendly gun. Everything about The Pitchman is friendly. He drives friendly. He sleeps friendly. Takes a leak friendly, is a good bet. The guy in the turtleneck says, from right where he's sitting, doesn't stand so everyone up front—who got to the auditorium on time—“How will this address matters of our worsening environment?”

The Pitchman smiled. He loved that question. He loved the guy who asked it. And he loved the turtleneck he was wearing. The Pitchman loved everything. "I am so tickled you asked that!" And, you know, he looked like something, like, maybe an elf or a little penguin, was tickling him right there. He wanted to laugh, but it was all too serious for that. But he looked happy.

Folding chairs squeaked against the linoleum. The Pitchman was working up to the something and people were shifting around to see it. “The Product” (make a snapshot of that for your mind to enjoy for years to come) “was inspired by that very” (hands) “predicament!” His voice rose up to “predicament” and took everyone's spirits with it. The guy in the turtleneck felt like he was a key player in a very important moment.