There’s a legion of snails migrating at breakneck speed across state lines. Footage shows the critters rafting on vegetation down the Colorado River, travelling hundreds of miles, a cultural phenomenon. I stop Googling romantic getaways.
“Can you believe that, man?” asks Tyler, feet propped on the desk.
We’re staring at the same tiny TV in the break room. It’s mounted above the filing cabinet labeled, HOPELESS INSOMNIACS.
“Some crazy shit,” I say.
He continues picking his nose.
Mattress Utopia isn’t exactly a fluke, that implies luck. Or worse, fate. It’s more like a twenty-year-old habit. Besides, being the guy from those mattress commercials isn’t so bad.
“Folks are gathering from all over to witness these remarkable creatures, who are expected to pass through the city tonight,” the reporter says, hand-to-ear like some spy movie.
In between fingers Tyler drones on about his bowling team.
“This one’s all you, I’m off in ten,” Tyler says, nodding towards the couple on our security cameras.
When I approach, the husband is already sprawled out starfish-style. She apologizes and shivers from the A/C, while he explains they are looking for “nothing fancy.”
She presses down on the first mattress and bites her lip.
“You don’t like it,” he tells rather than asks.
For the next hour I’m lassoed into this merry-go-round of flaws. Of debates. Of compromises I partially tune out but not fully, because I’ve been told I’m not a good listener and it’s either this or therapy.
The Dreamer is both my last choice and last hope. Apparently, the combination of steel springs and memory foam provides added support for your joints.
“Perfect for when we break in this bad boy,” he jokes. She shoots him the look.
I know that look––the one my wife reserves for too much cologne and too little effort, the one that eyes my fourth beer while we channel surf in the afterglow of a Lean Cuisine sunset. Every time my commercial comes on she gets up like clockwork. Something about the dishes or showering. And every time I turn up the volume, so I can never tell if the water is running.
They love the mattress, their wallet doesn’t.
I counter with a payment plan and free expedited shipping. Call it closing-shift empathy. I need them to agree. To walk away with a lifetime warranty that won’t last forever, but will soothe the aches and pains.
Perhaps next week, they tell me.
I shut off the showroom lights after they leave and let The Dreamer spoon me for once, making a mental note to call the florist tomorrow morning. One of those big bouquets this time.
Or maybe I’ll call out sick. Maybe I’ll pack up and slam out. Maybe I’ll drive out West, follow the snails until the gas runs out and swim the difference. I’m sure there will be a riverbed once I grow tired, one with no memory and plenty of room to stretch.