I am a travelling salesman, or at least that’s what I look like. Actually, I don’t sell anything. I give people things for free—things that are exactly what they will need in the immediate future, even if they don’t know it yet.
These objects come from the magic briefcase that I carry around. I can’t explain it, but stuff just appears inside and somehow I know who needs it. One time, I gave a guy a book called “So You’ve Fallen Down a Manhole,” which was probably really helpful when, shortly thereafter, he fell down a manhole. While he was down there, I pulled out a book titled, “How to Sue the Pants Off Someone Who Opened a Manhole for No Reason and Then Shoved a Book in Your Face, Causing You to Fall In.” I decided not to give him that one.
One time, I gave a guy a parrot. It was a surprisingly massive parrot, in a big cage on wheels. Don’t ask me how it fit in the briefcase. He rolled it down half a block but then gave up. I assured him it was magic and that somehow I knew he’d need it, but he didn’t believe me, or maybe it was just too much of a hassle. Alas, you disregard the call of fate at your peril—later that day, the guy narrowly missed out on the cash prize for biggest parrot at the annual Big Parrot Festival.
Another time, I reached into my magic briefcase and gave a lady a fire extinguisher, and then I gave another person a fire extinguisher, and then several more people fire extinguishers. I couldn’t figure out what was going on until I turned the corner and saw the teen-ager I’d given a flamethrower to earlier, and he was acting way outta line.
Once, I gave a guy a pair of scissors, and when his stupid, long scarf got caught in the elevator doors he was able to cut himself free instead of being strangled to death. Oh, I’m sorry—the scarf. I gave him the scarf. Good thing he had those scissors.
This one time, I was standing outside a brothel and the magic briefcase kept making me hand out Viagra. I didn’t realize it was a brothel at first, but after I’d been magically compelled to give Viagra to a half-dozen guys, I thought, “Is love in the air tonight? Or is Big Brenda’s Bouncing Bunnies not a pet shop?”
The other day, I gave a guy the keys to a brand new, electric blue Corvette. At first he didn’t want it. “Are you kidding?” he said. “I’d look like a jerk in that.” I told him it was magic and that he’d need it in the future, but he was still skeptical. Then, in a freak liquid-nitrogen accident, his penis was frozen off. Now he likes the Corvette.
Once, the magic briefcase made me give a guy two sets of baby clothes. He told me his wife was pregnant, so I said it must be twins. He said, no, the doctor said it’s triplets. We looked at those two sets of baby clothes for a long, long time. Then I checked the briefcase again and said, “Oh, look, there’s another one in here.”
Occasionally, I wonder, why do I have this gift? Why can’t I find a way to make the magic briefcase do more lasting good in the world? How come it never gives me Viagra? Because Big Brenda cut off my credit? Because I can maintain an erection just fine without it? Yes and no.
Sometimes I reach into the briefcase, pull out a bottle of Scotch, and say, “Whoa, how’d that get in there?” Even though it wasn’t magic—I put it there. Then I say, “I guess, I dunno, maybe I’m supposed to drink this?” Then I go to a party and I have a really good time. ♦
