The Elixir

Stella was gasping for breath, sweat drenching her hair, when relief
arrived in the form of the doorbell.

Gratefully, she clambered down from her perch atop the gleaming
exercise bike, all polished chrome and glistening black plastic. God,
how she hated that damn bike. It was a modern-day torture device, she
thought. Especially that damn narrow seat, which ate into her crotch no
matter how she shifted. But it was the only way she would ever lose
those 10 to 15 pounds that had saddled her for what seemed all her
life. O.K., so maybe it was more like 15 to 20 extra pounds of
flab.

She mopped the sweat from her face with a towel and walked out of the
den and through the living room to the front door.

A tiny man with a large suitcase smiled wearily at her as she swung
the door open. He popped off his hat - one of those old fedora types
that everyone wore in those old movies Stella loved to watch late at
night after George was safely snoring in their bed - and actually
bowed, bending at the waist while sweeping his hat off in front of
him.

"Good day, madam," he said. The voice, which seemed to billow out of
the depths of his body, seemed far too deep for such a small frame. It
was a musical, mellifluous voice, one you would hear from a radio or
television personality, yet somehow eerily disconnected. He was wearing
an old-fashioned gray suit, complete with vest and gold watch chain,
and on his feet were delicate pointed shoes polished to a black sheen.
"I wonder if I could trouble you for just a moment of your time?"

Stella paused, and glanced at the suitcase parked at his side. "I'm
sorry, but I'm not interested in buying anything today." She smiled to
show it was nothing personal - she prided herself on being unfailingly
polite, no mean trick in this age of assholes - and started to swing
the door shut.

"If I may..." the smile broadened, and his child's arm reached out as
if to hold the door open. He was much shorter than Stella. She was not
good with ages, but decided that he was a good 15 to 20 years older
than her 36.

"Yes?" she asked uncertainly, and a momentary tingle chilled her
spine. She risked a quick look up and down the street, but all was as
it should be. The pleasant houses marched off in neat, ordered rows,
each alike but yet subtly different, and gracious oak trees lined the
street. It was the very picture of safe and secure suburbia.

"I mean you no harm," he said as if reading her thoughts, and she
blushed slightly. "And it's true I am selling something, but it's not
something you have a chance to buy every day." He chuckled. "Oh, no,
it's definitely not an opportunity that comes along very often."

The smile broadened, but she noticed his eyes boring in on her, and
she had the uncomfortable feeling that he could see right through her,
that her very soul was laid bare. He leaned toward her, and he too
glanced up and down the street. "I think it's something you'll be very
interested in. Very interested."

"Um, I don't know. I'm kind of busy right at the moment." The protest
sounded feeble even to her.

"Ah, I won't be a moment." He arched his eyebrows inquiringly.

She looked once more out at her neighborhood. Nothing had changed; it
was as ordinary and orderly as it always was. Birds twittered,
squirrels scampered, and far off she heard the lazy buzz of a lawn
mower. Despite her exertions and the warmth of the morning, she wrapped
her arms around herself as though chilled. "Oh, all right, but I only
have a minute," she capitulated.

"Very kind of you, madam," the little man said as he swung up the
suitcase and stepped inside. "What a lovely house you have here," he
said as his eyes swept the living room appraisingly.

"Thank you," Stella replied, and she felt a stab of curious
self-consciousness. "We just recently painted the walls, and the carpet
is new. Do sit down," and she gestured to the couch.
"I'm sorry for the way I look. I've been exercising," Stella said as
she patted her hair. My god, she thought, I'm apologizing to a midget
salesman for the way I look!

"Quite all right, my dear, quite all right." He placed the suitcase
carefully on the floor and settled down on the sofa. His legs swung an
inch or so from the floor. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am
Sylvester P. Merriweather, and I represent Serendipity Inc., makers of
fine specialty products."

"Stella Radcliffe. Pleased to meet you. You know, we don't see many
traveling salesmen anymore. Everyone's always trying to sell you
something over the phone now, or on all those TV channels. Just what
type of specialty product are you selling, Mr. Merriweather?" Stella
perched herself on the edge of George's brown recliner.

"Well, Mrs. Radcliffe, you may not believe me when I tell you. I hope
you have an open mind on things."

"I try to." She laughed to show she had meant it. She did try to be
receptive of new ideas, although she wasn't entirely sure of some of
the things George had proposed in the bedroom. She blushed as she
realized what she was thinking. Merriweather acted as though he didn't
notice.

"Mrs. Radcliffe, the product my company produces is not offered for
sale to just anyone. You might say we prefer to deal with preferred
customers. People with certain tastes, certain desires. Certain needs."
He studied her, and Stella again had the feeling that he was reading
her innermost thoughts.

"So..." she prompted. Her curiosity was getting the better of
her.

"If I may," Merriweather answered, and lifted the large case up onto
the polished walnut coffee table, carefully moving aside the magazines
fanned across its surface. The suitcase was made of worn brown leather,
held together by straps that Merriweather unbuckled. He lifted the case
open slightly and although Stella craned her neck to look she couldn't
quite see inside. Merriweather extracted something, dropping the lid
back down. He set a small, plain bottle on top of the suitcase. The
bottle held a clear liquid.

"What is it?" Stella asked.

"This, madam, is our company's finest product. Our research department
has worked for years perfecting this, and the manufacturing process is
too complicated to get into. Suffice to say that quantities are
limited. Very limited indeed."

Stella leaned back in George's recliner. She breathed a sigh of relief
now that she was on more comfortable ground. This strange little guy
after all was just another salesman. And those she could handle.

"What does it do?" She decided to string him along a little. "Clean my
carpet? Make my toilet spotless?"

"Oh, nothing like that, madam. But first, let me ask you a question,
if I may." Merriweather, too, leaned back, his legs dangling off the
ground. "What is it you want above all else in life?"

She laughed. "What kind of question is that?"

"Just humor me, if you will."

"Well, gosh, I don't know. I haven't thought about it much."

"But Mrs. Radicliffe, why would you give so little thought to what you
want in life? What in the world could be more important?" He looked at
her intently, and she was forced to look away, her eyes falling on the
awful still life over the fireplace that George had gotten her for her
birthday two years ago.

It was odd, she admitted. She had spent the last 14 years making a
home for George and making so sure he was happy that she hadn't thought
much about her own life. Perhaps it was because she was happy. Well,
maybe content was a better word. Yes, she was content with her life
with George. Oh, it could have been a little better. Children would
have been nice, but that hadn't happened. She didn't like to dwell on
that. She and George had made a nice home, and his job as an investment
counselor had allowed her to quit her job as an office manager years
ago. She kept busy doing charity work and making sure George's needs
were met. And, of course, trying to keep those pounds off. George was
so sweet about that: He never said anything about her weight, and
complimented her when she did manage to lose a few pounds before they
magically reappeared a few months later. They were relatively happy; as
happy, she was sure, as anyone on their block.

She looked back at Merriweather. He was still gazing at her with an
expectant look. "Well, you know, I have practically everything I need,"
she said carefully. "About the only thing I can think of that I want is
to lose a little weight." She laughed and looked down at the
floor.

"You know," Merriweather replied, "most people aren't really sure what
it is they want in life. Some people say wealth, or good health, or a
good job. You say you have everything you want in life, but would like
to be slimmer. Tell me, Mrs. Radcliffe, would that give you
happiness?"

She looked at him. He stared back at her. "I don't know," she said
softly. "But it is something that I've wanted all my life."

"Well then, Mrs. Radcliffe, I am prepared to offer it to you."

She laughed again. "Don't tell me. That stuff in the bottle you're
peddling is part of another miracle diet."

"Not exactly, Mrs. Radcliffe. But it will take the pounds off."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Merriweather, but I really don't think I'd be
interested. I have tried every fad and diet plan there is, read all the
books and drank all those disgusting milk shakes. None of them work. I
think regular exercise and eating less is the only answer, and that's
what I'm trying to do."

"Is it working?"

"That's not really any of your business, Mr. Merriweather," she
exclaimed, but she knew he knew he had hit the mark. Despite her best
intentions, something always came
up to keep her off the bike for days at a time, or some occasion arose
for she and George to dine out where she couldn't resist the dessert
tray.

"Ah, but it is, Mrs. Radcliffe," Merriweather pressed on. "I don't
mean to give any offense, but what I have here in this bottle is
exactly what you say you want most in life." He picked up the bottle
and held it up to show her.

"What's so special about it?" she asked. It looked like ordinary
water. It probably was, she mused. The bottle itself had a plain label
on it that proclaimed "Elixir" and, in smaller letters, "Serendipity
Inc."

"Oh, everything. It is, some might say, a magic potion. You drink it,
and you lose weight. Simple as that."

"Nothing, Mr.Merriweather, is that simple. What's the catch? You don't
get to eat for a week?"

"Not at all, madam. With our product, you may eat when you wish and
whatever you wish, in any quantities. It makes absolutely no
difference."

"What does it do, make you not want to eat?"

"Oh, no, madam. It has no effect on appetites whatsoever. Our
researchers assure those of us in marketing that its distinctive
properties act quite the same whatever the person does. So you may eat
as much as you wish and exercise as little as you like; our elixir
works its same magic."

"Pardon me if I remain skeptical."

"Of course, madam. But we guarantee our product; one bottle of elixir
will take off one pound of weight permanently or your money back.
Period."

"Permanently? Come on." Stella was now sure the small salesman was a
con artist. In an odd way, she felt relieved.

"Absolutely. It will never come back. If you want to lose 10 pounds,
you drink 10 bottles, and off the pounds go, never to be seen
again."

"You know this sounds too good to be true," Stella said. "Do you
actually get anyone to buy this stuff?"

"Madam, as I said previously, we deal only with preferred customers.
Like yourself, they all are in the market for one of our products, even
if they may not immediately realize it. I can assure you that our
elixir works exactly as promised."

Stella decided to cut to the chase. "How much?"

Merriweather was unruffled. "Mrs. Radcliffe, as I said, supplies are
extremely limited, and naturally we don't have many repeat customers
for something of such permanence, so our product is priced accordingly.
Keep in mind that there is no other product like this in the
world."

"How much?" Stella persisted.

Merriweather sighed. "The price is $100 per bottle."

Stella laughed. "A hundred bucks a bottle? That's pretty steep."

"As I said, we guarantee our product," Merriweather countered
smoothly. "And I would be remiss if I did not mention one other matter.
The elixir comes with another price."

"What do you mean?"

He looked at her strangely. "I mean that for every pound it takes off
your body, the elixir subtracts one year of your life."

Stella frowned. "It shortens your life? Does the Food and Drug
Administration know about your product?"

"Ah, but our elixir is neither food nor drug," Merriweather answered
blandly. "And it has been tested extensively; I assure you it has no
other side effects."

"An early death is one hell of a side effect, mister," Stella
responded.

Merriweather replied coolly. "Mrs. Radcliffe, everything worth having
in life comes with a certain price, wouldn't you say? Our product works
in a miraculous fashion, and therefore it does not come cheaply."

"You can't be serious," Stella said. "You actually sit there admitting
that your product is hazardous to people's health but yet you think
they will buy it? Are you out of your mind?"

"Not hazardous, Mrs. Radcliffe. It just requires certain essential
bodily nutrients in order for its effects to work. Think about it, Mrs.
Radcliffe: Would you trade 10 years of old age for 10 fewer pounds
now?"

"Of course not. Who's ever heard of anything so ridiculous?"

"Consider, madam. No more dieting. No more exercise machines. Eat what
you like when you like. How much is that worth?"

"Nothing. Everything. I don't know. Look, I'm sorry, Mr. Merriweather,
but I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I'm not the least bit
interested in your offer, and I have other things to do." She stood,
prepared to override any objections, but Merriweather simply placed the
bottle carefully back in his case, closed it and hopped down from the
sofa.

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Radcliffe. It has been a real
pleasure." He picked up his hat and walked with Stella to the front
door.

"You know," he said as he turned back to her in the open doorway,
"things sometimes happen to alter our outlook on life, to make us
change our mind. If you should change yours, give me a call." He fished
a card out of his vest and presented it to her. As she took it he bowed
again to her and placed his hat on his head. "Good day," he said,
grinned at her, and started off down the driveway to the sidewalk. She
watched him head down the street, but he didn't look back nor did he
stop at any other houses. He finally turned the corner and disappeared
from view.

How odd, she reflected, and closed the door. She looked at the card in
her hand. "SYLVESTER P. MERRIWEATHER" it said in bold type.
"Serendipity Inc." was underneath it, along with a telephone number.
She went back into the den and threw the card on the desk, then looked
at the exercise bike standing like a patient horse in the middle of the
room. "Not now, honey, I'm not in the mood," she said aloud to the
machine.

Instead, she sat at the desk and turned on her computer. Might as well
check my e-mail, she thought. George had gotten the computer a few
years ago, and she was supposed to keep their household finances up to
date on it. Instead, she spent a lot of time
browsing the Internet and she also regularly exchanged e-mail with her
sister in Kansas City.

The computer beeped that she had a new message. She smiled when she
saw it was from George. Sometimes he would send her little electronic
notes from his office because he knew she spent a lot of time on the
computer. She pulled her chair in closer and opened up the
message.

"Stella, I have been doing a lot of thinking lately..." it began. She
suddenly felt flushed, and the room reeled. She couldn't believe what
she was reading. The words flashed through her brain: "Just not working
out ... no longer happy ... don't want to hurt you ... when you read
this I will be gone ... it doesn't matter what her name is ... I hope
you can find some happiness."

She hit the kill key on her computer but the screen wouldn't go blank.
The words that had ruined her life wouldn't go away. She pounded on the
keyboard through her tears. She sobbed as she finally ripped the
keyboard off the desk and flung it across the room, where it crashed
into the exercise bike. George's words blinked at her from the screen.
She turned away and let the waves of grief and despair wash over her.
She sank to her knees and wept. How could he do this? After all we've
been through. How could he do this to me? We were so happy! We had
everything! We had it all!

The tears slowed. What had they had, after all? She thought they had
had one life, but George apparently had had another. And now what was
left of hers? What would she do? She had often felt alone living with
George; how on earth would she feel now, completely alone? What kind of
life would she have now?

She stood up and wiped her red eyes with the back of her hand. She
sniffed, and her eye fell on a small square piece of paper on the desk.
It was Merriweather's card. She stared at it. Ridiculous, she thought.
Utterly insane. Absolutely ludicrous.

She sniffed again. And then she laughed.