The Dealer

It was a Thursday night in deep December, and as the wind tore through the rip in my jacket, I received the call. Tony, my business partner of 10 years, was dead. There and then I was given to grief, albeit unable to process my sadness.

Tony was the kind of man who could balance selfishness and unselfishness, a sort of dodgy dealer with occasional hints of a care worker. Luckily, that’s good for a businessman; less so for a nurse. If he had worked in health care, he may have pocketed a few packets of pills. I’m only joking…well, maybe. He taught me a lot, not the least of which is how to grieve.

I say ‘is’ because these words are a part of that grief; my wife suggested I write about him. As I type this, I’m holding back the tears; it’s harder three months on. I don’t know whether tears are divine, but they feel it. Nonetheless, I’m still struggling to quantify my feelings. It’s as if there’s a sadness for his death matched with an intuition that screams, “He’s not dead!”. But then again, he is. I just can’t do it. The true monster isn’t our death, but the lack of another’s immortality.

I was a writer before becoming a businessman, perhaps that’s why my wife suggested these pages. You know what writers are like, they’re the new spiritualists (or otherwise, misfired scientists). I hated writers, they wrote what they should have lived. But of course, I was no different. I suppose I couldn’t be bothered with the gruelling meditative retreats, sprinkled as they were with ceaseless chants and intermittent risings into states of Samadhi. So, in creating my spiritual characters, I too wrote what I should have lived. Maybe business became another attractive way of selling my soul, but at least it was more practical. After 8 years of writing, I would have given anything to have a practical job, something tactile that wasn’t related to typing.

One Sunday, I was browsing some old wares at a car boot sale; that’s when I met Tony. He was laden with bags and boxes galore, in which resided an array of items: vintage video games, soft toys, ornaments, and even an egg cup (he later told me it was an old advertising freebie now worth £20 online). I had come to the car boot with the vague idea that I may like to start selling stuff. Stuff. Yes, stuff. God knows what ‘stuff’ I had in mind.

But seeing Tony standing on the grass in his Nike Airmax with eyes akin to a slightly starved lion gave me a brilliant thought, ‘Ah! I could talk to that guy. He’s a seller, he could give me some help.’

Luckily, he wasn’t currently perusing the contents of a stall, otherwise, I may have got the ‘dealer look’. You know the one, that evil stare which has you feeling like a wounded antelope on the open plains. After 5 years, you become the stare, the lion.

I remember the first thing he said to me, “You’re no dealer.” He was accustomed to only talking to the dealers; it was almost a Mafia organisation.

“Well, that’s what I wanted to ask, you’re a dealer, right? I want to get into selling, but I don’t know where to start.”

I remember him replying with a smirk, “Oh, that’s brilliant. Come with me, I’ll help ya find ya first item to sell.”

We plodded over the mounds of muddied grass to a stall filled with crockery and collectables.

Tony shouted, “Morning Margaret, how ‘re ya today?”

Margaret responded with a quick, “Could be better,” before asking, “Whose ya friend Tone?”

“This is Adrian,” we had exchanged names on the walkover, “he wants to do some selling, think ya could hook him up with his first item?”

“Sure Tone, we’ve got to stick together us dealers.” Margaret winked at me. I couldn’t tell whether she was being kind or comedic.

She pointed to a plate on the table. The trim was a deep scarlet adorned with gold patterning; to the centre lay a beautiful, variegated bouquet, hand-painted of course.

She said, “First lesson. That’s Paragon. That’s a good name. That’s worth something that is.”

I guessed from its quality that it probably was worth something, perhaps £30. I’d seen similar plates sell for around that on Bargain Hunt.

“So, Marg, what discount will ya do him?”

Margaret directed her reply at me, “Well, normally something like that I’d do for 20, but since yer a friend of Tones, you can have it for 15.”

I thought the chance to double my money was a good opportunity, but just in case it wasn’t worth £30, I thought I’d chance my arm.

I slipped into my dealer’s voice and said, “Do it for 10?”

Margaret looked at me with firm eyes, before saying, “We’ll settle on 12.”

As she packed the plate into a Sainsbury’s bag, she smiled at Tony while saying, “Looks like you’ve found a keen one ‘ere Tone, he’ll soon be making his millions.”

Moments later, I thanked Tony and said my goodbyes. Bag in hand, I sauntered to the car.

When I got home, I checked the prices on eBay. One listing read, ‘Paragon Scarlet Trim Floral Design Ornate Plate’, it was listed for £14; another, ‘Beautiful Paragon Red Trim Floral Decorative Plate’, listed for £12. As I kept looking through the listings, the prices went lower and lower…£11, £9, £8.

“The bloody bastards!” I exclaimed.

Now all the smirks and smiles made sense. Naturally, I did have my suspicions. I just couldn’t completely tell, maybe they were being nice. I later discovered that this trick was the dealer equivalent of the lefthanded screwdriver gag. But that didn’t stop me, I went straight back the next week, albeit slightly to Tony’s surprise.

“Oh, Ade. So, how’d ya get on with that plate?”

“Listen. I don’t normally like arguing, but you set me up! Now, if you won’t help me, I will do it myself. But I will do it. I’ll become a dealer.”

He responded simply, “All’s fair in love and war matey. If you want to be a dealer, prove it, there’s your prey.”

He gestured broadly to row upon row of open car boots. I walked away feeling somewhat disgruntled, but I was determined to be a dealer. Maybe it would mean I could stop writing sentence after sentence. Writing had become like that, a perpetual prison stay.

That week, and in those that followed, I would walk around the car boot buying anything that looked reasonable. I only bought from couples or families, as they wouldn’t charge me retail as Margaret had done. I continued to see Tony; and after a while, I started to share my sales with him. Believe it or not, I was becoming a dealer. I was becoming accepted.

The successes paid for the failures; one item would go to a charity shop, while another would make me £20. Tony and I slowly but surely became friends. We’d have breakfast after the car boots; he’d help me with what items to buy. I even started to visit his house — it was a real treasure trove of retro action figures and vintage board games. I miss those conversations, those memories. It was in that house that we finally decided to pull our resources together and enter a partnership. I remember the day we named our shop; our spirits were full of enthusiasm for the future. But where did that future bring us? To the point of me mourning my partner. I’m sorry Tone, it was too soon.