Death & the Salesman

It was called the All-Mir-all, the All Miracle. The drug that cured anything. Mr. Blazchky knew it was fake. He made it himself. There was nothing beside almonds, oil, and a few of the tiniest drops of ammonia, to make his ‘patients’ feel like something was happening. It made their gut twist, their fever raise, then it would clear, in a real, dramatic, miracle. One he’d gleaned from the open doors of a lecture hall, while he scrubbed the floors of a University. 

“The body is adaptable,” the professor said, “even an element as toxic as ammonia can be adapted to, and filtered out the body in as little as three days.” The All-Mir’all was fake. But there stood Devon Morotwiz, bizarrely still alive. That’s not to say that Mr. Blazchky’s concoction killed everyone who drank it, it might’ve even helped a few, but none of them came back to him looking better. 
Devon Morowitz had come though his door three weeks ago with a receipt for a tombstone in his back pocket. He had cancer. Blazchky knew it. He’d seen it in the faces of people walking through his door for years now, and he knew how to sell to them.  

“You look like you need The All-Mir’all, the miracle drug, three times a day and make your troubles go away,” he said, “aches, pains, hair-loss, consumption, any toil of your mortal coil can begone! Feel like yourself again with The All-Mir’All.” Morowitz bought it hook-line-and-sinker. He bought a three month supply, and left with a smile on his face. Blazchky gave him a week. He’d seen those sunken cheeks, the gleam in his eyes. It was the hope of a man with nothing to lose. 
Morowitz was probably buying anything he thought would cure him, Mr. Blazchky had thought. Paulie’s Pearl-Powder Serum, Galson’s Tonic, maybe even Dr. Henry’s Mercury Powder if he was desperate enough. It wouldn’t make a difference, people like that died. A fact Morowitz was apparently unaware of.  

“There he is, my angel,” Morowitz said. Before Mr. Blazchky could act, Morowitz was kissing his knuckles, and wrapping him in a hug. “My saviour, my very own Jesus Christ.”  

“Mr. Morowitz, you look well.”  

“Thanks to you, doc. You know my wife didn’t believe in you. Nobody believed I’d make it, not even my Doctor did. He gave me three weeks to live, and than I found you. Now he says I’m as healthy as a newborn baby.” In the few seconds since the doorbell had rang, Blazchky had entertained the thought that Mr. Morowitz had a twin, or had perhaps he had misdiagnosed the poor fellow with a far less lethal disease. But this was, without a doubt the same Mr. Morowitz.  

“Really,” was all Blazchky could say.  

“Cleared, all of it. Doctor Tanner says there’s nothing left.”  

“Doctor Tanner said that?” Tanner was a real doctor. Blazchkey knew of him well. He was a company doctor, but a real professional. He might not give you a day off for a cold, but he knew a real disease when he saw it. A real doctor, real cancer, and his drug cured it.  

“I came to say thank you, and to invite you to dinner. Me and my wife want to celebrate. What’re you doing Saturday night?”  

“Nothing that could possibly matter.”  

“Great, come by around seven. You like seafood?” 

“Yes.” No, he didn’t.  

“I’ll see you then, doc. Thank you again.” He reached out to hug Mr. Blazchky, but thought better of it. With a wave and a ring of the bell, Morowitz was gone from Blazchky’s shop again. A piece of paper with his address left fluttering in his wake.  
Blazchky closed the shop for the next three days. For the first time in fifteen years of business, he was doing inventory. Receipts, lab books, and notes had accumulated in all corners of his shop. Mr. Blazchky might’ve not been a real doctor, but he liked to pretend he was as good as one. As such his records were contradictory, they had gaps, and he might, as he felt, change the terminology he used. His elixir had three ingredients, but there were many ways he’d gathered to make his drug.
On the first day, he found the record of Mr. Morowtiz’s purchase. Three liters of batch No. 19. On the second, he found his record for Batch No. 19, which incorporated Italian style whisking for the oil and almonds, a forty-five minute wait time before adding the ammonia, and ‘three spoonfuls of ammonia, using the silver N spoon’. On the third day Mr. Blazchky found the spoon, buried in his kitchen drawer. It wasn’t an N, but an M with the first leg rubbed off.  He had a little of Batch No. 19 left, it was of his ‘Sweet’ variety, one he added a little sugar to. It was his gift to the nearly dead. He deserved to make money from their suffering, but they didn’t deserve to die sipping on ammonia and oil.
He sniffed it; took a swig. Nothing was different. It had the same rancid scent, if a little sickly sweet from the sugar.  Morowitz must’ve been taking other drugs. The man must’ve been doing something. The bottle in his hand was smoked glass, heavy and reused often to hold the All-Mir’all. There was plenty left, enough for him to dose another five people. If he could figure out the conditions that made the All-Mir’all cure Mr. Morowitz, he could auction off the miracle drug to the four richest men in the world. All of whom lived here in New York City. He’d need one proof, but those other four would more than make up for it.   

Mr. Blazchky tried not to stare. Mr. Morowitz was cracking clams open across the small table, in the equally small dining room he was sitting in, in the modestly sized apartment just far away enough from the docks to avoid the smell of fish. A few weeks prior, this man had been nothing but skin and bones, a puppet held by the barest string to the world. Mrs. Morowitz, Vanessa, had not stopped thanking him since he’d arrived.  

“So you don’t like clams, Mr. Blazchkey?” she asked.  

“Sure he does, he told me himself on Wednesday.” Mr. Morowitz said.  

“Some people are particular about their clams. Do you like ‘em Mr. Blazchkey?”  

“They’re delicious, I’m just taking in your lovely home.” Blazchkey tried his best to mimic Mr. Morowtiz. Fingers in the lips, a little tug, he could feel the weakness in the clam’s hinge, one big tug. The shell shattered to pieces, shards fell into his pasta. Morowitz gave a big laugh.  

“Let me get that for you, doc,” he said. Vanessa pat Mr. Blazchkey’s arm.  

“No one can open clams like he does. He’s had them every Friday and Saturday, don’t you honey.”  

“Yes, ma’am. Ever since I was nine years old.” He said from the kitchen, “don’t you worry Doctor B, I’ll get you a fresh plate. I’ll even pop your clams for you.”  

“Thank you, Mr. Morowitz. You’re so kind.” Clams, was the secret to the All-Mir’all calms? It couldn’t be. “What is it you do, Mr. Morowitz, to afford such a lovely home as this?” Morowitz laughed again in the kitchen. He had a coarse, smoker’s laugh.  

“It’s not that nice, doc, but thank you. I’m one of Harrison’s boys at Optic White. I make some of the finest paint on the East Coast.”  

“He’s being modest. Ever since the war, Mr. Harrison has him running the whole floor, a whole three dollar raise. That’s how we were able to afford you.” Vanessa pat his arm again. Not unkindly. 

“A finer job has never been done, I’m sure. You know I’m thinking of repainting my shop. White woud make it look more official.” Blazchky’s mind spun with possibilities. Morowitz could’ve been poisoned by a rival, or exposed to a fume or gas at the plant. What was in paint besides ink, lead? 

“It sure would, doc. I’ll admit, when I first walked in, I thought you were one of those snake-oil quacks. But by the way you talked, I knew you had to be real.” 

“He drank a whole bottle the second he came home.”  

“Vanessa, you weren’t supposed to tell him that.”  

“Sorry baby, but you did. Mr. Blazhkey deserves to know, what if there’s a side effect or an overdose.”  

“I only did it cause she told me to, doc. ‘Devon,’ she says, ‘Devon that stuff is as good as piss. It won’t do anything aside waste our money.’” He set down a new plate of clam pasta for Mr. Blazchkey.  

“So he says, ‘this stuff is real. You weren’t there. Dr. Blazchkey’s a good man,’ and I’m getting hot-headed, so I says to him, ‘Devon, even if you drink one whole bottle right now it won’t do you a lick of good.’” 

“So I drink a whole bottle. Don’t get mad, alright, doc. I figured it was okay. Three times the dose would just cure me three times faster.” There was a month’s supply per bottle, so actually it was more like… Blazchky counted. Three times a day, seven days a week; twenty-one, times four; eighty-four. Or was three times a day considered one dose, making it seven doses a week over four weeks; twenty-eight. Blazchkey was confused, but it was somewhere between twenty-eight and eighty-four times the dose. He was sure of it.  

“I’m sure you’re fine, Mr. Morowitz. You’re here, aren’t you.”  

“Healthy as an ox. See Vanessa.” 

“And if you’d stuck to his prescription it would’ve taken you three times as long to get better.” Vanessa turned to Mr. Blazchkey. “Why did you give him such a long prescription, Mr. Blazchkey?”  

“Oh, I always do. You know medicine is complicated, blood types and all that. Three times a day is safest.” 

“So was it dangerous, or it couldn’t work?” 

“No, no. The drug, it needs to reach throughout the entire body, like water in a sponge, and that takes time and dosage. If you take it all at once, there’s a risk it might cure the disease in one portion of the body, only for the parts it missed to take the body back over. It depends on the sickness really.” Blazchky had made this speech before.  

“So it was dangerous to take it like that.”  

“In a way, yes,” Blazchky said. Morowitz laid a five dollar bill in Vanessa’s open hand.  

“What do I always say, darling?” she said.

“Even when I’m right, you’re right.”  

After dinner, Mr. Morowitz went down to fetch a cab. Vanessa and Mr. Blazchky cleared the table. They’d spent the evening talking about work and life, how the Morowitz’s met, the war. They were both excellent storytellers, and for the first time in a long time, Mr. Blazchkey found himself telling the truth. Not about the All-Mir’All, of course not.
He told them how he missed his mother’s death, how was a medic in the army, how he watched his family farm get sold off during the dustbowl.  

“You’re about to be a busy man, Mr. Blazchkey,” Vanessa said.  

“Why’s that?” 

“My husband can’t keep quiet about you. He’s told everyone at the plant how your All-Mir’all saved him.” 

“It’s a good drug. I’m happy to use it.”  

“You know what us girls call the plant, Mr. Blazchky?”  He shook his head.

“Widows’ Plant. There isn’t a man on the far side of fifty there. Half the cancer in the city crawls from Optic White. I’ll bet by Monday morning, there’ll be a line down the block, just for a dose of your All-Mir’all.” She sighed. “I’ve been to a dozen funerals since my husband started running the floor there. I’ve held the hands of crying women. Two weeks ago, I was ready to join them.”  

“Why does he work there?”  

“Loyalty. To the boss, Mr. Harrison. The only man to promote him.” 

“I can find him work, I have connections.”  

“I have my own, Mr. Blazchkey. You know, Dr. Tanner would like to speak to you. He wants to see your miracle drug.” 

“The same Dr Alfred Tanner.”

“You know where to find him then,” she said. He nodded. A long time ago, Dr. Alfred Tanner had been he avenue to his medical knowledge. As a student, Tanner was left his notebooks around. He was late to lectures, always leaving the door open on he was way in. Blazchky didn’t just know Dr. Tanner, Tanner knew him. He smoothed his hair.  

“I’ll be sure to make some time for him.” He said.  

“Thank you, Mr. Blazchkey,” Vanessa said. Devon Morowitz shouted the cab was here, from outside the apartment. Blazchkey felt the tension in his shoulders release as he gathered his coat and hat. Vanessa stood in the doorway. 

“Mr. Blazchkey.”  

“Yes.” 

“You are the most humble doctor I’ve ever met. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered one of your kind who let me go more than once calling them Mister. They usually correct me on my first mistake. Take care.” She shut the door.  

Blazchkey threw up when he got home.  He stared at the chunks of clams in the toilet bowl, floating in a murk of tomato sauce and stomach acid. They’d been tolerable going down, coming up he felt he’d never eat again. He flushed the mess. There were two choices before him. He could forge ahead, business as usual, selling his drug. If it’d happened once, it would happen again. He would experiment with preparation and dosage, work backwards through his messy notes until he hit the combination, the miracle cure. Then he’d be rich, and the world would flock to his door, death as they knew it would disappear. 
There was a flaw. Mr. Blazchky knew it. There’s no way he could find it in time. If as many men, women, and children came to his door as Vanessa said there would, and he didn’t find the right combination in that first wave, he’d have a mob hundreds strong ready to kill him. He’d survived so far through anonymity, by being a last resort. The people coming through his door were going to die anyway, or dealing with things not discussed publicly. If one cancer stricken laborer died swallowing his false promises, no one would care. If twenty or thirty came to his door, asking for a cure, on the word of a miracle, they’d expect results.
He could take their money and run, but even as he thought that, Mr. Blazchky felt his back ache. He wasn’t a young man anymore, the idea of being an itinerant snake-oil salesman, always traveling, never home, made him sick.  

That left the other option. His miracle, his Mr. Morowitz, the only proof of the All-Mir’all. If he were to die, even after his recovery, it would make the dying easier to manage. He could add it to his tale. An experimental dosage, good, but not perfect yet. That would buy him time. Morowitz would have to die in a way reminiscent of sickness. He couldn’t beat him to death with a club, or shoot him. Not that Mr. Blazchky owned a gun. He didn’t think he could win a fight with Morowitz either, the man was massive. That left poison. 
He knew where Morowitz lived and worked. He could wait nearby, slip in and drop something from his store in his food. Mr. Blazchky felt the ache in his back again. He couldn’t sneak around, or climbing to the third floor of the Morowitz’s.
He couldn’t sneak in, but he could certainly get Vanessa to let him in. He just needed some pretext.  

“Do you like chess, Mrs. Morowitz?” Mr. Blazchky asked. Vanessa stood in her doorway, arms crossed. Women speak without speaking, a technique Mr. Blazchky had never been able to understand. Vanessa pursed her lips.  

“Come in, Mr. Blazchky,” she said. Blazchky set his chess set, a foldable wooden board and bag jangling with pieces, on the dining room table.  

“I haven’t been fully honest with you, Mrs. Morowitz.” 

“Vanessa.” 

“Vanessa.” He began to set up the board. There was a vial of something deadly in his coat pocket. The weight of it caused his coat to swing back and forth like the tongue of a clock. Ticking, ticking down until he would pour its contents into whatever meal was simmering on the stove. They would die at this table tonight. They likely wouldn’t be found for days. Their corpses would be slumped over long cold bowls. A closed casket. The clock would tick closed for them. Did he want to live with that. “Vanessa. I haven’t been honest with you.” 

“I know.”  

“I’m not a doctor.” 

“I know.”  

“Vanessa, you aren’t making this any easier for me.”  

“What do you want me to do, Mr. Blazchky? Hold you while you cry you sob story? What did you do to my husband?” Blazchky set a vial of the All-Mir’All on the table between them.  

“I don’t know. I want to know, but I don’t. This oil doesn’t do anything. It’s ammonia, oil, and sometimes, like the batch I gave you husband, a little bit of sugar.” 

“And you’re telling me this to make yourself feel better?”  

“I’m telling you because something made him better. He did or took or was exposed to something that cured him. If we can find out what, this would be the medical discovery of our generation. I need your help. I need you to tell me everything you can remember him doing, everything he ate, took, or went.”  

“What if this isn’t something you did, Mr. Blazchky,” she said, “what if it was a fume, or magnet, or an actual God-sent miracle you will never be able to recreate.”  

“I have to try. I have to. Even if it takes my whole life, I have to try. I finally have a chance to help people. I can really give the All-Mir’All to people and say, ‘take this, you’ll be better in a week.’.” Vanessa looked away from Mr. Blazchky. Her dark eyes traced the silhouette of the skyline through the window.  

“Let’s go for a walk, Mr. Blazchky. My husband won’t be home for a few hours.” She gave Mr. Blazchky her coat to hold as they walked. The brick tenement houses around them rose like the walls of a red canyon. Overhead, clothing lines cast the shadows of socks, sweaters, and trousers in a dappled mimicry of forest canopy. As they walked, a haze grew up from the ground. A thin, pale film with a faint scent like ethanol.  

“If I help you, how do I know you really are going to help other people. How do I know you won’t take this to the Carnagies or the Rockafellers.” 

“You don’t,” he said. It was the truth. “It would be in my best interest.” 

“You’d be the world’s first billionaire.” The haze was thicker, the smell stronger. There were fewer people outsider now. The shadows overhead disappeared. Vanessa led him up a fire escape, to a rooftop.
Over a few blocks of tenement houses, the tall, thin smokestacks of a factory oozed a sickly white smoke. Pipes wound around the building like a knotted cord, dense in some places, absent in others. Even from here, Blazchky could see the stuff leaking from the pipes, a black, shiny sludge that had long ago dripped down and covered the brick of the plant.
A billboard rising from the roof, beside the smokestacks read, Optic White.

“That’s where my husband works.”  

“He went back?” 

“That’s the kind of man he is.” She said still facing the plant. 

“He’ll just get sick again.” 

“That’s what I told him.” 

“He didn’t listen?” 

“No.”

“How long did it take the first time, for him to get sick?”  

“Five years.”  

“So we have time.”  

“I never said I would help you, Mr. Blazchky.”  

“What about your husband?”  

“When he dies, I’ll collect his last check, and the life insurance I have on him, and go to Rome.” 

 “Don’t you love him?” 

“Of course I do, Mr. Blachky.” She glanced back at him, then turned back to the plant. 

“But he went back. I don’t want to spend the next five years figuring out how to fix him, just for him to go back to that godforsaken place.” She slammed her fists on the balustrade. 

“Stupid, stupid man.” Blazchky thought back. There was a time after the war, just after it ended, when it felt like he’d made it in life. He had friends from service. Even if they didn’t live near each other, they kept in touch, exchanging letters. Then, one by one, the letters stopped coming back. His own would get returned with a clipping from a local paper, an obituary with a name and a date. One by one until he was alone. It was like they’d been living on borrowed time, and Death had come to collect. 

“You know, in all the time I’ve been selling the All-Mir’All, there’s one group of people I never sold it to.”  

“Who, Mr. Blazchky, whites?” 

“Children,” he said, “parents come in from time-to-time. With or without their child. They all have the same blank look on their faces. I sell hope, Mrs. Morowitz. There’s relief knowing something might save you, that you might live. There’s so much death in the world. It hurts when you lose a lover or a parent or a sibling, but there’s love that can replace it. There’s no love that replaces losing a child. Every year you grow older and they stay the same. Every year is a chance they lost.” Vanessa looked at him. Her face was grim, drained of emotion. It was the face of someone who heard the Reaper knocking. She understood death. Blazchky needed her to understand life. 

“Please, Mrs. Morowitz.”