Solar Powered Whisks
Translated by William L. Story
It all started this way and ended another way.
Sam — Listen to me, Frank. You've gotta sell at least a hundred of them before Friday. And try to get paid cash. Otherwise, I won't be able to get them to change their minds about firing you. Our business is going to hell. We're running at a loss. Maybe at the end of the month we'll have to shut down.
Frank had tried a desperate pretext, a predictable defence.
Frank — Sam, you know very well, that people don’t run to buy whisks, in these times of economic crisis and financial bubbles.
Sam had lit a cigar, now he was standing up, looking at the river, the harbour, the lights, through the large window. So Frank took the solar powered specimen and went out from Sam’s office. First he called his wife to tell her that he would be back home on Friday night, then he went down to the warehouse to get a big box of a hundred whisks.
Frank knew everything about being unemployed. Frank had lost his job before.
Once in his car, he started the round of sales from the streets where there were still people with money. He would assail and shock them, showing the dreamy technologically advanced whisks, or better he would cry and beg mercy for his family.
At the end of the sad morning he hadn’t sold a wsk, not even one damned wisk, now a sort of a witch, wearing a horrible robe with floreal design, opened the door for him. The woman snatched the beater out of his hands and shouted:
— What I am gonna do with this contraption, according to your company?
After a quiet explanation to her, Frank had gone to his hotel. He had to choose how to commit suicide, something not irrelevant, it would need time and care.
At the sunrise of the day after, his guardian angel had awakened Frank with a hand on his shoulder.
— Let’s go Frank, now you leave it to me. — And had taken him flying to a district of real rich people.
At the first attempt, the colored maid, who had opened the door for Frank, after a few words had run away to ask for orders.
—Madame, I believe we need a whisk, by chance there is a salesman at the door.
—And you buy the damned whisk and beat my eggs.
Frank began to talk to the maid — And so you needed a whisk, lucky woman?
—We didn’t need a whisk, there are five in the kitchen. It was because of the despairing look in your eyes.
Now Frank knew what to do. Frank had to give a desperate look to the people. Frank had sold all the hundred solar powered whisks before Friday, that’s why he was back home in advance and now he was silently looking at the crocodile and the hippo in his bed, when he heard the voice behind him:
— Get out of my way, Frank, I’m gonna kill them — his neighbour Sally was telling him.
The crocodile twists his body. His big fore legs grip his large head and unscrew it. Philip comes out, as half a crocodile and half a husband of Sally, the blondie with the rifle.
