The Misplaced Eight, Book 1: Prologue

Saturday, July 17th, 1954: 1:10pm

The cloudless sky hung over the golden Coney Island shores. Seagulls hovered over the boardwalk, diving in hopes of earning a popcorn kernel or crumbs from a hot dog bun. Strangers in swimsuits sat beneath their colorful umbrellas to read books, sleep, attempt to acquire a tan, admire the beach, or enjoy a conversation with their fellow beachgoers.

One man in particular stood out as he made his way through the sea of umbrellas: a round, balding man with a strikingly dark mustache intertwined with the dull grays of old age. Against the bright swimsuits worn by almost everyone else, his brown tweed business suit appeared even more authoritative than usual, he thought. The hand he wasn’t using to shield his eyes from the sun grasped a cumbersome leather briefcase, bulging with carelessly thrown-in papers, almost all of which belonged in the trash. He grunted in disappointment, watching hopelessly as his new dress shoes accumulated frustrating amounts of sand and checked the time on his silver Bulova watch. It was nearly a quarter past one o’clock. Frank Jacobs was late again.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, pushing past a slowly-moving woman to reach the water’s edge. He had no time to spare to frivolously pass under any more umbrellas. The woman ignored him, so he stepped on her beach towel and continued on his way.

When he finally arrived at the shore, he found himself behind a group of teenagers meandering along. Frank Jacobs always hated teenagers—even when he was one of them—due to the lack of respect most of them had shown him throughout every stage of life. As a child, he recalled being looked down upon and considered to be young and bothersome. When he finally became a teenager himself, he watched as everyone else obsessed over popularity, becoming consumed by the chase for the approval of others. Frank Jacobs never had time to care about what others thought until, in an ironic twist of fate, he became a salesman. But by then, the age of caring about teenagers was long in his rearview anyway. Teenagers could only dream of amassing enough wealth to even warrant speaking to Frank Jacobs.

He quickened his pace and, finding himself in a position to pass the group, tapped the shoulder of the teenager in front of him. She glanced at him only for a moment before returning to her conversation. He rolled his eyes, muttering some incoherent but miserable complaint about the typical lack of change within this demographic. “May I get past you?” he asked, putting no effort into keeping the exasperation out of his tone.

“Sure,” the girl said coolly, pushing one of her friends toward the water. Like mindless pack animals, the rest of the group followed. Frank Jacobs knew they’d probably already forgotten him, so he decided to do the same.

Upon reaching the pier, he was at last able to relax a bit, taking the time to observe people milling about freely, holding ice cream cones or hot dogs or popcorn. His eyes scanned the busy scene, lingering on a young woman in a yellow sundress holding the hand of a youthfully charming man in a white t-shirt and jeans. With her free hand, she periodically pointed out at the sparkling horizon or held the brim of her sunhat to ensure the breeze wouldn’t carry it away.

He walked up to the pair and clamped his hand onto the man’s shoulder.

“William Williams! There he is! My doubly-named friend,” Frank Jacobs said with a smile as he delivered an enthusiastic handshake.

“Frank, good to see you,” he said, patting Frank Jacobs on the back. Frank Jacobs consequently felt a swell of pride upon learning his name had been remembered as William turned to the woman in the yellow sundress. “Verna, you’ve met Helen Jacobs? The secretary? This is her husband, Frank Jacobs.”

Frank Jacobs nodded excitedly. He’d learned the importance of exuding positive energy when selling things to people. After all, enthusiasm is contagious, and enthusiastic people are much quicker to open their wallets.

William introduced Frank to his wife, who shook his hand with poise. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jacobs,” she said.

“Please, call me Frank,” he requested casually. It was a line he always used on his customers in order to make them feel like friends, because friends spend money on each other. (Of course, Frank Jacobs wasn’t a part of this money-spending relationship.)

“Allow me to show you my catalogs,” Frank Jacobs proposed. “I’m sure you’ll find something that suits you.”

Verna shot her husband a questioning glance as the salesman rummaged through his briefcase, eventually revealing the catalogs, featuring pictures of the finest watches—prices listed separately, of course.

“Go ahead, dear, I’d like to get you something,” William insisted, letting go of her hand as Frank Jacobs lended her the catalog.

Verna smiled in a flattered yet apologetic manner. “What is this for? I feel bad I haven’t gotten you anything.”

“Do I need a reason to do something nice for my wife? Go on, at least look at them. Entertain my idea. I know you said you’d like a nice watch,” he said.

“‘Something nice’? My goodness, these are…works of art,” she breathed, grazing her fingertips over the pages delicately. William could tell from her wide eyes and soft smile that the idea of accepting his offer was something she liked to imagine, but soon enough she narrowed her brows and pulled her hand back as if crashing down to reality. “I couldn’t.”

In acceptance, Verna returned the catalog to Frank.

“Don’t worry, I’ve been saving up. Just pick something out,” William urged, placing his hand on her back.

“How much have you saved? The prices aren’t even listed.” Her tone overflowed with concern and worry danced in her eyes.

“Hey.” William put his hands on Verna’s shoulders and looked her directly in the eyes, pausing a moment before continuing. “I don’t want you worrying about the numbers. I’ve got it covered. Do you trust me?”

“Always.”

“Then don’t be afraid. I’ve got you.”

Feeling an uncomfortable tension in the following silence, Frank Jacobs interrupted to remind the couple of the matter at hand. “I’ve got a few with me if you’d like it right now. Otherwise I’ll give it to Helen and you can get it then.” Frank Jacobs held up the catalog again, shaking it slightly as if dangling a treat over a puppy’s head.

“Thanks, Frank,” replied William, though his mind was still on Verna and her concern.

In response, Verna began to flip through the pages of the catalog until the picture of a silver watch caught her attention. She marveled over its modern square face and the intricate details in its band.

“Oh my,” she whispered. Frank Jacobs tried to appear pleasant and unbothered as he continued holding the catalog, desperately hoping Verna would hurry up before the beads of sweat forming on the top of his head fell onto his forehead and needed to be dealt with.

“I like this one,” Verna declared confidently. Looking back at her husband, she murmured, “You’re sure that it’s alright?”

“Do you like it?” William inquired hopefully.

“Yes, I really do.” The excitement in her voice proved her honesty, which satisfied William.

“I believe I’ve got that one with me,” Frank Jacobs interjected, hurriedly throwing the catalog back into his briefcase and wiping his glistening forehead with a handkerchief from his pocket. After another moment of searching, he proudly held up the watch.

“May I?” William offered his hand to Verna, who allowed him to hold her wrist in his hand, and Frank Jacobs handed him the unpackaged watch. William gingerly connected the clasp around her wrist and she giggled, giddy with joy.

“Look how beautiful it is,” Verna sighed in wonder, rotating her wrist so that the metal could catch the light.

“Are you happy with it?” Verna met his gaze.

“Very much,” she affirmed, wrapping her arms around her husband.

William couldn’t help but smile, and Verna pulled away.

“Thank you, Mr. Jacobs,” she said, putting her hands around the salesman’s. She didn’t call him Frank as he’d asked, but he didn’t mind–he’d already closed the sale. Happy customers made him happy, mostly because money made him happy. Maybe not so much the money anymore, but the thrill of the chase. It was what he lived for now. Life as a salesman, he’d convinced himself, was exciting. Not like being an overseas explorer or anything, but Frank Jacobs wasn’t built for that kind of life. No, Frank Jacobs was built to be a salesman, and he would prove it, somehow; maybe by being the top salesman of the year. Surely he could find a few more customers at the boardwalk he could get a few more customers. After all, everyone needs a watch. Telling time is important, so you might as well look fashionable while you do it.

“That’s all, then?” Frank Jacobs was still smiling from the lingering happiness of his daydream. It was important to give customers closure, because a full experience is more valuable than any watch. (This statement, of course, wasn’t really true, but the line between truth and falsities is blurry when you’re a salesman.)

William nodded and thanked him again, leaning over and quietly promising to pay Helen in the office the next day. Frank Jacobs had no problem trusting William Williams, because Helen told him he should. Frank Jacobs knew that wives are usually right about these kinds of things, as Helen enjoyed reminding him whenever relevant.

Frank Jacobs trotted away merrily, whistling some radio tune. On his way out, he decided to purchase a hot dog. He’d earned it, he told himself, but he had to make sure he enjoyed it in a clean manner. Helen didn’t like when he ate before supper. It’s a good thing wives can’t read minds, Frank Jacobs thinks, otherwise Helen might discover that he hates that revolting soup she always makes. It’s her mother’s recipe and everyone else raves about it. He’d never cared much for soup at all, though, especially not that of the vegetable variety. But, what was there to do? He’d just keep sneaking his early dinners and eating a little soup to appease her, and he knew it would work out fine. She’d never minded before. He was a good salesman. He deserved it.

What he didn’t know however, was that he would not be paid for the watch the next day as he anticipated. Or the next day. Or the day after that. Eventually word would get around the office that William, the most promising young doctor, had died a gruesome death of some rare heart condition. Verna was torn up, apparently. Frank Jacobs didn’t mind that, but he was disappointed that her sadness overpowered her ability to remember to reimburse him for the watch. Helen scolded him for saying this—“If you’d been the one to pass, wouldn’t you want me to have time to grieve without worrying about paying for some trinket? My heavens, Frank, this is ridiculous.”—but Frank Jacobs did not tolerate criticism, and therefore debated his wife—“‘Some trinket’? You should know by now I sell the only the finest luxury watches, and I don’t intend to have my life’s work belittled by my own wife. You know, I think she did indeed think of it and just doesn’t want to pay. Maybe this was all planned. You never know about these kinds of things. In those crime shows it’s always the ones you don’t suspect.”—but Helen had a knack for winning arguments and always had the last word—“Trust me, Frank, I know William very well. The relationship he had with Verna was great. Better than ours will be if you keep up all this arguing. Now, you’ve hardly touched any of your soup. It’s going to get cold if you don’t quit all this yapping and start eating.”

And Frank Jacobs didn’t know that Verna would eventually pay him back for the watch even without William’s income, because she was determined to continue carrying herself with honesty and integrity, keeping up the good reputation she’d earned. Frank Jacobs didn’t know that he would soon put the Williamses out of his mind, only to have Helen burst into the house, interrupting his nap with some intense desire to go shopping for a baby shower gift. Helen would know every detail and have a million ideas of what to get, but Frank Jacobs would only pretend to listen due to a painfully lower interest level with the conversation. And on the day that the aforementioned shower arrived, he would sit at home watching television, forgetting about the pile of dishes by the sink Helen had asked him to do. Only after a few hours would he realize Helen wasn’t at home, briefly wondering where she was before returning his attention to the television, drifting into a sleep that would only last until Helen was home, waking him up to  cheerily tell him how well Verna was doing and how excited she was for everything to come.

Like anyone else, Frank Jacobs does not know the future.

And that’s a good thing.