“You have a knack for that kind of thing, I guess. Your father was like that too. I’d have to wash his clothes out,” his mother told him. “Usually took three washes after one of his things.” Some kids want to be the thing their father was, like a fireman or policeman. Fredericks was one of those kids. When dad was put to death in the electric chair up state, Fredericks was more than just sad: Now he was stuck with his mother, who drove him crazy.
As Fredericks walked toward the house, one side of his face started to jerk. This usually meant something bothered him. He didn’t particularly like cold calling, never had. Salesmen these days rarely did the hard sale, going door to door. Or at least, there were far fewer or them. Fredericks wasn’t one hundred per cent sure why he had picked sales as a profession. He wasn’t entirely suited to it. Cold calling made him nervous as a squirrel and Fredericks didn’t like being told no. He would have rather stayed indoors and written Westerns on his typewriter but for whatever reason, opportunity knocked and he hadn’t looked back since. He knew Westerns were no longer written on typewriters anyway.