Wholesale

Here's the Deal  

(Fiction:  Copyright 2014 Liz Zélandais)

As superheroes go, I play against type. My short stature and buzz-cut are reminiscent of Peter Pan; and being a single mom makes me an oddity in The Coalition. But when they're shopping for the latest hero-mobile or aerodynamic wardrobe with wicking technology, I'm the one they tap to negotiate the deal.

Hints of my super power emerged in elementary school. The cafeteria ladies would add extra fries or another carton of milk to my tray. “No charge, Sweetie.”

But it was only a few years ago that I knew. As I retreated from a stunning dress in Ann Taylor's new spring collection, the sales assistant sprinted after me, begging me to take it for fifty percent off. I hesitated. She dropped the price another thirty percent. I bought the dress and began investigating this anomaly.

My boss doubled my salary after a single request. The board of a hideously expensive private school agreed to start a “differently privileged” scholarship fund and admit my two children. Queen Catherine Cruise Lines gave me their stateroom suite at a price usually reserved for boiler-room occupants.

Every successful negotiation showcased my growing confidence and skill. Joining The Coalition was better than being voted Homecoming Queen. Most importantly, I was giving my kids the best of everything.

I don’t know when the euphoria gave way to the realization that my life had become a cesspool of stuff. Designer stuff. Techie stuff. My children were vapid consumers, fixated on video screens and unable to utter an intelligible sentence.

I met my friend, Amazon Woman, for lunch. She was sporting Prada we had scored at Wal-Co prices during Milan Fashion Week. Once seated, I said, “Ama, I'm miserable. Defying the laws of economics was fun at first, but now it’s meaningless and overwhelming.” The waiter interrupted to deliver menus and to say that our lunch would be compliments of the house.

Ama arched one eyebrow. “You're expecting sympathy?”

“No, but I would sell my soul to recapture a sense of purpose.”

As we ate enchiladas and sipped margaritas, our conversation turned to shop talk—crime fighting, identity trademark infringement, and the turbulent relationship of Lightning Man and Copper Girl.

When I was leaving the restaurant, a man with the dark, angular looks of a GQ model approached.

“Madam, I can help you with your problem.”

I’m seldom susceptible to handsome men, but something about this one made me flush. “Do I know you?”

“Call me Luc. I am in the soul-purchasing business, and I overheard your interest in such a transaction. Your soul for a purposeful and passionate life.”

He was genius. I started working with governments and organizations needing my skills; and formerly starving families thrived as they got food, health care, and education. My kids got back on track.

There's one problem. Luc makes for attentive and charming arm candy, and my children adore him. But now that I own the soul of Satan, what do I do with it?