The following is a short story for an experimental project of mine, currently called “Another Week in Absurditon.” It’s pretty off-the-wall, and am curious if the reader finds it to be good off-the-wall or Humpty-Dumpty bad off-the-wall. Appreciate any feedback!

Elvis Thud was a rock salesman who had two homes and was proud neither one was a sewer.

That’s because Elvis lived in a sewer for a very long time before he became a rock salesman. It was a nice sewer though, as far as sewers go. One of those spacey ones where you can kind of walk along the side without stepping in the water. It wasn’t a raw sewage sewer like fugitives escape through, but more like a damp, homey abode that ninja turtles could live in.

But Elvis didn’t live there anymore since he became a rock salesman.

Now, of course, selling rocks wasn’t easy. No one taught him how to do it. None of the large rock companies had recruited him. It was quite questionable that there was even a market for such things. Rocks are rare if you live in an indoor swimming facility. Otherwise you can dig those puppies up about anywhere.

That’s what Elvis did anyway. He collected rocks for about five years before deciding to sell them. His sewer was massive so storage was no issue whatsoever.

Now, you may be thinking that Elvis’ rocks were special because he spent so much time collecting them and found them valuable enough that he thought he could sell them. Nope. These rocks were like the ones you find by a construction site. They were jagged and bumpy and muddy until Elvis washed them off in the sewer. Then they were gray and black, and a few were pearly white. Elvis liked those the best, and had a real hunch they were worth something.

It’s OK to be skeptical at this point of Elvis’ prospects. As a casual observer, one could judge that Elvis was about as cunning as the rocks that he dreamed would make him a fortune. As a very critical observer who knew Elvis well, you’d probably discern the same thing, and be concerned for the man’s welfare.

But you would be quite mistaken. This is the improbable story of how Elvis sold his first rocks, and turned rock sales into a multi-thousand dollar industry.

—

It was a beautifully bright day when Elvis pushed open the sewer plate with his hulking bag of rocks. Truth be told, it was actually quite dreary and raining lightly, but Elvis had been in the dank dark of a sewer for 48 hours, so everything outside was sunshine to him.

For the next 10 minutes, Elvis lugged his bag down the street until he settled on a park bench beside a woman with a mustache. Nope, check that. It was a man with a silky ponytail who was just filing his long nails. Honest mistake, Elvis thought. So he offered him a rock.

“Thank you, but, I don’t really want one,” the long-nailed, ponytailed man responded, perhaps mildly sensitive to Elvis’ feelings.

This didn’t bother Elvis. Convincing anyone to buy a rock would probably be painfully difficult. But Elvis knew that sales weren’t about the masses. Sales were about finding that tiny target market that would become your biggest fans. So Elvis got up from the bench and continued down the road. The rain had picked up.

After a laborious walk up a steep hill, Elvis came to a hot dog vendor. The vendor was brawny and poorly shaven. He wore a greasy Red Sox cap and a jumpsuit that would’ve looked dope in the 80s but now only seemed fit for mobsters. He had stooped beneath the stand’s umbrella to avoid the rain and vigorously chewed a toothpick while watching Elvis schlep his rock bag up to the stand.

“Would you like to buy a rock?” Elvis asked.

The vendor looked confused, then took out his toothpick. “What ya mean, like a diamond for my girlfriend or sumpin’?”

“No. Like a rock. For your girlfriend or something.” Elvis felt the sale.

“You tellin’ me you gotta bag o’ friggin’ rocks and you actually think I’m gonna buy one?” The man was obviously annoyed. I mean, you or your great grandma would’ve noticed it. Even a cat. But not Elvis. He was hyper-focused on moneymaking.

“Yes, I think you will buy one. I know you will buy one…You just bought one.” Assume the sale, Elvis thought.

“No, no,” the man bristled, wagging his finger. “I’m the salesman. I sell hot dogs. I need customers, not rocks. There’s no solicitations here at my stand. Most guys come up here sellin’ sumpin’ I treat ’em like this toothpick.” (He tried to snap his toothpick but his fingers were too fat and he fumbled it onto the grill. Elvis thought about other sales guys roasting on the man’s grill with the hot dogs.)

Disturbed, Elvis moved on. But the visit wasn’t in vain. The hot dog man had mentioned needs. So Elvis thought real hard about who needed a rock.

In a nearby cafe sat an uncomfortable couple in an intimate booth. Not that they were making others uncomfortable, you could just easily tell that they were. The woman was grimacing as if she was sitting on a band saw, and upon closer review had wedged herself into her seat like a doorstop. The man across from her was hardly across from her, more like breathing on her face because the table was so small. The man also seemed panged, but maybe it was from looking so closely at the woman. The waitress, Cassie, arrived.

“Hi, would you like something to drink?” Cassie asked.

“Excuse me. Would I like something to drink? What kind of question is that?” the bulging woman bellowed.

“Oh, it’s just a question we ask everyone who dines here. Lots of our customers like to drink things with their food. Some only like to drink things. It’s rare when no one wants a drink. We end up staring at each other.”

Cassie the waitress and the large, uncomfortable woman stared at each other.

“That’s exactly my point. What a waste to ask me if I want something to drink. Of course I want something to drink. I’m biologically inclined to drink.”

“Well we aim to please your biology. What do you want to drink?”

“Punch.”

“Punch?”

“Yes. Tell me about your punch.”

“I’d love to, that is, if we had it. I could offer you an orange juice.”

“Sure you could. And I could offer you something completely different than punch. No one serves punch anymore in these joints, can you believe it Dutchy?”

The pale, frail raisin of a man looked up as though he’d awoke from a nightmare. The woman had asked him something and he was mostly deaf and not listening anyway. Wrath would ensue.

“I’m so sorry, my pumpkin. What was that?” he winced to prepare for any ensuing shrapnel.

“I was wondering about the PUNCH here.”

Dutchy was lost. Have you ever entered a conversation not knowing what was happening, and were optimistic you’d be clued in soon so you could start to contribute, but then realized you were even more clueless once you tuned in? That was Dutchy right now. But the woman was right. Somehow. She had to be.

“Yeah—two punches, pronto, missy.”

Cassie left, presumably to find punch or another job.

The cafe door flung open, bringing with it the heavy pitter-patter of the afternoon shower. Elvis sloshed into the cafe like a net of fish coming aboard, holding tightly to his bag of rocks. He was beaming like a lightsaber.

—

The hostess told Elvis he could seat himself. So he walked over to Dutchy and the large, uncomfortable woman’s table and pulled up a chair. This was normal to Elvis.

“You two lovebirds look like you could use a rock today, and boy do I got some of those.” Elvis heaved his rock bag onto the table, silencing the restaurant and shattering a Heinz bottle.

The woman peered at the rocks. She breathed deeply and sharpened her fangs. Elvis’ experience had helped him to recognize a menacing expression and knew he had to preempt anything antagonistic.

“I’ll give you a hundred dollars!” he blurted out. “If you buy two hundred dollars worth of rocks I will give you a hundred dollars.”

Cassie was returning with two glasses of maybe Hi-C. There was no room for glasses on the table now and ketchup was oozing off it onto Dutchy’s pants. He didn’t notice.

Duchy’s lady started to bubble like a pool of magma. She breathed deeply in and out as though she were blowing up a kiddie pool. Or picture a dragon filling its chest with fire before belching death in her unhappy radius. Her left nostril twitched, too, as if she were trying to start a mower with her face. Duchy wished Elvis was selling helmets.

“Sir?” Cassie surveyed Elvis. “Could you move your bag? We can find another table for you.”

But Elvis liked this table. These people seemed like they would have some use in their lives for a rock. But that was so hard to pin down without him asking them.

“OK, I can go as soon as I hear this from the horse’s mouth, as they say. Ma’am, what do you need a rock for? I have many sizes and colors, and a few of them are still dirty so that you—”

“I don’t want your rocks, man! I want punch. I want you to get up and leave so this lady can give me my punch. Is that punch? It looks like fruit juice. I don’t want fruit juice! Take it back to the kitchen. And take this man away from our table!” she belted, slamming her fist down while a new vein appeared and pulsed on her forehead.

“T-t-take him away,” Duchy squealed, fulfilling his duty as the obsequious sidekick.

The next few minutes were especially uncomfortable for everyone in the restaurant. Cassie was fuming and headed toward the kitchen asking for “Big Joe.” Elvis had chalked up the large, uncomfortable woman’s eruption to a bad day. He tried to console her and say things like how hard he knows things can be, living in a sewer and all. Dutchy was pulling at the rock bag, yet inertia was one of the many things that didn’t favor him. When Big Joe arrived he grabbed Elvis and his rock bag with incredibly the same arm and pulled them both out of the restaurant and onto the street, leaving them in a sizable puddle.

For the first time, some doubt seized Elvis. What kind of world was this where you can’t just walk up to strangers and sell them rocks? Not the world Elvis thought he lived in, that’s for sure.

Elvis sat there on the pavement with heavy rain droplets pelting his head, staring at his rock bag. It was a good bag of rocks. So good he almost didn’t want to sell them anymore. He could make a fortress in the sewer with these babies. Ahh, but he didn’t want a sewer fortress. He wanted real money you could use to buy stuff, like a Nintendo or food.

—

“Help! Anyone!” A commotion arose on the other side of the street. A small man scurried from the alley. “My chocolates! They’ll be ruined!”

Elvis shot up, grabbed his rocks, and moved as quickly as he could—which was not fast—across the street.

As Elvis arrived, the man—presumably the store owner—was explaining his chocolates with great haste to a bystander.

“…water is running down the alley. My boxes of chocolates are sitting there under a canopy—thousands of dollars worth—waiting for pickup—they’ll be ruined—ruined if we can’t stop the water. If only there was a way to stop the water!”

“I can stop the water,” Elvis declared. “What you need, sir, are rocks. And I’m going to give them to you. I mean sell them to you. I’m going to sell them to you.”

“If it works, sure!” the man beamed. “Are those your rocks in that bag?”

“Yes. Would you like to see them?” Elvis offered. Elvis was taught to wait patiently for the customer to make a decision.

“Yes, of course! Just bring them with you to the alley. C’mon.”

“This is one of my favorites,” Elvis said, pulling out a dull, clay-stained rock about the size of his fist.

“And this is another favorite.” It was another dull rock. It was a rock.

“OK, I love it—that will do! Bring the bag.” The storekeeper’s voice hit a high note and he tapped Dallas on the elbow.

“37,” Elvis exclaimed.

“37? Ok, 37, whatever, c’mon.”

“37 dollars is the cost of the rock.” Elvis was poised to make the sale. But he figured the objections would come.

“Ahh, really? This is crazy.” The storekeeper turned away. Someone else, please help me find a way to move my boxes.”

“Those boxes are 200 pounds. You need a forklift. Or perhaps exactly 126 rocks.” Elvis hoisted his rock bag over his shoulder and tottered down the alley. It had been a long day, but the air was ripe for heroism, and perhaps a boulder bonanza.

The store owner followed him, shaking his head and mumbling to himself. Elvis passed the boxes and observed a flow of water steadily cascading from a paved gutter above.

The rock bag slid off Elvis’ shoulder with a crash. He reached in and grabbed a large rock he thought looked perfect, though it looked much like all the other rocks. He lifted it high and slammed it upon the waterway. The water split to create two flows around the rock. The puddle was widening and approaching the boxes.

Elvis dusted his hands. “That one’s on the house. I can stop this flood right here, right now. Just say the word and give me…” Elvis ruminated, counting his fingers and looking to the sky. Then he’d count his fingers some more, and back to the sky, and this continued for a minute or two. The water flowed. The puddle widened.

“OK! How much do want?” The store owner bellowed, his feet now soaking in water.

“Want? Oh sorry, I was tryin’ to remember the lyrics to that new Bamba song. OK, $500 for the rocks. The whole bag. I’ll throw in the bag, too. And my belt, you can have my belt if that’ll sweeten the deal. Uncle always said ‘nothin’ like belts to sweeten a deal.’ You got an uncle?”

“I’ll give you $300 if you can stop the water. C’mon man!” The store owner began grabbing rocks and heaving them upon the stream. Elvis joined in, stacking one rock after another, creating a decent dam that started to slow the water. Within a few minutes, all the rocks sat in a formidable pile, the water ceased, and the puddle stopped just before the boxes.

Elvis put his hands on his hips and surveyed the pile with pride. He nodded at the store owner, who thanked him and paid him his money. Elvis pulled his pants up and put his belt back on (the store owner didn’t want it), and left the alley to head up the street.

“That’s him,” the large, uncomfortable woman from the restaurant pointed. Dutchy confirmed and a pudgy officer made his way across the street.

“Mister, these people said you were disturbing the peace. Is that so?” the officer inquired.

“No.” The store owner had come up behind Elvis. “This man made peace today. He saved my chocolates with his rocks. If anything, he’s a hero.”

Elvis blushed and looked at the officer. “I was just doing my job. Which is selling rocks, by the way, in case you’re interested.”

The officer looked at Elvis. “You got a wholesaler?”

Elvis shook his head. “I wish. I have several holes I can’t get rid of. You know a guy?”

The officer looked confused and chuckled. “I know a guy who can get you rocks at a great price. Name’s Gene Reppertson. You can give him a call.” The officer handed him the number.

Elvis said thanks and made his way back up the street toward the sewer. He was relieved to hear about an easier, more expedient way to amass rocks. A few days later, Elvis met Gene and got his hands on all kinds of regular-looking, fairly affordable wholesale rocks. He found that people actually have more use for rocks than you’d think, and within weeks it was obvious he needed a bank account. Gene would continue to help Elvis, and Elvis found his way out of the sewer and into a place where toilet water ran out of his home and not into it.

Some said Absurditon never saw a rock salesman like Elvis Thud. And when Elvis heard that, he took it as a compliment.