"What kind of job are you offering?"
"In-house sales. I need someone I can trust with the cash."
"But I don't know anything about sales."
Alvy grabbed another dried-out knish from the buffet and stuffed the whole carbohydrate bomb into his mouth.
"Yechhhh!" Alvy winced.
"Tastes like sawdust," he said with his mouth full. Alvy frantically poured himself a glass of Diet Coke, chugged it down in one long gulp, then gasped for air.
"What's there to know, Sir Laurence? I make belts, you sell them."
"..."
Harry didn't know what to say, Alvy had a knack of catching him off guard, of making him feel stupid.
"I'll pay you twenty-five hundred a month plus three per cent commission. Not bad for an unemployed actor, eh? Whaddaya say?"
'Fuck you,' was what Harry really would have liked to say, but the money was decent to start and he wouldn't have to pound on doors looking for a job.
"Can I think about it, Alvy? I need a little time."
"Sure, take your time kid. You don't have to give me an answer till after desert."
Harry opened up his mouth, but the words just weren't there.
Alvy grabbed a used napkin from the buffet table, then wiped more sweat off his forehead before it dripped onto the knish platter. At times, the Belt King could be considerate.
"Hello? You gotta be able to talk in order to sell."
"Twenty-five hundred a month and three per cent commission?"
"You heard what I said...Twenty-two hundred for February, it's a short month. You'll do well, Harry. You're a good-looking kid, and if you play your cards right, you'll get plenty of pussy."
Alvy slapped Harry on the back and moved on to the next plate of hors d'oeuvres.
"Egg rolls," Alvy grunted, then elbowed a lingering heavyset granny standing guard by the platter.
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