3%

"Get it on paper," Harry's mother warned him.

But he didn't.

"Don't work for Alvy."

But he did.

"He's a goniff."

"I know, ma, I know--"

"When he was a butcher he used to water the meat."

"I know, ma, I know--"

"When he was a stock promoter, he sold phony stock."

"I know, ma, I know--"

"And he got caught in that bogus invoicing scheme."

"I know all that ma, I've heard it a hundred times."

"Your father wouldn't speak to him--"

"--for twelve years for reasons too unsavory to repeat."

"Then why are you going to work for him, Harry?"

"I don't know." Which wasn't true. Alvy had that mobster allure about him. He got what he wanted, whatever it took and Harry wanted a piece of that. He could learn the game of life from a guy like Alvy.

"Don't come crying to me when he screws you. It's just a matter of time."

Six weeks actually, that's when Harry got his first commission check for his first month at Shugar Belt - $62.45, on sales of $36,892.

"At 3% commission that's $1044.31 short...According to my records," Harry complained to Alvy.

"Oh it is...According to your records, eh? What about house accounts where there is no commission, and discount sales where the commission is bupkis, and credit notes and returns or orders that don't pass credit? Bring me new business, bring me good business and I'll gladly give you your three per cent."

"But, but, but," Harry blubbered. He hated it when he blubbered.

"Business ain't about buts, Harry."

It ain't about the buts.

"I told you not to come to me crying, Harry, " his mother said.

"I'm not crying. I'm just super pissed..."

"That's why my voice is cracking--"

"Yeah..."

"And you're tearing?"

"Cuz he's cheating me, ma, he's cheating me..."

And this little piggy went crying wa wa wa wa, all the way home.

"Sixty-two bucks plus change, on top -- on top of your salary. Good scratch for a pisher living in the basement of his parent's duplex," Alvy said

"But it's not even close to what you owe me, Alvy. We had a deal."

"A few weeks in a showroom eating cookies with perfumed broads and now you're the big deal-maker. Putz. Anyhow, we have a flexible deal. It's like an open mortgage that adjusts itself according to the floating interest rate."

"You offered me 3% commission on my sales, Alvy. So you owe me over a grand."

"I never said a straight 3%, there's exceptions. Ask anyone in the business."

"That's bullshit, Alvy. I'm the in-house sales rep, I service the customers who walk in."

"And speaking of walking, Harry. If you're not happy, go walk."

And that's how those conversations always ended. "Go walk."

Go walk. Go fuck yourself. Language of the guy who's made it. The language of power, the language of dreams. Answer to no one.

Harry would've walked, should've walked, but to where? All that mattered would be the story of working for Alvy. The stories, the benchmarks of life. It was all about the stories. He'd own Alvy through the story. He'd use Alvy for the story and the big putz would't have a clue. Getting even would just be the icing on the cake.