“Mr. Dunkley, I—”
“No, no. Don’t thank me yet. Wait until I show you how you can double, triple, no, I mean quadruple your business. Ten minutes of your time, sir. Just ten minutes and then I’ll let you shower me with gratitude—and don’t forget to call me Jerry.”
With a final indignant glare, Mrs. Liang left for her own midday meal while Tom mentally counted to ten. Men like Dunkley had to earn a living, too, he told himself. They had families, they had mouths to feed. Hopefully “Jerry” got paid per demonstration and not per sale. “All right, Jerry. Ten minutes. But then I really must let you go.”
The next ten minutes—which stretched to twenty—would have been entertaining, had Tom not been increasingly horrified by what the man was peddling.
“We all know the scourge of neurasthenia that’s sweeping the country,” Jerry began. “I’m sure you’re treating patients left, right and center for it—even if they are of the yellow race— because this disease don’t care who you are. White, yellow, young, old, male, female, rich, poor—but mainly rich, if you get my drift. Am I right, sir?” He started to count off on his fingers. “You got your headaches, your skin rashes, your nervous twitches, your dyspepsia, your sciatica ... your problems down there, if you know what I mean.” He winked. “No matter who you are, it leaves you flat and flaccid, drained and debilitated, weak and worn out.”
Continuing his patter, Jerry removed several odd contraptions from his suitcase and laid them out on the examination table. “But help is on the way.” He picked up what looked like a red wool cummerbund with copper and other metal discs attached. The discs were connected to each other by a thin wire, one strand of which dangled below the belt and ended in a small noose.
“It’s a good thing you’re a medical man,” Jerry continued, “otherwise I’d have to spend hours and hours talking to you about the many wonderful effects of electrical stimulation on all parts of the body. But no doubt you’re aware of the enormous transmogrification properties inherent to the Voltaic Galvanic Principle.” He presented the belt to Tom. “Now this here is Doctor Bell’s Premium Voltaic Health Belt. Only eighteen dollars—easily worth two weeks of a working man’s pay, as you’ll see. Once it’s soaked with the doctor’s proprietary battery accelerator"—he handed Tom a small bottle—“your patient merely wraps the belt around his waist so the gentle current can reinvigorate all of his ailing internal organs, leading to relief of the kidney, bladder, liver, heart, lungs, and stomach, to name just a few.”
Tom’s eyebrows were in danger of taking flight. “You don’t say.” He pointed to the hanging loop. It couldn’t be what he thought it was. “What does that thing do?”
“Ah,” Jerry said with a knowing air. “I can see where your mind is headed, doctor, and you are perfectly right. An overwhelming number of neurasthenic cases can be laid at the foot, or should I say the hand, of excessive manual stimulation, leading to the depletion of productive—and virile—nervous energy. Any related pathologies, such as impotency or general lack of manly vigor, can be immediately cured with the simple insertion of the weakened organ into the stimulating loop, and —”
Tom held up his hand. “I get the picture.” He took the stopper out of the bottle of “accelerator” and sniffed it. “This smells like capsicum.”
“Well, that is one of the proprietary ingredients, yes sir.”
It took Tom a moment to put it all together. “You basically have men wrap themselves in pepper oil so when they start to sweat, it burns like crazy. That’s the buzz they get. There’s no electrical current involved here at all.”
Jerry sniffed with disdain. He began to carefully fold his “health belt” and put it away. “I don’t know what you’re implying, sir.”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m telling you flat out that what you’re selling is complete flummery.” Tom glanced at the inside of the salesman’s case and saw several bottles. He picked one up and read the label. “‘Dr. Hardee’s Florentine Liniment—apply liberally to affected area for instant relief and remedy. Good for combatting hair loss, stomach troubles, rheumatism, sprains, bruises, wounds, bee stings, chilblains, ear aches, sore throats, cramps, blood and liver complaints, bronchial infections, and insect, frost and snake bites.’” He looked at Jerry. “What do you charge for this?”
Jerry smiled. “Your cost, sir is minimal—thirty-five cents per bottle wholesale. You can easily get two dollars per bottle retail.”
Tom stuck the bottle in his pocket. “I think I’ll keep this.”
“Certainly. Certainly.” He finished packing his case and looked back at Tom with an oily grin, no doubt thinking he’d salvaged a sale from a near miss. “Just let me know how many dozen bottles you would like to order, sir, and I shall be happy to oblige.”
Tom walked him through the empty waiting room and to the front door. “Mr. Dunkley, I’m going to keep your bottle and show it to every one of my patients—just before I warn them that under no circumstances should they ever purchase anything that looks even remotely like your quack patent medicine. And I’m going to ask my orderly—who is about twice your size, by the way— to kindly remove you from the premises the next time you set foot inside this clinic.”
Dunkley puffed up, an offended pigeon. “Well, you don’t have to be rude about it. Good day to you, sir.” He nearly slammed the door on the way out.
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