I SELL, THEREFORE I AM

Jerry Weldon stood before the washroom mirror primping the knot of his necktie. Cobalt blue with golden flecks, this tie served as his talisman, his secret weapon, his own personal lucky charm. Of course, luck had nothing to do with it. But the tie had been on his throat for each of his last three triumphs—so who was he, Weldon, to tamper with success? He grinned at himself in the polished glass, admiring the porcelain perfection of his smile. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, he thought, smoothing the knot to a snug wedge. Weldon took luxurious comfort in homespun bromides and possessed an ample supply thanks to his years, long ago, as Assistant Trainer for his high school football team, where the wide corridor from locker room to gridiron had been decked with placards: A WINNER NEVER QUITS, A QUITTER NEVER WINS; YOUR ATTITUDE DETERMINES YOUR LATITUDE; KNOW THE WAY, GO THE WAY, SHOW THE WAY. These notions lived in his head like a fan of flash cards, and he’d lost count of the times he’d been in the midst of some thorny negotiation or out on the golf course with a potential client and had reached back for just the right phrase to turn the situation to his advantage. In business, knowledge was the coin of the realm, and for this reason—as well as others—Weldon considered himself a very rich man.

Satisfied, he turned and strode toward the door, his loafers clacking on the tile. As he emerged into the hallway, his cell phone rang, so he plucked it from his belt, flipped it open, and held it to his ear.

“Weldon.”

“Hey, Killer. What’s on the block today?”

“Board meeting. I’m on my way up now. Gotta sell ’em on my idea for the new account.”

“No sweat. By the time you’re through, there’ll be blood on the walls.”

“You know it. Hey, Simon, you ever heard of the Council of Twelve?”

“The what?”

“Found a note on my windshield this morning. Really old, yellow paper, you know? It said, ‘We look forward to meeting you.’ Signed, ‘The Council of Twelve.’ ”

“Probably a practical joke. You still in touch with your old frat brothers?”

“Sure, but this hardly seems like their style. Anyhow, it’s been years.”

“Don’t worry about it. Maybe they got the wrong car. Just concentrate on your bullet points—and your aim.”

“Will do, Si.”

Weldon snapped the phone shut, clipped it again to his belt. Standing now before the elevator, he saw his reflection divided by the seam of the closed doors. Then a chime sounded and the doors slid open. He stepped inside, turned, and waited. When the doors shut once more, a female voice intoned from a speaker in the ceiling, “Floor please.”

“Twenty-six.”

“Thank you for your request.” As the elevator began its smooth ascent, the voice continued, “I see you’re wearing your lucky tie, Mr. Weldon.”

“Yes, J.A.N.E. I hope it still works.”

“I hope so, too, sir. You’ll certainly need all your luck today.”

“Oh?”

“The Council expects one to be in top form. You won’t want to disappoint.”

Fear rose like an icicle along Weldon’s spine. His mind whirled, clouded, then, after a long moment, cleared. His brow twitched. “The—excuse me? I—”

“Twenty-six,” said the voice. The chime sounded and the doors slid open. “I hope to serve you again soon, Mr. Weldon. Good day.”

Mechanically, Weldon stepped forward into the reception room, a cavernous, metallic chamber touched with gray and salmon accents. Chilly air whirred through slender vents in the ceiling. A latticed shadow from the milky skylight fell diagonally across one wall. Though he’d visited many times, Weldon had never, as now, found the room vacant. The large desk in the center—where the receptionist usually sat—stood empty; its surface had been cleared and a white sign, propped there on a miniature easel, read in blunt capitals: ENTER.

Weldon circled the desk and paused before the double doors directly behind it. He raised his fist to knock, then, remembering the sign, pushed instead against the chrome handles.

Even before the doors closed behind him, Weldon found himself seized by two men in black suits, black gloves, and black glasses. A third man, fat as a parade float, stormed forward and punched him savagely in the nose. Weldon stiffened and tipped backward just as the fat man grabbed Weldon’s tie, yanked it out like a leash, and, with an enormous pair of silver scissors, snipped it off just below the knot. Then all three lifted his body by the limbs and flung him into a leather executive’s chair, where he slumped, stunned and groggy.

Gazing down the surface of the glassy table before him, Weldon saw on either side dark silhouettes, parallel and equidistant, notched from the iridescent grid of the ceiling. He straightened, refocused, and found that the shapes belonged to twelve strangers in black suits, each with a nametag in a clear plastic sleeve that read “Hello, my name is” above a numeral scrawled in red magic marker. From left to right around the table, the men sat in order, one through twelve.

After what seemed an interminable silence, filled only by a persistent, unplaceable drone, the interview began.

ONE. Congratulations, Mr. Weldon. You’ve arrived exactly on time.

NINE (smugly). Rather overdue, in my opinion.

ELEVEN. Your opinion, if I may say so, is completely irrelevant.

SIX. Gentlemen, please. We resolved this at our last meeting. Mr. Weldon has acquitted himself with admirable punctuality.

NINE. Hmph.

ONE. So then, Mr. Weldon. We’d like to ask you a few questions.

WELDON. I—

COUNCIL (in unison). SILENCE!

Again the drone fills the room.

TWO. Mr. Weldon, do you consider yourself a good businessman?

WELDON hesitates.

EIGHT. Well? Speak, sir!

WELDON. I—look, just what the hell—

NINE. Oh, I told you he would be difficult!

FIVE. You will save yourself a great deal of trouble, Mr. Weldon, by choosing to cooperate.

WELDON (leaning forward). I don’t have the slightest interest in cooperating! Who are you assholes? I’m supposed to be—

Gloved hands seize WELDON's shoulders and wrench him back in his chair. The fat man appears again, pulls a revolver from his coat, cocks it, and presses the muzzle to WELDON’s temple. The COUNCIL chuckles.

TEN. You received our summons, Mr. Weldon?

WELDON (through clenched teeth). Yes.

SEVEN. And you confirmed your appointment with our assistant, J.A.N.E.?

WELDON. Yes.

TWELVE. And you arrived, as we’ve said, on time and of your own free will?

WELDON (eyeing the revolver). Yes.

ONE. Excellent.

The man withdraws the revolver, steps back behind WELDON’s chair.

EIGHT. Let’s start afresh.

TWO. Do you consider yourself a good businessman?

WELDON (clearing his throat). Of course.

NINE. Of course, he says!

FOUR (to NINE). Enough. (to WELDON) On what grounds?

WELDON. I’m—successful. A closer.

FOUR. You make a habit of sealing the deal?

WELDON. That’s right.

THREE. No doubt you’re well compensated for your efforts.

WELDON. I’m worth it.

NINE (chortling). Clearly, sir!

ELEVEN. And on this basis, then, you count yourself among the blessed?

WELDON (bristling). I wouldn’t—

FIVE. The elect?

SEVEN. The chosen?

TEN. The elite?

TWELVE. The special?

WELDON. I’m a leader, yes—if that’s what you’re driving at.

NINE. A leader!

FOUR. And where, may I ask, are you leading your poor blind followers?

WELDON. That’s not—

NINE (enraged). YOU HAVE NO SOUL, MR. WELDON! NO SOUL!

ONE (to NINE). For the last time—

NINE (waving his hands). All right, all right.

ONE. Mr. Weldon, is your portfolio diversified?

WELDON (puzzled). Yes.

SEVEN. Do you routinely give one hundred and ten percent?

WELDON. I do.

TEN. Can you be counted upon at all times to step up to the plate?

WELDON (proudly). Yes, sir!

The COUNCIL breathes a collective sigh.

ONE. Outstanding.

TWO. Mr. Weldon, we’ve called you here because we need a man of your caliber to pursue a difficult problem.

The fat man emerges from behind WELDON’s chair, slowly circles the table, and stops before a framed painting on the wall. He opens the painting like a door, reaches inside, pulls out a metal box studded with red gems, turns to place the box in the center of the table, steps back, then crosses again to his position behind the chair. The COUNCIL murmurs.

SEVEN. This box, Mr. Weldon, appeared in our vault several months ago. Since we operate under the strictest security, we have no explanation for how it got there. Its monetary value is no doubt very high—but our concern lies with its contents.

WELDON. Okay, I’ll bite. What’s inside?

ELEVEN. A woman, Mr. Weldon.

WELDON. Excuse me?

FIVE. Her name is Sophia. She tells us she’s looking for her husband.

WELDON. Whoa, hold on a second—

EIGHT. Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Weldon. We’re not inclined to take that literally, as you’ll soon see. Nevertheless, you are a bachelor, are you not?

WELDON. Yes, but—

SIX. And you’re approximately the right age. You’ll have noticed, of course, that we on the Council are rather more elderly.

TWELVE. We’re searching, you see, for the man to whom her message is addressed.

WELDON. What message?

Now the box opens of its own accord, its heavy lid creaking on its hinges. A puff of smoke curls out of the chamber, followed by a blinding white flash. Then an image forms suddenly above the table, a towering holographic projection of a woman in rippling black robes, silver jewelry, and red lipstick. Her skin, translucently pale, glows and flickers; her dark hair swirls, swept back by inaudible winds—and when she speaks, her voice hums with a tremulous harmonic vibration.

SOPHIA. O my beloved! For too long I have suffered invisibly in silence. Your persistent blindness has caused me untold heartache, wrought within me almost unbearable distortions. To appear as I do now, in the guise you see before you, requires immense effort, an act of will I shall be unable to sustain without your aid. And so I implore you: Look at me. See me. Perceive my true Being—my inmost Self. If you are unable to perform this simple act of love, we shall be torn apart forever. You must acknowledge your role as co-creator of my form—as I am yours—or the consequences will prove disastrous. Can you—will you—hear this prayer, O my beloved?

As SOPHIA begins the speech again, looping back to the beginning, her words produce a palpable physiological reaction in WELDON. First, fear spreads through his body, rendering him mute and paralyzed; then the tremors begin, causing involuntary spasms in his face and shoulders; finally, when his absolute lack of comprehension—the total absence of any means to grasp what he sees and hears—overwhelms him, a yawning vortex opens in his mind and his skull explodes, spraying a fine mist in all directions. Immediately, SOPHIA’s image collapses, drops back into the box. WELDON’s headless body lurches to its feet, fumbles for its cell phone, extends an arm for a handshake—then falls forward across the table, unleashing a thick tide of blood. The twelve members of the COUNCIL rise calmly, step back, and wag their heads.

NINE (retrieving the box). I’m not going to say I told you so.

ONE. Please be quiet.

NINE. Jenkins from Accounting, I said. But did anyone listen?

ONE. Stop gloating, damn it.

NINE. Weldon! What a rube!