Which one of you is buying from the door-to-door salesman? Somebody is, otherwise this archaic, intrusive selling method would have died with panty raids and letter sweaters.
I live in the burbs and my porch is very busy and I panic every time I hear the doorbell – it’s the same kind of panic I feel when I‘m driving and I hear sirens in a rap song. Everything freezes for a split second. In the car, I turn the radio down. At home I answer the door. In the process, I immediately wonder if these solicitors can smell the skunk in my garage. Are my eyes bleeding? Is it an emergency? Worse, is it my in-laws?
Odds are if I’m home, I’m baked. And the last thing I want to deal with is some pushy lawn care salesman shaming me for my dandelions. “Sir, I notice you have a weed problem (do I ever), would you like an estimate?” Umm….no, thank you…. they don’t bother me so much. Then the follow-up, because let’s be honest, a simple no is never enough: “Your neighbors are very happy with our product.” Again, I don’t care about my dandelions and care even less about my neighbors’ weed situation.
Saturday morning, right after I stepped into the hotbox garage for a little wake and bake, the doorbell rang. It was a Jehovah witness. The JWs piss off many a folk but not so much me. I quickly decline their invite to a special event at the Kingdom Hall and politely say no to a copy of Watchtower magazine and voila, they’re off quicker than a toupee in a hurricane. I do wonder though, what they’re thinking when they see a middle-aged man with red eyes and bed head answer the door at 9:30. Pity, likely.
Ding-dong! Good. Gawd. Who is it now? Alarm Force! Awesome: I get a kick out of these home security clowns. They always start by saying they will exchange a security system if I agree to let them hammer a sign into my lawn. Hell no, I’m nurturing dandelions. After a very looooooong sales pitch the truth comes out… all this for a $60 per month monitoring fee. Get bent. I can buy a quarter of OG Kush for 60 bones.
One time, at Christmas, I opened the door after blazing a big bowl of Skywalker OG (I’m a sucker for weed with cool names) and was greeted by a couple of Asian carolers. That was uncomfortable, not because they’re Asian – I’m married to one, but because I was fried and they were singing, loudly. I wanted to hide or pull out my light sabre and strike down these festive troopers. At the end of some carol I’ve never heard before, they wanted money for a charity they knew nothing about. I found out later via my neighborhood Facebook site it was a scam. Wait until Lord Vader hears about this.
At this point you’re probably wondering why I just don’t stop answering my door. I can’t. Something compels me. Maybe a small part of me likes the struggle and besides, what if my neighbor had a stroke and her son is over looking for help and I don’t answer the door? I don’t need that potential guilt bonanza.
There are some visits I don’t mind. Girl guides with boxes of minty chocolate cookies are always welcome! The neighborhood kids collecting pop bottles for a hockey trip –knock away. And that’s pretty much it. Oh, and the pizza man! Much love for the pizza man. He never judges. Just don’t trample my dandelions when you leave.
Joel Schlesinger is a Winnipeg writer, covering a wide range for subject matter from personal finance and real estate to cannabis, of course. As his Twitter handles states, he will write for money, and food. Just don't ask him to write for the alt-right (yuck!).