The One About The...

The doorbell rings. The dogs bark. The Boy races to the front door. I step in front of him, cutting him off. I tell the dogs to shut up and then sigh. Here we go again. In my increasingly long life I have never - I mean never - had so many people knock on my door as I have since we moved here. They come and come and come; a pilgrimage to my home, as if I had some piece of toast the top of which is miraculously browned into a likeness of the Virgin Mary. These visitors, however, aren't looking for divine, spiritual affirmation. No, the miracle they seek on their hajj is that they will somehow be able to sell me some crap.

I have, like everyone else, always had the occasional Jehovah's Witness or Mormon missionary. They are everywhere, like The Gap. The surprise would be if they never knocked. Their brethren, usually from small storefront churches, usually around Easter, also visit. Seems the word is out that my soul is up for grabs. Depending on my mood I will send them packing or, if I have the time and I feel difficult, indulge in them, but that's rare. Move along, apostle.

The real oddities are the numerous salespeople of the material world. The guy who wants to trim my trees. The "college kids" who think I need more magazine subscriptions. The one-legged meth addict/huffer who paints my address number on the curb twice a year for ten bucks (he started out with both legs). The window washers. The gardeners. The handymen. The carpet cleaners. They come in droves.

There are the guys in the panel truck, always with the same story: "We're supposed to make a delivery down here but the customer backed out and the boss will kill us if we come back without the sale. We can make you a killer deal. So, how much meat would you like?" Meat, door to door. "Sorry, we're vegetarians."

There was the guy who showed up one morning and excitedly inquired as to whether I was interested in having my driveway painted. What?

Then there is the the ultimate. He comes every six months or so. He is dressed in the same tan, creased, lightweight coveralls. He is elderly, friendly, and always asks for the lady of the house. He is from another time; an anachronism. He is the Fuller Brush Man. We never buy anything, but he always comes back; always leaves his card. He is a fountain of optimism. I feel bad for him, but I don't need his stuff.

Let it be shouted from the hilltops: I don't need my trees trimmed by the guy in the backfiring pickup. I don't need more magazines. I don't need my soul saved. I don't need my windows washed or my carpets cleaned or my house handied. I really don't need meat from the back of a van. I don't even need my house number on the curb. It doesn't matter, though. They'll keep coming. Mecca has that draw. I will wave them on, send them to the next door. "Sorry folks, it's just a piece of toast. Besides, you don't want to mess with a guy who has no qualms about eating the Virgin Mary for breakfast"