The creepiest salesman ever just knocked on my door. The moment was actually kind of handy, really, since I was sitting here trying to decide on a topic for today’s post.
I’m still shaking off the willies and my heart is still pounding.
And why would he…
No, sir. I do not want to buy your cleaning products.
First of all, I kind of loathe door to door salespeople. I know we all do. But I think I loathe them the most.
I think it’s mostly because they almost always knock in a moment where I’m super zoned-in on something else (a state I am often in), they often knock loud, and it scares the bejeezus out of me. Then they won’t go away until I’m finally a jerk to them.
And this guy.
I was sitting on my sofa, some seven feet from the front door, notebook atop my legs, scrolling through my “to-write” list that I often rummage through.
BOOM BOOM BOOM
A knock like that is never something good. It’s always going to be one of four things. Either an emergency with a neighbor, a cop, a bad guy, or a salesman.
I looked through the peephole. A man stood on the other side holding a squirt bottle and a clipboard. Drat. A salesman. My first inclination was to tip toe away, but he was staring right into the peephole and waved at me, letting me know he saw me there. Dammit.
I opened the door.
The man not much taller than an Aspen branch, and barely half as skinny, stood in a white polo shirt that had fresh wet armpit stains on top of several days worth of old ones. There were several areas where he had at some point attempted to wipe away dripped condiments. He had long stringy hair, weighed down and plastered to his head with some form of grease or lard, I don’t know. A pack of cigarettes bulged from his shirt pocket.
His jeans were… crusty? For lack of a better word. They looked as if they had been fried in French Fry oil, and then rolled in a pile of muck that someone swept together from a public bathroom. At a subway station.
His shoes were worn through. I think they once were white. Now they were dingy gray with flapping soles, exposed toes, and an ambiance that sang, “touch me and you’ll get Ebola.”
This man was once Caucasian. A life in the sun and thousands of cigarettes had left him a strange color made of grays, oranges, and browns. A stench overpowered me as soon as I opened the door. I had to fight a great urge to immediately close it in his face.
And his smile. Literally, the man had four teeth that I could see. Two of them were silver. The other two were the color of coffee. There was a visible slime that covered his lips and tongue that would make morning mouth seem like a pleasurable vacation.
Now, this may seem like a harsh description of another human being. It is. For sure. But, I’m okay with that. The guy pounded on my door, filled my entryway with his stench, and proceeded to… well… let’s just carry on with the rest of the story.