Mostly Anecdotal

He looked like a bulldog coming across the street toward my front door. He was snarling and drooling and kicking up chunks of pavement. His teeth were showing, and I could see that he meant business. I looked away, but when I looked back he was still coming. He was on my front porch in no time. It was his front porch now. He rang the bell. I considered not answering, but while I was thinking about it my hand turned the knob and the door opened.

“You can’t put your garbage out on both sides of the street,” he said, still snarling.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t know.”

“We get paid based on cans we empty and there’s no profit in emptying the same cans twice. You have three over there.” He pointed at my row of cans. “I emptied them when they were on your side of the street,” he said.

I looked across the street, he was right there was my green recycling container full of cardboard that wouldn’t fit the first time I filled it because it was filled with newspaper and cans and bottles. The other two cans, also mine, once filled with standard fare were now filled with the remnants of a small construction project we had undertaken. They held bits of scrap lumber, empty paint cans, and such.

The city provides one recycling can, and one regular garbage can. You can request an additional can for an eight dollar a month surcharge. We pay the surcharge. Most of our neighbors survive with one recycling, and one regular can, we don’t. I know we should; I know we need to get off the consumerist treadmill and start living the simple life. I know we’d be happier, the environment would be happier, but our piggy habits are hard to break. Some of our neighbors also have additional cans, we are a select club, we consumerist assholes.

I’ve done it before, I’ve had a little extra trash and after he emptied it on our side of the street I refilled the can and put it on the neighbor’s side, but this wasn’t just a single can it was all three. One of my neighbors on the other side of the street was outside when I was taking my extra cans out. I was embarrassed, what must she be think? She looked my way, and although she was close enough to say something she just smiled and waved. When I started back across I saw her walk to our side of the street and retrieve a can, her can, a can that was emptied when the truck passed on our side. She was going to refill it to be emptied again on her side. She is definitely a member of the club.

I wasn’t sure how to talk to a bulldog, I didn’t want to take the full cans back, I didn’t want my garbage stacking up, but there he was still snarling and giving me the evil eye. I decided on a course of action, I’d grovel.

“I’m sorry,” I said. He was unmoved. It was clear I would have to do a lot better than just I’m sorry.

“We simply don’t have the time” he said. “I’m not going to work extra hours for nothing and that’s what happens when people like you put their trash out twice. Get another can from the City if you need more, and pay your fair share.”

The problem with that is that I feel guilty enough with the extra can I already have, I can’t imagine what the neighbors would say if we had three regular cans and a recycling can.

I donned my most sincere face and said, “I’m really sorry, and I understand that it’s not fair to you and It will never happen again.” The scowl on his face relaxed just a bit and his hackles were down. “I would really appreciate it if you could take it this one last time, and like I said It’ll never happen again, honest.”

He cocked his head to one side and looked at me. I could tell he was considering my request, but had I said the right thing, had he already made up his mind, he hesitated, “just this last time he said,” and then turned and left. I thanked him again, as he was walking away and went back inside. Would he change his mind on the way back across the street to his truck. Would my apology hold, he got back in his truck and pulled forward a few feet, stopped next to my cans and emptied them both. The truck for the recycling can will come later in the day, the question is will I be taking the final can back full or empty.

I hear a beep. Something’s battery needs recharging, but what? Is it the alarm that goes off at noon each day? The alarm is a problem I should fix, but I’d have to figure out how it works all over again. It is the type of thing that you deal with so seldom that you forget how it’s done. There are other things like that I suffer from, but it’s not noon, and so it couldn’t be the alarm and so I expand my search.

First, I look to see whether the phone is in its cradle. It is, but a visual check is not enough and I rise to examine it and then reseat it just in case. I return to my desk, but a few moments later I hear the beep again. It sounds like the beep a phone makes when its battery is low. It must be a cell phone. I look at my phone sitting on the desk next to me. It can’t be my cell phone, can it? The sound seems like it’s coming from the right, or maybe behind me. I plug my phone into a charger anyway. Moments pass and the beep returns. I’m sure now, it’s behind me, but where exactly and what. Then I remember, my iPod is in the book bag directly behind me. My analytical mind triumphs—I take it out of the bag and plug it in.

The phone rings, a ring not a beep, it’s the Power Company. “What the hell,” the man says, “are you recharging your world again.”

I assure him I’m not, “just a few small items,” I say “I’m surprised you noticed.”

“Be sure to unplug them when you’re finished,” he says, “not only will it help with your power bill but we won’t have to build another coal-fired plant as soon as we would otherwise, and we know how you’re opposed to coal-fired plants.”

“How do you know I’m opposed to coal-fired plants,” I ask.

“Google,” he says.

He’s on the phone, but I’m sure I sense a conspiratorial wink at the other end of the line. I hang up. I’m pleased that the disturbing beeps have ended.

What, another beep. I look at my iPod just to make sure I didn’t dream I plugged it in, and then I yell, “Gail there is beeping in our room and I can’t find it.”

“It’s probably my phone,” she replies, “it’s in my purse.”

I turnaround, there is her purse, a few inches from my book bag. She arrives removes the phone and plugs it in to recharge. “I sure hope the Power Company guy doesn’t notice,” I say.

She looks puzzled, but she knows me well. “I hope not,” she says and leaves.

I prefer to sleep through the night. I don’t always get what I want—nature calls, the phone rings, usually a wrong number, the dog barks at the cat, the cat hisses at the dog. The alarm goes off, but that’s expected even if you’d rather sleep. Thursday night was different, a new goblin deigned to spoil my sleep, a beeping sound. A sound that took some time to work out because it was dark. The power was out, so why was there beeping? It was definitely coming from inside the house.

Zeus had been doing his thing emptying the heavens in our yard, a much needed shower, and Thor was speaking in a deep rumbling voice, who knew that the Greek and Norse gods worked together. I mistook Thor’s voice for my wife’s snoring. Yes she does, my wife snores. Anyway it was the beeping not the snoring that woke me. It woke her too.

(more…)

We Americans teach our sons that when our daughters say no, they mean no. Now if we could teach them that when the nice gentleman residing on Blueberry Hill says no he too means no.

No soliciting reads the new sign on my front door, or it will as soon as I finish it. I’m not buying: your product, your religion, your bullshit. If you are here to give me money or take my money, fuck off. If you are here for a bit of conversation look elsewhere, I’m not interested. I have a bat and a gun and a dog. If you’d like an unpleasant encounter stay on my porch and keep knocking. I see you’re getting ready to leave, good. Don’t attach that flier to my door, if you must leave something there is a garbage can at the side of the house, deposit it there.

I’ve had forty plus years of visits from door to door salesman, and it’s turned me into a part time curmudgeon. But, the day the fellows from First Line Security came to my door it was righteous anger. When someone comes to the front door, someone I have no intention of inviting inside; I step out on the front porch to talk to them. It keeps the pets from wandering off, and I’m loath to just close the door although I know I’ll be inviting them to leave in very short order.

“Hi, I like to ask you some questions about your property,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” I said, “I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.”

“Oh, I’m not selling anything,” he said.

I know it’s trite, but if I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that lame line . . .

“I don’t believe you, but whatever it is you want from me I’m not buying,” I said.

“Look I need you to answer a couple of questions about your property,” he said.

My patience is limited, and I’m at my limit.

“I’ve already told you I won’t be answering your questions,” I said.

“We want to pay you to place a sign on your property, we’ll pay you monthly,” he said.

“I don’t want a sign on my property,” I said, “and this conversation is now over.”

“I just want to ask you a couple of questions,” he insists.

“Listen I’m not answering your questions and I’d like you to leave,” I said.

“You’d like me to leave?” he said.

“Yes I’d like you to leave,” I said.

“But I have a couple of questions I need to ask you,” he said.

“You’re trespassing,” I said, “I’m ordering you to leave my property. Don’t say another word, turnaround and walk in that direction.”

I pointed the way.

“And fuck you,” I added.

He mumbled a fuck you in return, but left.

A nice story you say, typical you say, but hey we’ve all met that asshole and we’ve all had difficulty getting him to leave, that’s the price of living in suburbia. Yes, but you’ve only heard the first half of the story.

Three hours later I hear a knock on the door. I open the door, and there he is again, no wait, It’s not him, but another asshole in a blue shirt with “First Line” embroidered above his left breast. Okay, it’s probably not embroidered, but there it is as if it’s been embroidered.

“One of your buddies has already been here,” I said, “and I’m still not interested.”

“I know,” he said.

“You know that someone from your company has been here and that I’m not interested,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s why I’m here.”

“That’s why you’re here?” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “it didn’t go well.”

His tone was condescending, the message I got was that I’d been rude to his cohort and he was here to straighten things out.

“I have a couple of questions I need to ask you about your property,” he said.

I know that sales people are instructed to never take the first no. In the sixties, it was Napoleon Hill that spouted this ‘wisdom’ and I’m sure there are modern day equivalents that spout the same bullshit today. I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now.

“I didn’t answer your buddy’s question and I’m sure as hell not answering yours,” I said.

He stood there, having taken half a step toward me.

“You’re trespassing on my property. I’m asking you to leave now,” I said.

He was glaring now.

“I just need to ask you a couple of questions,” he said.

“Get the fuck out of here,” I said.

I was getting quite shrill and decidedly surly. He stood his ground.

“Do I have to call the police,” I said.

He said nothing nor did he show any intention of leaving.

I didn’t know the number for the police so I took out my cell phone and dialed 911. After verifying my address and in response to the question about the emergency. I said, “There is a man standing here on my porch; he’s some sort of a salesman. I’ve asked him to leave and he won’t, and frankly I’m feeling a little threatened by him.”

He continued to glare.

“Would you like me to send the police,” she said.

I started to say yes, but at that moment he started to leave. “I don’t think the police will be necessary, it looks like he’s leaving,” I said.

“Okay,” she said. “If you’re sure you don’t need the police.”

“He’s in his car now,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, “If he returns don’t open your door and call us immediately.”

The following day, I saw the first salesman, oops advertising director, knocking on a neighbor’s door up the street. I can’t verify that it belongs to the asshole, but a car I hadn’t seen before was parked a few doors from mine. I could see that the plate was personalized, but it was too far away to read it. So I walked towards it until I could make out the details, and there it was an explanation for the pushy arrogance exhibited by these two twenty-somethings. The plate read, 2COOL4U. They’re not cool, they have a lot to learn, and they ought to start with no means no.

My wife sells Avon. No, that’s not quite right. My wife buys Avon because she gets a discount selling for Avon. She recently had a rash that wouldn’t go away. She tried creams and oils and various products, but nothing worked.

“It’s probably a reaction to something you’re putting on your skin,” I said. “The only way you’re going to figure it out is to stop using everything and add them back one at a time.”

“No makeup,” she said.

“Nothing,” I said.

“I can’t go without makeup,” she said.

“An attractive women like you doesn’t need makeup,” I said.

I still know how to charm a woman, and she was getting desperate and so decided to give it a try. It turns out that most Avon creams and lotions contain something that she’s allergic to.

“Does this mean you’re going to stop ’selling’ Avon?” I said.

“Oh no,” she said “Avon sells lots of things that aren’t cosmetics.”

She produced a catalog and started showing me the merchandise.

“Here’s a nice watch with a cool metal band,” she said, “would you like me to get you one.”

“No thanks,” I said. “They give me a rash. ”