Door to Door Sales

What do you do when you can't get people to come buy a product? You go to them.

A few days ago I was home alone and the doorbell rang. I opened it quickly, thinking it might just be the one person I've waited to show up at my door for the last 15 years: the dang kid that stole my Charlotte Hornets windbreaker at Jr. Jazz basketball camp.

I opened our door to find a man holding a large duffel bag. He was overly kind as he started asking me about the condition of our carpet, our bathroom, and the amount of money we're "wasting away" on various cleaning products. I quickly concluded my windbreaker wasn't in his bag.

He pulled out a jug of green liquid and started polishing the brass on on our porch light. "What do you usually use to take the rust spots off this thing, anyway?" he asked. "Oh, just a little spit shine and elbow grease," I replied. Actually, I didn't even know we had a porch light until he pointed it out.

When I was a kid, a man like him showed up at our door. He asked if we had any stains in our house that we couldn't get rid of. I pointed out one on my shirt. He shook his head and asked if we had any spots on our carpet or couch. My eyes lit up as I thought of the stain in my parent's closet where the cat had puked.

I escorted him through our home to my parent's walk-in closet. He crawled under my mom's church dresses and went right to work on the stain. He used every bottle in his bag but couldn't beat the barf with any of them. Eventually he pulled out what I assume was Clorox and bleached the thing.

After he finished he asked if we'd want to buy some of his cleaner. As any good child would do, I told him I was home alone and wasn't sure where my parents kept their money. I then told him I would like to buy some, but couldn't because I was saving up for the new Weird Al album.

Years later, still stupid, I again let the cleaning-solution salesman in the house, even though he didn't really do much for the rust spots on the porch light. He wanted to show me how his cleaner would shine up the bathtub, but when we got to the tub it was apparent my wife had already beaten him to it.

"You're going to have a hard time finding any imperfections in this house, my wife runs a tight ship," I said.

He then proceeded to tell me how his product would make her life so much easier. At that point I just wanted to get him out of our house, so I asked how much the freaking bottle cost. "It comes to $41.89," he said, "and that includes sales tax."

Little did he know he was standing in the home of one of the cheapest persons on earth. I squinted one eye, tilted my head to back, and placed my hand on my chin. "I'll give you six bucks."

"Are you kidding?" he exclaimed. "This stuff is concentrated, man... it will last you for at least a year!"

We both maintained our negotiating stances for a few moments until I broke the silence. "So would a $6 jug of Clorox."