Originally published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat on April 20, 2007 and again on March 25, 2011.
The other day, an effusively smiling young man showed up outside my front door with a full 2-liter bottle of Coke. Was he a drug dealer pushing “coke?” Was he an admirer wooing me with sweet words and soft drinks? Or was he a criminal wielding a potential explosive?
I knew instantly he was pushing a particular line of vacuum cleaners, because last year they were handing out boxes of chocolates with a promise to return with a brief demonstration. If, like me, you declined the demo, they were happy to reclaim their bait box.
I’ve had that demo already – back in the days when I was younger and even more gullible. In nearly fifteen years of stay-at-home-dom, I’ve encountered many a salesperson. Most can be categorized as:
A. Sellers of candy, wrapping paper, or pledges so the children in their organization aren’t forced to play on equipment older than they are.
B. Sellers of candy or magazine subscriptions so they can stay off of drugs, out of gangs, fund their way to college, or win a trip to Europe.
C. Those selling cleaning appliances or cleaning agents, not to earn a living, but just to helpfully point out that, despite your best efforts, your home is a breeding ground of germs and microscopic insects.
I wonder if modern day peddlers are using the system once employed by hobos. Depending on the reception they had received, hobos would leave a drawing near the entrance of a house. Like a Nielsen rating of the occupants, the sign might be a warm apple pie, a fierce attack dog, or the muzzle of a shotgun.
I think someone has left a code on our doorstep: SUCKERS. Most of the time I can ward off those the peddler with a bawling baby or other convenient domestic excuse, but one day I fell victim to my own schemes.
The day I became a sucker, it was a Category C seller. Normally, when I open the door I don’t just let the character in, but as my husband was home I was a bit bolder. "Are you the Queen of the Castle?" the man with the spray bottle of cleaner queried as he oozed his rehearsed charm. “Queen of the Castle? QUEEN OF THE CASTLE?” I shrieked hysterically in my mind. Did this man step out of the 1950’s?
I don't know about QUEEN: yeah, I make the royal beds and do the royal dishes. Before I had a chance to respond, his spiel began. (I'm sure this steamrolling technique has a name and is taught to these folks who have the unenviable situation of earning a living this way.) His citrus cleaner, he boasted, even diluted to the millionth, was caustic on every stain known to man, yet safe for the environment and children who were into tasting cleaning agents. He rushed to a rust-stained segment of the sidewalk, poured some of the watered down stuff on it, scrubbed with a washcloth, and presto! The rust was magically gone. Then he took a lick of the stuff to prove his second point.
I had allowed myself to listen. I had listened! That was my first mistake. Whenever I get a Category C “Cleaning Peddler,” I harbor this evil thought. Let these people run all around my house with their cleaners, demonstrating how great their products are while I encourage them to remove this stain and that until my home is polished and sparkling. When it’s time to buy, I could conveniently forget how to speak English.
Then I had a stroke of genius. My husband had long ago stained his favorite shirt. The stain was in a spot that could be concealed by a sweater vest, so it was still in the closet. Also, we had used it to ward off other peddlers. I brought out the shirt - a little too gleefully, I admit. But this was the Master of Shrewd. He sealed the bargain, "So if I get out the stain, you'll buy it?" Others had attempted to scale this mountain of stain and failed miserably, so I accepted. My glee and delusions of genius should have been my clue.
Before too long this man attacked my husband’s shirt: pouring capful after capful on the stain, half-scrubbing with the washcloth and half-scraping the fiber off with his extremely long thumbnail. In the end, he held it up to the light. Most of the stain (and some of the fiber) was gone. I was stuck buying a $29-bottle of citrus cleaner.
I shouldn’t complain - the cleaner did resurrect my husband's favorite shirt and has since rescued a pair of oil-stained pants. But mostly, I am relieved to have the "shirt challenge" retired.
Not long after that incident, a young lady came selling the same stuff. She pointed to my partially cleaned rust stain on the sidewalk. “I know, I know,” I said wearily. “I bought the citrus cleaner from the last guy.” She looked puzzled. Why hadn’t I bothered to clean the rest? Forget the rust stain, I am looking to remove our SUCKER code.
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