True Life: I Am A Door To Door Marketer.

As I walked up the spiraling driveway, tapping my toes with precise delicacy to not make the dogs bark louder than they normally do, I started thinking about how badly my job sucks.

Then, I put my best foot forward, which is evidently ALWAYS the right one, because right is correct. I whispered to myself over and over again my script that I have PERFECTED. So far...it hasn't got me anywhere, but damn do I sound good.

"Hi, my name is Sean from College Works painting, how are you doing?"

"We are in the neighborhood offering free estimates, and I was wondering if you are looking to get any exterior work done."

"Why are you holding a gun?"

"Are you drooling?"

"I noticed you are stepping toward me in an angry fashion."

"Oh god. Will you please just take this flyer?"

"Ouch. Oh well, I never liked my right arm anyway. Have a nice day."

Before I could get to "arm," an attractive woman opens her door to see a 6'7 kid with a peculiarly shaved head, and a way-too-tightly fitting Sherwin Williams t-shirt.

As you might imagine, it was an extremely awkward encounter, and I tried to raise the awkwardness by letting out an uncomfortable laugh, like I do in most strange social situations.

Then me and the attractive woman did that thing where you move to your right, she moves to her left, you move to your left, she moves to her right, and you seem to dance in an intertwined inconvenience for what feels like 30 seconds, but is more like 3. Possibly the most flawed social encounter mechanism in the history of human civilization. At least I didn't headbutt her.

"How may I help you?"

"Hi. I'm Sean from College Works Painti--"

"We just got our house painted. Thanks."

She continues walking around the corner, and I glance back as I walk away shamefully to see her in her boyfriends python-arms that could suffocate my very existance in a matter of seconds.

He has several tattoo's, a boat with a wakeboard tower, and I have 300 flyers, and a Sherwin Williams T-shirt. With a hat to match.

As I heard the laughter in the distance, I tripped on a pebble, inviting more laughter and went on to drop alot of flyers and get really used to the phrase "No thanks, please never come back. Ever."

Onto the next house. I am hardly optimistic.

But this one seemed different. It seemed promising. Fading trim? Check. Car in the driveway? Check. No animals that want to take my head off? Check. No NRA sign on the front of the house? Check.

I knock my customary 4 times. At this point, I have it down to a science, really. It's 4 quick knocks, purposeful, but not overly agressive, demanding...but inviting. It's my fingers way of saying, "Hey...hear me out real quick. And let me paint your house. Thanks."

No answer. Surely they heard me. Right?

I try the fool-proof-4-knocks again. Nothing.

Then I hear some tiny footsteps approaching the front door.

Clank-clank-clank, it's a Black Lab...looks to be about 9 or 10 years old.

It's deep brown eyes peer into mine, looking as disappointed as I was. I thought the dog was the promising home-owner. He thought I was his owner. I was a door-to-door marketer, and he was a Black Lab.

In a delirious state of frusturation, I started giving my sales pitch to the Black Lab.

"Hey, I know you are a dog and all, but your fur looks like it's fading, and the trim on this house sucks. Let's be real. I'll dye your hair and paint your trim for 300 bucks."

"NO I will not give you a BATH."

"No. Playing fetch is not part of the contract. Besides, aren't you a bit old for that?"

I could tell by it's eyes that he thought I was crazy. Or maybe he really wanted to play fetch.

"I know bud, I'm disappointed too. I'll leave you this flyer so you can call me sometime if you wanna hang out."

Then I started barking and scratching the front door in a feeble attempt to get the home-owners attention. Instead, the neighbors looked at me weird and said they would call the police if I pee on the firehydrant in front of their lawn again.

To that...I said RAWRF!

They say after tasting defeat so many times, success tastes a little sweeter.

Or maybe they say after tasting defeat so many times, success has a lingering taste of failure, so no matter how decodent the meal you are enjoying, it will always have a slight hint of SHIT, even if it is Calimari at a gourmet restaurant, which may or may not taste like feces regardless.

Anyway, 3 houses later I came to the front door of a nice looking house that had a really inviting sign posted on the front door. Some people have little catch phrases that say "God Bless This Home," or "Please Take Off Your Shoes," or "Welcome."

Instead, this house said, "If we do not know you, or you haven't been invited, you have 20 seconds to leave, or take the consequences."

After I wiped the piss from my left thigh, I started to wonder what these consequences are, while simultaneously counting down from 20 to see if these people were for real. I got to 17 before I heard an intimidating grunt from the other side of the door, and then a high pitched scream that made me want to run in a bush and never say the word "house-paint," again.

I made my way out of there as fast as I could, screaming, "YOUR TRIM COULD USE SOME WORK...AND YOUR DECK NEEDS TO BE RE-STAINED."

4 missed gunshots and 3 houses later, a nice middle aged man opened his door with a welcoming smile, and no handguns or intimidating notes in sight.

I gave him my speech that has garnered zero dollars so far, and after everything I said, he said "yeah."

He was increadibly agreeable, and an easy sell who ended up agreeing to a free estimate, which is the ultimate goal, and I walked away with a genuine sense of accomplishment and no apparent gun-shot-wounds.

Success was tasted, and devoured. Even though there was an aftertaste of dog-bone, and a hint of "NO TRESPASSING...OR ELSE," it was still sweet, sweet nectar.