I’m a door-to-door salesman, and people’s excuses are getting weirder day by day

I’m a door-to-door salesman. Saleswoman, actually, but sometimes I’d like to forget that part, especially when I get another weird smile or a wink from a potential buyer. I’ve heard before that this job is a definition of asking for it, because if coming to your house and saying “May I come in?” doesn’t constitute imposing yourself, then what does? I came to them first, after all.

I will not bore you with the details about what I sell, because frankly, it doesn’t matter. I will say that I’m working for a charity, mostly because it makes me feel better about myself, but also because people who will answer their door for a noble cause are slightly different from those who will do it for, let’s say, cable. They’re usually much lonelier.

As my boss likes to remind me, I’m not there to listen to their stories. I still do, sometimes, because a successful sale requires building a relationship. I’m very good at it. It may not seem believable, since I’m spilling my tea onto the online void as we speak, but I genuinely love people, and they also seem to genuinely love me. This leaves me with frequent employee of the month awards and a ton of personal tangents that nobody else wanted to carry. I like the tangents a lot; they’re usually quite endearing. Sometimes they’re tearful, though. And very rarely, they’re scary.

When I started this job, the only other girl on the team told me: You will meet people who will want to scare you. It was the best advice and the smartest warning I’ve ever gotten from anyone. I try to keep that in mind whenever certain stiffness fills the air and they lower their voices, whenever I become painfully aware of double-locked doors and very thick walls. But I don’t get scared easily, and the truth is, I don’t meet people like that very often.

Perhaps that’s why the creepy encounters I’ve had hold a special place in my memory. At the risk of sounding dramatic, I have to admit that, despite what my coworker said, it’s not always their intention to freak me out. Sometimes they’re demented, sometimes they’re scared themselves. Sometimes I can’t tell. Take Mr. Rogers, for instance.

I met Mr. Rogers when I was checking out a new estate. We have just gotten a permit to work there; I believe I was the first one to do so. It wasn’t actually new – just a couple of older apartment buildings and a lot of much, much older people. I tried to remain optimistic, but the outlook wasn’t great. I love the elderly, I truly do, but they have little money and a lot of time, and as much as I enjoy their tangents, I also have to make quota.

So, after I had gone through three six-floor buildings without even getting close to a sale, I should have called my boss and told him it’s a desert (he likes using metaphors like that). I wish I’d done that, but I’m not a quitter, so I took a deep breath and rang another doorbell.

took him forever to open the door, and if not for the footsteps I heard inside, I would’ve left long before the hinges started to weep. He was very short, which gave him an almost comedic quality, especially next to the giant door. The doorknob was at the height of his neck. He was wearing a Saint Mary necklace, to which he unknowingly clung when he saw me, as if I were there to haunt him. I have to say I’m very tall. I smile a lot, though; his face immediately brightened when his eyes finally reached mine.

“Oh, hello! Yes, please, come in,” he said, before I could even ask. I went inside.

can tell a lot about someone by their house. If you see enough houses, you notice most people are the same. Mr. Roger’s apartment had all the characteristics of an old person’s apartment: dark wood furniture, thick carpet, ugly curtains, framed photos standing on the cupboards – except for the smell. It certainly wasn’t dusty and old, but it also wasn’t particularly good, just very artificial. I had trouble saying if the producer went for sandalwood or strawberry. I figured Mr. Rogers had to have serious gastral problems and probably thought a very strong air freshener did the trick.

We chatted for a bit. He offered me tea, which I accepted. Normally I politely decline, but his apartment was so small that I could see everything he was doing in the kitchen from the couch. I imagined the bathroom had to be very tiny. There was one more room, but it was closed. I could see the light pouring from under the door.

We sat down with the tea, and as I was listing the reasons to donate to our charity specifically, ideally by using the monthly plan, he fixed his gaze on my face and said:
“You look like my wife.”

I glanced at one of the photos on the cupboard, a black-and-white wedding one. I had to admit I was a bit similar to her. I turned back to him and almost jumped; he leaned so much closer to me in those two seconds that I could now watch his wrinkles from up close. I was scared if I looked into his eyes, I’d see a predator, but I only saw an inspector, as if he was checking if my nose was exactly as straight as hers. It was worse somehow.

Then he just leaned back and smiled. I suddenly noticed how white his eyebrows were, and how most of his wrinkles writhed around the corners of his eyes. I recently noticed the first laughter lines on my face, too. I smiled back at him.
“I’ll show you the photos,” he said. “She was very pretty.”

With that, he got up and went straight to the bookshelf. I suppressed a sigh. I know it sounds like a TV trope, but I can’t overstate how often the elderly show me their photo albums. As long as I still close the sale, I’m fine with it, but I wasn’t sure about this one, and even though he seemed rather sweet, I wasn’t looking forward to being compared to his wife any more.

“Here,” he said, handing me the album. “You can browse, and I’ll look for my wallet in the meantime.”

I looked up.

“Oh, sir, I’m sorry, but we don’t take cash,” I said. It’s always the first thing I mention, but people – especially old people – forget.

“I know, you need the bank account number,” he answered, fumbling through his stuff. “I have it in my wallet. I’m not good at technology like you kids these days.”

I tried not to show my surprise. I focused on the photo album instead. There weren’t really any recent ones, and you know how time likes to pester old photos, but even in those blurry pictures I very easily recognized myself. I was holding the album so tightly that my knuckles turned white. Her nose really was as straight as mine.

“Can’t find it, I’m afraid,” he sighed. “Must be in the bedroom.”

He just stood there, looking at me hopelessly.

In my line of work, you have to learn very quickly how to recognize excuses. Confrontation is scarier than death, and people will do everything to avoid it, so if after a twenty-minute chat they suddenly don’t have any more time for “all the formalities”, they’re lying. I have encountered the most elaborate and idiotic excuses, but no experience could have prepared me for leaving the wallet in another room. It surprised me so much I didn’t know what to say. But before I was able to come up with an answer, he said:

“She must have locked it again.”

He came up to the bedroom door. He tried the handle a couple of times, but to no avail.

“I’m sorry, who?”

“She always does this,” Mr Rogers complained, ignoring my question. He reached into his pants pockets and pulled out a dirty handkerchief and a couple of pennies.

“Goddamn it!” he shouted so loudly I jumped in my seat. “She locked the key in, too. Fucking always happens. Always.”

He started pacing around the room, running his hands through what was left of his hair. I didn’t expect him to be so fast, with all that energy hidden inside his tiny body, as if waiting for enough anger to erupt. I could’ve sworn he was slouching when I came in, but the passion straightened him up. He suddenly seemed twenty years younger.

He grabbed his glasses and phone from the kitchen counter.

“I have to call her,” he said, awkwardly punching the password on his phone. “She has to fix this.”

I started to get up. I wasn’t really sure what was going on, but I doubted whoever Mr. Rogers was calling would solve the problem, since it seemed to be more or less in his head.

“You know, sir, we don’t have to do this now. I can come here on another day, let you handle this now —

“No!” he looked up from the phone, staring at me from behind the thick glasses.

“Stay. She has to open up. She can’t do this forever.”

I was still trying to reach the front door while I heard the phone signal. He had a typical old person’s sound settings, which would probably let me hear a whole conversation, *if* that were to happen – whoever he was calling wasn’t picking up. He tried the number three more times, with his eyes locked on me all the time. The glasses made them look exceedingly bulbous. It would actually be quite funny if my heart wasn’t racing.

After the third unsuccessful dial, I asked calmly:

“Mr. Rogers, maybe you could call someone else?”

Somehow my question gave him a pause. He sat down on the couch and scratched his head.

“My son has a spare key,” he said. “Let’s try him.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. I considered leaving for a moment, but eventually I sat down in a chair in front of him.

His son did pick up, and, without even the slightest bit of confusion about the locked door, said he’d be right there.

“He’ll be here in ten minutes,” the old man clarified. “Listen, honey, I’m very sorry. I didn’t know it would take this long. He’ll come with a key and we can fill in this form of yours, alright? I really want to help.”

He took me by surprise. For a second I forgot what I was even doing in his house, that I came in there with a purpose other than handling his crisis. I still didn’t know what exactly was going on with the door, but mr. Rogers certainly wasn’t well, and even though I’m a good seller, I have my morals, and making deals with mentally unsound people doesn’t exactly align with them. 

“I’m a little bit confused about the door”, I tried to change the topic. “Someone else locked it, that’s what you’re saying? Who?”

“She does it sometimes”, he sighed, leaning back on the couch. He was back to his slouching and painfully slow self; all that anger from a moment before evaporated. “She locks the door from the inside. Sometimes she puts my stuff in that room, too, so I can’t reach it, you know. But I can’t really remember where I left the wallet. Getting old does that to you, you know.”

I swallowed and glanced at the door and the thin strain of light under it.

“You mean someone locked the door from the inside? That means she’s still there, right?”

He shrugged. I looked at the door again.

“Well, not really. You know how it is. Sometimes I forget––

He was interrupted by a knock so loud the door even shook a little. The one that came after it was even stronger. The third one came came when I was already on my way to the front door. Fuck it, I thought, I’m not dealing with that, and as I opened the front door, I got startled again, this time by a tall man standing in front of me. 

“I’m sorry, who are you?”, he asked. 

“Thank you for getting the door, angel,” I heard the old man’s voice. “Come in, son, we’ve been waiting for you.”

I took a deep breath; I hadn’t realized how stuffy the apartment was. The air fresheners were messing with my head.

“I–– I’m–– I’m sorry, were you knocking?”

“Yes, he doesn’t like it when I open the door myself, he sometimes gets startled.” He was looking at me, frowning. “I’m sorry, but what are you doing here? Are you a nurse? Because someone has to help him. Us neighbors have been doing our best––”

“Oh, come on now, Kevin, you’re not just a neighbor! You’re like a son to me”, mr. Rogers shouted from behind. “Honey, lock the door, please.”

Everything inside me begged me to leave. I closed the door and turned to look at the young man.

“I’m sorry, are you not his son? He told me he was calling his son. He got really angry with the door. Does he live alone? Because he’s been saying…”

“The fucking door,” he sighed, taking his coat off. He looked around my age, which was definitely a bit young for being his son. “I don’t know how he does it, but this is the third time this week I’m here because of the door. Don’t get me wrong, I’m always happy to help, I was on my way home anyway. But I keep telling him he should get it on the keychain with the rest of his keys, so it doesn’t get lost all the time, and it’s like talking to a brick wall. It’s good someone’s finally here to look after him.” He glanced at me. “You’re a social worker, right? Not a nurse.”

“I’m actually––”

“Enough chit-chat, kids! Kevin, please give me the spare key,” commanded Mr Rogers.

“I’m not gonna do that, sir, because you’re gonna lose it again”, the man said, taking a key out of his bag. “But I’ll open the door for you. Here you go.”

I held my breath as he turned the key and pushed the door open.

The room looked painfully ordinary. There was a closet, a bed, a bunch of meds laying on the bedside table, next to the wallet; it was just like any other bedroom of an old person. The only weird thing was the air freshener smell that was evidently coming from there, so strong that I gagged when the first wave hit me.
Most importantly of all, the room was empty.

“Thank you, son,” the old man said, smiling at his visibly tired neighbor. “Now, dear, here’s my wallet!” he said, coming inside and picking it up from the table. “We can finish the formalities now. And look, my key. She did it again,” He turned in my direction, showing me a key triumphantly. “After all these years, she’s still trying to beat me.”

Kevin gave me an exhausted look.

“Alright, sir, I gotta go,” he said, heading to the exit.

“Wait!” I called after him. He turned around. “Can we talk? I’m not a social worker. I’m a charity worker. Well, okay, that sounds misleading. I mean, I’m from…”
He stopped in his tracks with a puzzled look on his face, but suddenly something must have clicked, because he interupted me, saying:

“Oh, I knew I’d seen you before. You look like the woman in the photos,” he pointed at the one on the cupboard. “Very strange. Are you her granddaughter or something?”

“What do you mean “am I her granddaughter??” I asked. I was reaching my limit. “No, I am not his wife’s granddaughter, for God’s sake! Do you really think I wouldn’t have mentioned that before?”

Kevin frowned and looked over my head. Mr. Rogers was still in the bedroom, going through his wallet.

“That’s not his wife,” he lowered his voice.

I shook my head.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Kevin sighed. “It’s not him, either,” he continued, pointing at the photo. “Look how tall the groom is. People shrink, but not like that.”

I looked at the photo. The woman was over a head shorter than the man. I felt very stupid all of a sudden.

“Who are they, then? His family? Old friends?”

He shrugged.

“I don’t know. Don’t ask about the man, he gets mad when I do. He only ever talks about her. “Alright, Mr” Rogers, I really have to go,” he said, this time louder. “Maybe he doesn’t have any nice photos of himself to put up,” he added, turning to me again. “It’s only one photo on the cupboard. It’s not like he has an album full of those.”

“Wait, what––”

He left before I could utter an answer.

When Mr Rogers finally found his bank account number, I was already on my way out, apologizing for the trouble and promising I’d come back later, but I really had to go. I was worried he was going to follow me, but when I heard the key turning in the lock behind me, I breathed out, clutching the thing in my pocket. I left the building as fast as I could, and called my boss to take the rest of the day off.

Back home, I took the folded photo out of my pants and carefully straightened it out. I was lucky it didn’t fall apart after being tightly stuck in my pocket for so long. Even on a pawed, cracked surface, the woman was still distinguishable.

I feel like I need to stress here that I don’t normally steal from old people’s photo albums, but I also don’t normally see photos of people looking exactly like me. If I hadn’t snatched it when he was going through his things, the story would have ended on that, and I would’ve probably discarded him as another senile old man who managed to scare me just because he caught me off guard. If only she didn’t look exactly like me.

The internet wasn’t very helpful at first, but I kept digging, and after I put it through a couple of different reverse search engines, I finally found something. It was a scanned article from fifty years ago about an unsolved case. I used to think things like that didn’t just get forgotten, but most of them do.

A few hours later, I decided to go and see Mr Rogers again. It was very stupid of me, because there was very small chance I’d meet Kevin again, but it was the middle of the night, he was probably asleep, and I really couldn’t help myself. I jumped in the car, bursting with excitement. When I got there, I had to sit for a moment in the parking lot to calm down. I had to be very careful and quiet, and those aren’t my strong suits.

I can seem a little impulsive, I know, but you have to understand that I never do this on my first visit. After I get invited inside – which is a must-do, of course – I always like to snoop a little before committing to it. Look at their belongings, see if they live alone, if they have anyone that will actually mourn them when I’m done. Usually they do, so I leave them alone, but Mr. Rogers was practically asking for it.

He was sleeping when I got inside. He looked very peaceful and innocent, the same as before, and I almost got fooled by it again. But I’m not of a faint heart, and I had learned to trust my instincts, so I didn’t hesitate for long.

I stayed in the apartment for a while after. There was still something that was bothering me, and I wanted to at least try and find it.

I did, after a while. I found where the smell was coming from. There was a small box tucked under the bed, filled with dozens of various air fresheners. Inside it, tucked in like a treasured emblem, was her finger, all wrinkled and dried up. I couldn’t smell it at all. The air fresheners’ odor was so strong it made my head spin. I lay down and closed my eyes, and for a while I just rested there, trying to get rid of the nausea. I imagined what she must have felt, with her only part left whole being this one bony finger. No wonder she closed the door so often. I would protect my parts like that too.