Today when I got home from work Sharaun told me some guys had come to the door earlier hawking rooftop solar. She said they’d likely be stopping back back after 5pm since she told them that’s when I’d be home.
Shortly after 6pm, as I was washing-up after a lovely dinner, the doorbell rang. I was in the kitchen and, I have to believe, clearly visible through the glass panels at the sides of our door. Jeopardy was on the TV, turned up loud so I could hear over the running water and clinking of dishes. I mean, people were clearly home.
But I just kept on doing dishes and shouting out my answers to the Jeopardy questions (I don’t do the “form of a question” thing from home; no time for that crap just shout out the answer). Cohen prompted, “Dad, the doorbell.” I replied, loud enough to be heard, I think, “I know buddy, I’m not answering it.” He looked confused.
It’s so great, you know… having a “place.” A place where you don’t have to answer the door even if they can see you. They are a cinder-block-width away, so close to closing another roof’s worth of solar panels, and their mark is just standing there, elbow-deep in soap suds, garbage disposal whirring and Alex Trebek asking something about William Tecumseh Sherman, denying them… no… not even acknowledging their existence.
Sales is hard man.