Once every sixth Sunday or so, door-to-door salespeople in dresses and ties canvas my neighborhood. Always the same people, they park two cars at the other end of our dead-end street and walk the block or two to my end. The women take the makai side of the street and the men take the mauka side. They knock on each door and politely announce themselves “hello?” over locked gates.
I’m pretty confident they’re selling God. But I’m not sure, because they have never once stopped at my home. Not once.
They were on the street yesterday as I was washing the car. My arms were soapy to the elbow and my shorts were wet in several places and I was getting a little achy from all the scrubbing. And after stopping at every one of my neighbors’ homes, they simply nodded as they walked passed me.
I nodded in return.
While it’s true that I’m not in the God market at this time and I’m not really a fan of salespeople who knock at my door, I still wonder how it is that they’ve determined I am not the kind of customer they’re looking for.
As best I can figure, the makers of God and God related products must be watching demographics, monitoring their marketing efforts, and keeping precise records. They know your purchasing history and they take referrals from other customers. They buy mailing lists from the Republican party. They know whether your soul is worthy of saving – or not – based on their records and referrals. And then before each series of sales calls, the merchandisers send out a comprehensive list. Denominations, notable sins, tithing habits, and of course a list of households they don’t want to do business with.
Accurate though it may be, our home ended up on their list of the unredeemable. I just don't know how. I figure a neighbor member of their church saw us kissing on the front step and it was all over at that point. But I still kinda wish they’d come to the door just once.
Because by the time Head Chef and I were done, they'd be tripping over themselves to get off the property. And the congregation's marketing database would recount terror so unholy there would be wailing in the pews.
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2 comments:
The zoning in my neighborhood (Zone Permit 466MHB6, or "Godless Faggot Zone”) seems to keep them completely away from out house, I've never even seen one the God Merchandisers around here, let alone talked to one. I too have always wanted to see how quickly I could get them to flee my home, but sadly problematic city code 466MHB6 prevents my pleasure, and I just don't have the energy to instead go merchandizing to them... Though one must wonder if they’d be willing to let me in to sell my message of schnazzy haircuts and frequent sodomy. Pitty, the inequity in our society runs oh so deep…
PC,
You know, they never came to visit me in Chicago or San Francisco, but now that I live in this tiny town in Northern California, well... They came knocking on my door a few months ago while I was home alone, sitting on the crapper. They knocked and when I didn't answer, they knocked again. THEY KNOCKED THREE SEPARATE TIMES, determined to meet me. So I hitched up my shorts and went to the door and when I opened it (angry at that not-giving-up on their part) I realized immediately that I was beset with Mormons.
So I said, then, "What a coincidence - I was just shitting!"
To which one sweetly replied, "Excuse me?"
"No, I won't. Go away and stay away."
"May we leave this with you?" the other asked, trying to force a tract on me.
"I already wiped. Go away."
"God bless."
"Drop dead."
I offer this as a ready-made script for dealing with the door-to-doors. I checked our local hardware store for a sign that reads, "No Proselytizing", but they don't have any. I'm thinking they weren't quite sure what it meant. Maybe I could design my own round sign, with a silhouette of two Mormons with matching ties and backpacks and a big slash through them? Or would that be too subtle?
I really do think the only appropriate answer to 'God Bless' is 'Drop Dead'. Pass it on.
Rick
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