The rusted barbed-wire fence and decrepit remains of car engines were enough to deter me. As I gingerly placed my mary janes between crushed Budweiser cans, I couldn’t help but mutter under my breath, “They don’t pay me enough for this shit,” just as my toes avoided a massive mouldering pile of it. A dust covered dog eyed me from under a cypress tree. I froze mid stride, surely looking like one of those cartoons characters sneaking around in the middle of the night–my locomotion all exaggerated and dopey.
Thankfully, he was tied to a stake in the ground so I continued my journey forward. I reached the trailer door. In place of a handle, there was just a gaping, rusted hole. It was as if someone had just ripped the entire mental fixture straight from the trailer. I gulped as I peered into the windows on either side. Both of them were tightly shut with blinds. Looking down at my list, I sighed. I can’t be off for metrics again this week. Christine is doing a killing. And Jesse got 60 purchases last week alone. Defeated, I knocked. While waiting, I watched my pen dangle and twirl like a cirque-du-soleil dancer from the string on my clipboard.
I heard a rustling from within followed by creaks, door slams, and heavy, suspicious footsteps. The door flew open and there before me stood Waldon. Waldon Whitehead, account number 913468. His tobacco stained teeth gleamed between cracked lips, a dull brownish-yellow. The muscles of his upper lip slowly contorted into a snarl as he acknowledged my presence. What few hairs he had left, lay slick and flattened on his age spotted head.
“Hello, Mr. Whitehead. My name is Amelia from HealthyResults. How are you doing today, sir?”
He didn’t say anything. He just stood there and squinted at me. After letting a few seconds pass, I continued on, “Uh, well…I see that you ordered a HealthyMix Blender from my company in 2012, I am just following up with that order.”
I paused again. His stare was thick and unwavering. In response, I started rambling, “How are you enjoying our product? Did you get a chance to try that pineapple kale smoothie concoction? My sister-in-law loves that one.” Hunched over, leaning into the doorframe of his trailer, he exhaled audibly. The scent of stale beer lingered as he held up his hand to quell my babbling.
“Listen, darlin’. Don’t need it. Don’t want it. Not buying. Not selling,” he croaked, “My opinion leads towards a government conspiracy. I have given more than my fair share and I have no desire to attend your church at this time. Please feel free leave a letter,” He motioned to the lilting mailbox stuck in the ground, “and it will be ignored in the order in which it was received.”
The corner of his right lip twinged into an almost smile. “Have a pleasant day!” and my nose met the cold metal of his trailer door.