Sell Me On It

A proposition

There I was, watering my lawn, out in the beauty of God’s green earth, when a man in velvet shoes stepped from a shiny car and approached me. 

“I work for ADT,” he said, “and I can give you the deal of a lifetime,” he went on. “For a small monthly fee, your windows, your doors, your wife, and your children will be looked on, locked up, and covered down.” He snatched a pen from the air and tossed a sparkle from his teeth. “The Basic Plan, the Premium Regime, the Diamond Dynasty,” his tongue flicked, the pen whipped across the brochure leaving a trail of char, “there when you don’t need it, doubly there when you do.”

My hose jerked. “What a deal indeed!” I blurted. A proposal I know, but a sale none-the-less. “All that for what, may I ask?”

“Of course you may!” He rose from the earthly plain. “The equipment is on us, the installation waived, the manager special applied, taxes, keys, and service fees, down the drain. And perhaps a family and friends discount for good measure.” His eye twinkled on command. “A three thousand dollar value sliced from existence, back in your pocket. And that monthly charge? I’ll cut it in half cause I like the color of your door.”

“Well, pray tell, what are we left with,” I offered the stage.

“Only $89.99 a month! Your front door, back door, side door, closet door, sealed, secured, guaranteed. First hand service from your’s truly.”

“$89.99…” I let the value circle the space in expectation. “What a deal.” I take a step back, give him space for retreat but the moment is lost. “Though,” I start, “for that I could grab a camcorder from Walmart and glue it up there on the door. I could hang a string of cans across my porch and pay the kid down the street to patrol my house with a BB gun while I’m away.”—It was only my turn.—“Yes, you sell a fine service, and for the cost of good night sleep and carefree vacation, who could put a price on it? But then again, a good mattress costs money, and airfare is not cheap. What of my mortgage and my groceries? My crippling gambling addiction would take quite the hit both financially and ethically. Simply, when the man breaks through my door, looking for the TV, he will find little but a hand drawing of the cast of Friends in its place; for the black mirror of a TV is daunting without the cable subscription. What more take you? Had I connected my hose to a gallon of water I would not be growing flowers. I would be fighting evaporation for when my house burns down and all that matters is the piss in the bucket. For what is there to protect when you have nothing left?”

The man in the velvet shoes stirred, stuttered, slumped. “So,” he dropped from his lips, “you’re not interested?”

“No, motherfucker, now get off my lawn.”

If you dig this story, check out my book The Captain of the Crew here.