Writing Assignment: Door to door salesmen

Where’s the Beef?

In my little corner of the planet, there’s more to spring than chirping birds, sun-shiny days, and blossoming blossoms. Spring has its drawbacks, too. It is often ushered in by an unwelcome hint of partially-thawed meat and super-strength cleaning products that waft in the cool April breezes. Yes, in my neighborhood at least, the phrase “spring has sprung” can sound more like a grim warning than a joyful declaration.

During one warm, seemingly blissful afternoon in particular, my kids feverishly work on their math homework. I stand staring blankly into my open refrigerator, indecisive about the evening meal. Outside, children romp innocently in the grass of a nearby park. All of us are blissfully unaware of the evil that lurks just around the corner.

The doorbell rings and instantly my kids abandon their studies to run to the door. I, too, feel a twinge of excitement. Is it another friendly neighbor bearing a gift of baked goodies…or perhaps a potential playmate wanting to whisk one or more of my children away for an hour or so? I open the door and my excitement immediately gives way to horror. It’s a salesman—one of those door-to-door kind. The warm weather brings them out like it’s brought a trail of ants to my laundry room. I sprayed the ants with a toxic substance. They went away. Use of that tactic on a human (I use that term loosely here) could have some legal ramifications. I’ve been meaning to check into it.

His opening line to me is an inquiry as to whether or not my family eats meat. Faster than I can sarcastically reply with, “Duh, of course we…,” the man is standing—and perspiring—in my kitchen, with all of his wares laid out in their marbled glory on my counter like a buffet spread at an Atkins convention.

As he works his protein-peddling magic, I come dangerously close to buying more meat than my family could ever consume in a year. In what can only be described as a temporary onset of insanity, I agree to make a purchase; one so hefty that it actually requires me to pay in installments. He excitedly trots out the front door and across the street to gather up the necessary documents from his MeatMobile-slash-office. My heart begins to pound out of my chest. My palms sweat and my knees knock together.

What am I thinking? Who finances meat purchases from a 350-pound guy in a Datsun? How do I get out of this? Am I really about to sign my life away for a few bacon-wrapped filets and a hundred or so pre-made burger patties? My panic swells as he turns from his truck to make his way across the street once again. This is it. I’m trapped. No turning back now.

Then it happens.

As the unwitting peddler takes a few steps into the street, his giddiness over the possibility of a profit seems to distract his mind from the “look both ways” rule. Without warning, like a lead-footed answer to a prayer, a bakery truck driver speedily rounds the corner and makes minced meat out of my salesman. I stare in disbelief for a moment or two, morbidly amused at the irony of being saved from burger bankruptcy by a bun-wielding bread truck. Disaster averted. I return the checkbook to my purse and shut the door.

Now, kids, what shall we have for dinner? I suddenly have a taste for pot roast.