God’s self-appointed sales crew and other nuisances of modern living

So I’m at home at my desk writing one Monday afternoon recently, and the doorbell rings. Not once, but a whole bunch of times in a row, hard, like it’s really urgent—a delivery guy who has no time to wait, or an actual emergency.

I’m not expecting anyone, and it’s never a good idea to just buzz someone into the building, so I grab shoes and keys and bolt down two flights of stairs to see who it is, only to find no one there.

I step outside and look up and down the block. Maybe it was the postal carrier and something needs to be signed for. I see no one.

Just as I’m giving up and going back in, a woman, accompanied by two men, comes out of the hair salon downstairs from me, and says, “Oh, there you are. I just rang your doorbell.”

“Yes, I heard you. That’s why I tried to answer the door,” I say. “Can I help you?”

“I just wanted to tell you about the Bible,” she says, smiling, taking a step forward.

The look on my face stopped her cold.

“You dragged me down two flights of stairs in the middle of my work day to tell me about the Bible? You’re kidding, right? I’m a Greek news editor—I promise, we’ve heard about the New Testament,” I tell her.

She takes not one, but two steps back.

“And by the way,” I continue, “if God is up in heaven, then I was definitely closer to Him a few minutes ago, when I was still working peacefully in my apartment on the third floor.”

I turned and headed back inside, but I’d swear I saw all three raincoated (why do door-to-door missionaries always seem to wear suits and raincoats? It may be mean to say, but I always wonder if it’s because they want to be prepared in case of an unexpected rain of frogs...) figures actually running away before I firmly slammed the door.
_______

It’s approaching dinnertime on a weeknight, and the phone rings.

“Hello,” I answer, in the customary, time-honored fashion.

“Hi, this is Danny from TruGreen Chemlawn. How are you this evening?” says an eager voice on the phone.

“Lawnless,” I answer, deadpan.

This is apparently a new one on Danny. He loses his rhythm. “What?’ Danny stammers.

“Lawnless. I live in a third-story city apartment, and I don’t have a lawn,” I explain.

This is apparently exactly the right thing to say, because he tells me he is very sorry for bothering me and hangs up before I can utter another syllable.

I bet I never hear from Danny again.

Yea! I win.
_________

Again, the phone rings. (I am beginning to develop an unconscious habit of flinching when the phone rings at certain times of day...)

“Hi, this is Ed from Soandso Marketing in Somewhere, Virginia. I’m looking for William.”

Yes! They are not a marketing company looking for me. I can tell them they have the wrong number and be rid of them.

“Sorry, you have the wrong number,” I say. “There’s no William here and never has been.”

“Well, is this 610-555-9999?,” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, repeating, “And there’s no one named William here, and there never has been.”

“Well, that’s okay, because we really just wanted the number,” he tells me.

Internally, I groan. Great. Telemarketers have somehow figured out yet another way to bug the ever-living tar out of us all by calling and pretending to look for someone who doesn’t exist.

“What for? And what are you selling?” I ask warily.

“We wanted to inform you that you have been entered in our dream prize sweepstakes.”

“Great,” I reply. “And just how would you know what my dreams are? More to the point, what are you selling?” (I’m amazed at how many times one has to repeat oneself with these folks. Maybe because they are forced to repetitively say the same thing, they don’t hear incoming data until it’s been repeated several times?)

“We have a bunch of prizes. One of them must fulfill one of your dreams,” he tells me.

I think this is rather presumptuous and tell him so.

He tells me my dreams must be rather special, why don’t I tell him about them?

EWWW!! This is getting far too touchy-feely for me. A telemarketing stranger calls up and wants to know my dreams? Why do I even answer the phone?

I tell him he’s dreaming if he thinks I’m going to tell him my dreams and could he get to the point already please, before I’m forced by sanity’s dictates to hang up the phone and end the conversation?

Get this—he tells me that’s it. I’ve been informed I’ve been entered.

I’m not sure that’s the case, since I didn’t give any real information about me other than that I am not William.
In what contest, for what supposed prize, I still don’t know. And I don’t care.

Because the day I really win, I will know it. It will be a day when no one contacts me needlessly, trying to parasitically waste my time or try to sell me something I don’t want or need.