I am College Pro. Together ... realizing potentials. Reaching out our wings ... moving from adolescents to adulthood. Learning ... how to learn. Living and learning how to live. Together ... embracing my fellow thetans and conquering the evil enthetas in order to safely move up the bridge. Fuck. That last one is from a Scientology brochure not a College Pro leaflet, my bad. I am proud to say that I spent three hours every evening this summer as an employ of College Pro Painters. Indeed, I was the harbinger of good news, roaming the streets of Walla Walla spreading the Gospel of College Pro. In my white shirt with the sky blue College Pro logo emblazoned onto the breast and the rich navy blue trim along the neck and arms I heroically knocked upon the door of every house in Walla Walla wanting of a new paint job. As one homeowner located on Fern street so eloquently explained, my willingness to go knocking door to door was "unabashed as a girl scout." Thanks College Pro customer! Luckily, I met lots of other great people over the course of my wanderings.
... The hunter.
Early in the summer I was walking merrily along one of the streets off Howard between Alder and Tietan when I came upon a fairly standard looking house. Medium sized, nice enough. Its pale blue paint was fading all over the siding and beginning to peel on the garage. This is a high probability score I thought to myself. I rang the door bell and waited for a moment, absently twirling my clip board as I noted a "File of Life" sticker on the door and wondered for the 100th time that summer what that phrase meant, perhaps another cult to explore? Suddenly, the door jerked open revealing an older man with a thick white mustache wearing a ten gallon cowboy hat.
"Howdy," he barked at me. "What can I do for ya?" This summer I learned that when you knock on someone's door holding a clip board "What can I do for you" roughly translates to "Fuck off."
"My name is Toby," I replied, launching into my pitch, "I'm here with College Pro Painters. We're a student run exterior painting company." I stumbled; not speaking for a moment as I completely lost my train of thought. Something had destroyed my concentration and desire to sell, something furry. Above the man's head perched on a large slab of rock was a mountain goat. A big dead mountain goat. Except that it didn't look like it was dead. The taxidermist responsible for the project did an excellent job ... that was one perky goat. It had magnificent horns and looked like it must have been a good 300 lbs back when it was alive. It was relaxed as it sat on the rock, as if it might just bound away at any moment. The best part was that fact that its head had been arranged such that it was staring straight at anyone who entered the house.
"Umm," I continued. "I was curious if you would be interested in a free estimate with us?"
"Son ... I do my own paintin'. Thanks for your time."
"Nice goat," I reply. The door shuts.
If I had a dead goat in the entryway to my house I'd at least rig it so I could press a button and get it to mouth along to the words of "Louie Louie."
... The chosen ones.
It was one of those days in July where afternoon temperatures reached well above 105° and I was not a happy employee. I trudged wearily along either Balm St. or Juniper, I can't remember exactly where I was. In the oppressive heat I stopped at nearly every home that might possibly want a paint job in order to take advantage of a bit of shade and a rest.
"Aha, another good bet," I thought as I approached a two story home covered in peeling brown paint. I walked onto the porch and rang the doorbell. Looking down I noticed a large pot filled with real dirt and plastic plants, a depressingly common sight. The door opened. Standing in the doorway was a girl who couldn't possibly have been any older than my twenty-one years of age, and quite possibly a few years less. Judging by the bulge in her dress, the baby would be due shortly.
"Hi," I said, "my name is Toby, I'm here with college pro painters, we're an exterior painting company. I was wondering if you would be interested in a free estimate with us."
"Sorry," she replied, "but I don't know. My mom is out right now but she'll be back soon. You can try again later if you want." I turn to leave, disappointed by the prospect of returning to the Walla Walla heat. Luckily, I was saved by a minivan that just that moment had pulled up the house's driveway. I began walking towards the minivan the second it came to a rest.
"Hi!" I yelled out. No response. "Hi!" I yelled again. The driver rolled down the window and revealed a middle aged woman. "Are you the home owner here?"
"Yes," she affirmed.
"Well, my name is Toby. I'm here with College Pro Painters; we're an exterior painting company. I was wondering if you would be interested in a free estimate with us?" There was a long pause in which we stared at one another. Unable to stand the fiery heat of her stare I looked away. Finally, she answered: "Why?"
I was dumbstruck by this response, the only of its kind the entire summer. Maybe it was the heat, maybe some other intangible factor, but at that moment, I transformed into Tobias Kahn: wise-ass college student.
"Well m'aam, I represent a painting business. We derive our revenue from funds transferred to us by homeowners in exchange for performing the service of house painting. By signing up with me for an estimate, we hope that you might decide to do business with College Pro Painters." There was another long pause.
"Oh. Well I don't want one," she said. I smiled, thanked her for her time and hit the streets once again.
"Yikes," I utter beneath my breath, "teenage pregnancy: 1, human gene pool: 0."
...the Biker
I rang the doorbell and waited for a full minute, still no answer. As usual it was extraordinarily hot and I didn't particularly want to move, so I remained in the doorway for another sticky moment. After another minute I felt a cool breeze rush towards my face and detected the smell of chamomile as the door swung open. The first thing that struck me about this house was the fact that there seemed to be a jungle inside of it. The second thing I noticed was the tattooed biker standing amidst all of the foliage. With his crew cut, black leather jacket, and hoop earrings he looked like some kind of post-apocalyptic pirate.
"How you doin' bud?" he asked me, "Come on inside and grab a seat." Uhhh ... I don't particularly like to enter people's homes, but Mad Max is probably going to give me a lead. He might also give me a bit of the old ultra violence and feed me to the jungle Gods. Predictably, I decided to follow him into the cool interior of the house. My feet sank luxuriously into the shag carpet with each step I took. The areas of the living room not attempting to recreate the hanging gardens of Babylon seemed to be composed entirely of couches and pillows.
"Have a seat, I'm just gonna make a quick phone call," Corleone lit a cigarette and started punching keys on a portable phone with his other hand. I was beginning to regret my decision to accept his invitation to enter the house. I sat nervously on the couch waiting for him to finish his conversation. He finally switched off his phone and took a long drag at his cigarette.
"I quit my job yesterday," he took another long drag and let the words settle and grow heavy in the air. This was not an ideal situation. I began to subtly calculate the thickness of the window behind me. I concluded that the glass was thick enough to cause serious head trauma were I to attempt a diving exit.
"Twenty-six years."
"Uhh, sorry," I replied.
"I've been repairing cars for twenty-six years. Man, I could do that shit when I was nineteen. It was about time to get the fuck out of there. I still haven't told me wife," he slapped his thigh and laughed heartily, "If she kicks me outta the house I'm gonna jump on my hog and ride into the sunset." The knot in my stomach began to unravel as the biker's character became clear. I saw a set of golf clubs tucked away in a corner and realized this guy was no Hell's Angel; he enjoyed a plush lifestyle supported largely by someone else.
"Sounds awesome, man. So I'm here from College Pro Painters, I was curious if you would like a free estimate with us?"
"Sure. Do you want some whiskey?
"Yes, yes I do." Roger and I proceeded to polish off the remaining half of his fifth of Crown Royal. I can't really remember what we talked about for the next half hour but that guy kicked ass. I bid him farewell and continued upon my way. Over the next two hours I drunkenly convinced five people to sign up for estimates! This leads me to the final moral of my story: intoxication and solicitation do mix after all.