Flash-fic fragment
Jun. 25th, 2008 01:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
capri0mniThis was inspired by #68 out of that list of 72 "common" (?) fears.
(And it's just a fragment because that's all I've got right now, and I don't have the energy or concentration to figure out the rest of it. I wouldn't expect any further installments, either, if I were you.)
Robert pulled his car up beside the silver mini-van (so he knew there was probably somebody home) and turned off the engine. He sat there in the driveway for a few minutes. He didn't want to go through this again. It was like he had turned into the punchline of a sixty-year old joke -- a door-to-door vaccuum salesman? Come on! Only teenagers sold anything door-to-door anymore: magazine subscriptions, candy and knick-knacks with the same mumbled shpiel about it being an oportunity for them to get a scholarship, or win a vacation to France, and all those jobs they had signed up for were scams, anyway. So what was he -- a man in his forties -- doing this for?
The economy. That's what's for. So he was, using his Business degree (with a psychology minor) to convince someone to buy a vaccuum cleaner that cost $1,500. For which he'd get $75 commission. Yesterday's sale took three hours to close, too. It was a sale of attrition. He could do that. He was good at that.
Eventually, he opened his car door and got out with a groan. He stood there a moment, assessing the house, before he approached the door. He looked for anything -- no matter how small -- that hinted at a possible crack in the homeowner's defenses: a plaster gnome on the front lawn, perhaps, or a windchime by the door, or a child's plastic ball in the front yard.
There was nothing. There was absolutely nothing unusual about the house. There were neat rows of orange and yellow marigolds lining the walkway up to the front door. But they were neither exhuberant nor neglected. The curtains in the window were a tasteful, medium, shade of blue, which was neither greenish, nor purplish, nor grayish. He tried to glimpse the furnishings inside, through the windows. But the angle of the bright summer sun only let him see his own reflection.
Suddenly, it occurred to him that whoever was inside might be watching him, and if he stayed there much longer, it would look suspicious.
So he opened the back door to his car and lifted out the demonstration model of the vaccuum cleaner. That it was a lightweight vaccuum was one of his strongest selling points. But by the fourth sales visit of the day it was still tiresome to lift in and out. And he tried not to feel to ridiculous as he pushed the machine in front of him, up the walk.
And then, just as he was about to reach up and ring the doorbell, he glanced down at the welcome mat. That stopped him cold. It was just like any of the hundred or other welcome mats he had wiped his feet on, since he took this job, last year. But the WELCOME written there was just too perfect -- the lettering too crisp-edged and black. It was almost as if he could hear a voice intoning it: "Welcome"-- silky, and just a bit too charming -- like the voice of creepy butler who opened the door in all those cheesy old gothic horror movies.
He very consciously stepped back, to avoid standing on the mat, and stretched forward to ring the doorbell. He hoped whoever was in would take their time, so he could legitimately leave, and go to the next house (or maybe, he'd just go home). But no such luck. He heard the latch click open in the lock before the second tone of the doorbell stopped buzzing. Apparently, the person inside had been watching him, and was standing at the door, waiting for him.
He half-expected to see a little old lady as the door opened, with whispy white hair, and skin as translucent as old, yellowed typing paper. But instead, it was a woman about his age, a little pudgy around her cheeks, with dark circles under her eyes.
She looked up and down for about a second or two. "Yeah," she said, sounding bored. "come on in." Then, she stood aside to let him pass.
Robert cleared his throat, and took a ridiculously long stride across the threshold, still careful not to step on the mat. He made the mistake of glancing down at it a second time. And this time, he didn't imagine the voice, he heard it. It was so clear and loud that he jumped, and shot a look over his shoulder, to see if he could catch the silky-voiced man standing behind him.
Of course, there was no one there.
(And it's just a fragment because that's all I've got right now, and I don't have the energy or concentration to figure out the rest of it. I wouldn't expect any further installments, either, if I were you.)
Robert pulled his car up beside the silver mini-van (so he knew there was probably somebody home) and turned off the engine. He sat there in the driveway for a few minutes. He didn't want to go through this again. It was like he had turned into the punchline of a sixty-year old joke -- a door-to-door vaccuum salesman? Come on! Only teenagers sold anything door-to-door anymore: magazine subscriptions, candy and knick-knacks with the same mumbled shpiel about it being an oportunity for them to get a scholarship, or win a vacation to France, and all those jobs they had signed up for were scams, anyway. So what was he -- a man in his forties -- doing this for?
The economy. That's what's for. So he was, using his Business degree (with a psychology minor) to convince someone to buy a vaccuum cleaner that cost $1,500. For which he'd get $75 commission. Yesterday's sale took three hours to close, too. It was a sale of attrition. He could do that. He was good at that.
Eventually, he opened his car door and got out with a groan. He stood there a moment, assessing the house, before he approached the door. He looked for anything -- no matter how small -- that hinted at a possible crack in the homeowner's defenses: a plaster gnome on the front lawn, perhaps, or a windchime by the door, or a child's plastic ball in the front yard.
There was nothing. There was absolutely nothing unusual about the house. There were neat rows of orange and yellow marigolds lining the walkway up to the front door. But they were neither exhuberant nor neglected. The curtains in the window were a tasteful, medium, shade of blue, which was neither greenish, nor purplish, nor grayish. He tried to glimpse the furnishings inside, through the windows. But the angle of the bright summer sun only let him see his own reflection.
Suddenly, it occurred to him that whoever was inside might be watching him, and if he stayed there much longer, it would look suspicious.
So he opened the back door to his car and lifted out the demonstration model of the vaccuum cleaner. That it was a lightweight vaccuum was one of his strongest selling points. But by the fourth sales visit of the day it was still tiresome to lift in and out. And he tried not to feel to ridiculous as he pushed the machine in front of him, up the walk.
And then, just as he was about to reach up and ring the doorbell, he glanced down at the welcome mat. That stopped him cold. It was just like any of the hundred or other welcome mats he had wiped his feet on, since he took this job, last year. But the WELCOME written there was just too perfect -- the lettering too crisp-edged and black. It was almost as if he could hear a voice intoning it: "Welcome"-- silky, and just a bit too charming -- like the voice of creepy butler who opened the door in all those cheesy old gothic horror movies.
He very consciously stepped back, to avoid standing on the mat, and stretched forward to ring the doorbell. He hoped whoever was in would take their time, so he could legitimately leave, and go to the next house (or maybe, he'd just go home). But no such luck. He heard the latch click open in the lock before the second tone of the doorbell stopped buzzing. Apparently, the person inside had been watching him, and was standing at the door, waiting for him.
He half-expected to see a little old lady as the door opened, with whispy white hair, and skin as translucent as old, yellowed typing paper. But instead, it was a woman about his age, a little pudgy around her cheeks, with dark circles under her eyes.
She looked up and down for about a second or two. "Yeah," she said, sounding bored. "come on in." Then, she stood aside to let him pass.
Robert cleared his throat, and took a ridiculously long stride across the threshold, still careful not to step on the mat. He made the mistake of glancing down at it a second time. And this time, he didn't imagine the voice, he heard it. It was so clear and loud that he jumped, and shot a look over his shoulder, to see if he could catch the silky-voiced man standing behind him.
Of course, there was no one there.
