Leaving Isn't the Hardest Thing(71)

Some houses, I could tell you from the kitchen with absolute certainty there was a sex swing in the basement, piled with laundry next to that elliptical machine they bought with similar intentions, also now used exclusively to hang laundry. I could tell before I knocked on a door whether or not anyone was home. I could tell you, just standing in their living room, if they had a swastika hanging in the basement. The Nazis weren’t always that subtle, even back then. The preppers, Nazis or otherwise, rarely surprised me—their tactical boots and tactical belts tend to give them away—but I never stayed longer than I had to.

   At one such house, I found a mini-cult of preppers. I knew there were too many people living in one house by the shoes piled next to the door. A teenage boy with a tragic case of acne had been assigned to escort me through the house. The living room had been retrofitted as a classroom, complete with a blackboard, times table charts, a Christian flag for morning allegiance, and a row of computers along the back wall.

Five kids, all about eight or nine, were sitting on the carpet, debating the finer plot points of one of those rapture novels. My jaw tightened just hearing them. I wondered if we were that obvious when we were kids. Probably.

The computers were useless because they’d tried to run their own cable with shitty RadioShack wiring that had basically become an antenna, feeding every radio and television signal into their modem. No modem in the living room. I trailed the body odor of my teenage escort as he led me down the hall, past rooms full of bunk beds and a room that held more than one crying baby being calmed by a teenage girl. I wanted to run before we got to the basement stairs. Maybe if I started shouting “God is dead,” they’d throw me out, and it would sound just crazy enough as an accusation that my boss wouldn’t believe them.

   The basement was a prepper’s wet dream—rows upon rows of metal shelves stocked with everything from tubs of lard to sacks of whole wheat, boxes upon boxes of batteries, and an entire shelving unit of gauze and bandages. And there, above the flashing modem on the back wall, a fucking armory.

My only strong opinion on guns is most people who want them shouldn’t own any. I spent many an Air Force Saturday night shooting bottles lined up on cinder blocks out in the country. It’s fun. We told ourselves we were responsible because we yelled “clear” and “firing” a lot. My dad and my uncles and cousins and friends hunt. I have friends who collect guns, fewer these days. More than a few got rid of them after Sandy Hook. But I’ve read enough and seen enough to know the “good guy with a gun” is a masturbatory fantasy right alongside “we’re just preparing in case we have to defend ourselves from a tyrannical government.” And I know a goddamn cult when I see one.



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I told the kid I could charge him something outrageous for the work, or he could rip out all those wires they’d added, connect our line to the modem, and he’d be a hero. He chose the correct option. I got the fuck out of there without asking if he wanted to subscribe to HBO.

I wouldn’t have tried anyway. I hated selling. I thought knocking on doors would be my problem. I’d lasted about four hours knocking on doors for the Sierra Club, never went back after lunch. And I never quite got used to it. I’d have to pause every time before I knocked, shift my tools to my left hand, back to the right, breathe, count to three…knock. Like jumping from the high board. But it was the selling—my hard limit. I just couldn’t do it.

   Maybe it was all those days selling posters and tapes as a kid, preying on people kind or annoyed enough to buy something they didn’t want or need. But I cannot sell. I couldn’t tell someone whose Internet hadn’t been working right for months that if they just upgraded to the faster tier, the problem would be solved. I couldn’t tell someone who couldn’t afford a bed frame that the sports package was what they needed to sleep at night. And I sure as fuck couldn’t lie and tell them I’d hook them up with free premium channels for their troubles, and not mention if they didn’t call to cancel in a month, their next bill would knock the air out of them. That’s how I was told to sell. Every guy who thought he’d give me a little advice because my sales were down and somehow the techs meant to fix your cable are also required to sell you more cable: “Just tell them you’re hooking them up. They can get it taken off if they call. Who gives a shit.” I did. Selling something to someone, asking someone to buy something they didn’t want and I didn’t believe in, it tasted like after you’ve gone too far in an argument, said that one thing you know landed and hurt them and you can’t take it back. It tasted like shit. So I didn’t sell. I’d make my sales numbers by fixing the ridiculous packages our sales reps shoved into new orders. Do you, gaming nerd, and your Korean grandma actually watch a lot of football? If I take that off, you can get the Korean channel for two dollars less a month. Did you request the news package, frazzled single mom who doesn’t have time to do her roots? There’s a kid’s package you might get more use out of, same price. Maybe the next house was a finance guy who didn’t need movie channels but didn’t know he could get even more news.

   Maybe my next job was a short little fucker who walked like a little teapot and beat his kids. Sometimes you can tell. Some of us recognize the look in their eyes, the bite of fear in the air. He followed me into the office. And he rubbed himself against my ass when I leaned over to unplug the modem. I let it happen that time. Sometimes you know which guys you can’t fight back against.