The Door-to-Door

The old man wore back, from his large oversized head to his huge feet . . . when he spoke, his audience in the abandoned office block hushed, not wanting to miss a thing, as if he were a great oriental religious teacher whose words were essential for their enlightenment. The children who were absorbed in their games were silenced by their mothers. His mouth, surrounded by a big black beard, would be clamped shut save for when he spoke. His facial muscles contracted, and he spoke thus: “Back then, back when I was a teenager, in our old house we were constantly opening the front door. It was a legal requirement back then . . .” 1

It was a legal requirement back then to open the door to any salesperson that came calling. The law stated that you should listen to the salesman or saleswoman for a minimum of three minutes. But of course, there was no law compelling you to buy anything, and when this three minutes had past, you were free to simply shut the door in his or her face, the clear sound of all the talk about double glazing or new televisions or new washing machines being reduced to an unintelligible and muffled tone behind the wooden door. When the law went through in 2---, after months of intensified corporate lobbying and pathetically miniscule protests by anarchists and other subversive groups, businesses were jubilant, and they quadrupled their number of salespeople within the first two weeks of the law being passed. 2

And now they were everywhere, in every street, in every town and city. But there was one general area where they were particularly numerous – the suburbs, where there lived a great mass of middle-class consumers, all with satellite dishes hanging from their walls, all with large houses fitted with the latest features; all the best double glazing and televisions and washing machines. Their minds set on the fixed goal of improving their castles and fortifying them with more and more features, outdoing the neighboring castles, engaged in a long war. And everywhere in these suburban neighborhoods, salespeople scuttled around like bees collecting honey for their masters, those invisible rulers of the economy, whoever and wherever they were. 3

In our neighborhood - a suburban neighborhood where I lived with my father, my mother and my sister – around four or five salespeople would call each day (although in actuality, the real number was probably much higher; the prospect of having to answer the door all day drove most non-working people to the shops, which was no real loss for the economy.) They would rarely call on Saturdays and Sundays, those two days being reserved (though not by law of course) for Bible-pushers of various denominations, the most common being the Witnesses, who would assail the ramparts of middle-class castles, the tired old word of God their only product; and an useless product it was, religion and spirituality being as unpopular as last years sofas. 4

When the bell rang, you had no option but to open the door. It was no use pretending not to be at home, as every house was fitted with a device that would detect any human activity inside the premises. Two lights fitted at the door would alert the salesperson if anybody were in: a green light for human presence, red for human absence. If you didn’t open, you were screwed, as they would quickly notify the authorities of your lack of respect for the law, of your criminal action. Standing at the door, listening to their oral brand of advertising became a regular household chore, and most families (including mine) drew up charts assigning a particular person to carry this chore out, depending on the date or on how many times they had performed the chore recently. 5

All this sounds despotic – indeed, it was - but the government assured us that it was necessary for the economy, and “making Britain great again” (that was their catchphrase). “Although it would be totally unacceptable” said the Prime Minister “if the elderly and the disabled were forced to perform this duty . . . but every able bodied member of our society has a moral duty, and it is a moral duty, to do what is best for our economy”. His words were simultaneously widely hated and widely accepted; a contradiction that would seem absurd in any other area than politics.6

One day, a sunny, clear blue skied but cool Monday in June, a salesperson that had knocked on our door saw past her legally allotted time of three minutes, a very rare occurrence in our house. She was a twenty-something woman, with brown hair and eyes, and tanned, amber skin, that glowed in the summer sun. She dressed very informally for a door-to-door salesperson, a rarity in itself (usually they were attired in cheap suits). Before reaching our house, she had probably been politely turned away or suffered the indignity of having the door shut in her face, or some other rude – though perfectly understandable - reaction at every other house she had called at. 7