Five Song Friday: Knock Knock Joker
Episode #149: Player Haters, Negative Talk and Home Defense
Oh dear God, there’s a strange man at my door.
Not strange like deformed or deviant. Strange in that I do not know him, yet here he is, one slab of wood and several panes of glass away from my safe space.
A simple deadbolt stands between him and my family. Our pets. All of these innocent plants.
The man is smiling so hard that it has to hurt.
And WHY is he smiling? He can’t be happy to see me. He doesn’t even know me.
I answer the door and he nervous giggles at the dogs.
Hey there little guys, he says.
Dude just misgendered my pugs. Bad start, pal.
I brace myself for what’s coming next. Probably some sob story about how his car ran out of fuel and he needs a few bucks to fill his gas can and get back on the road so his high-risk pregnancy wife can make it to the hospital.
Or he’s fallen on hard times and wants to know if I have any leaves he can rake because he lost his job on account of a war injury or pain pills or food allergies.
He’s a panhandling pedestrian who probably ventured out from his median in a bold move to shakedown the suburbs. He sees soft, middle-aged guys like me as ATMs.
I know the drill, but luckily we live in an increasingly cashless society. I’ll just pull my pockets inside out and shrug.
If he says he accepts CashApp or Venmo, then it’s a scam and I’m clear to call the cops.
But wait…
This guy seems different.
He says he’s been “doing work in the area” and “talking with neighbors.”
He is wearing a logo polo and a baseball cap. He’s clutching a tablet-notebook-clipboard thing. That smile is still at full mast.
He says he walked by and noticed… THAT.
He jabs his thumb over his shoulder, turns to the lawn and then back at me with a face. It’s a sad face that says, your lawn is a shit show, without using those actual words.
His expression says, everybody can see your failure from the street.
In my head I tell him to go get stuffed. Don’t knock on my door and yard-shame me, you weirdo. You’re the one here for a handout.
He keeps talking, but I’m not listening.
I’m still in my head wondering why this homeless guy walked all the way to my house just to heckle my grass. Seems like a weird flex, especially since it’s technically still winter and lawns are supposed to be brown and janky.
Then he pulls a flyer from his clipboard.
Oh no.
This guy isn't a doorbell hobo. He’s not some wandering gypsy grifter.
This guy is a door-to-door salesman!
Yes, he still wants money, but he’s proposing a trade for professional services.
I’ve HEARD of these people.
They come to where you live and invite you outside to show you exactly why your home is doomed. They point at roofs and trees and driveways and usher warnings that your inaction will lead to zero good things.
Clogged gutters? You may as well stick a loaded gun in your child’s mouth.
Wait until next year to do something and you’ll face astronomical costs, spousal disappointment and generational shame. Tragedy is all but guaranteed, unless you act immediately to retain their services and restore harmony to the universe.
It’s all here in this pamphlet, he says.
I act like I’m taking the pamphlet, but then I let my hand go limp and it just falls to the ground. He says whoops, and bends over to pick it up.
Here is my chance…
I can push him into the bushes and run for the door.
I can knock off his hat and hilariously expose his bald head.
I can whistle to summon my crow army, who have been trained to go straight for soft bits like eyeballs and tongues.
Or… I can hear what he has to say.
Maybe the price for weekly chemical lawn treatment is reasonable. Maybe the dogs prefer a more non-organic environment for which to poop on. And perhaps a lush, artificially green lawn will reverse the neighborhood curse that has left us pariahs in our own house.
But probably not.
So I do what I always do and say, sorry, my wife handles the yard.
When he asks if she is available, I say no, even though he can definitely see her sitting in the living room.
I lie and say she has a migraine. It’s the kind of migraine you treat by sitting up and watching a loud soccer game on TV.
He says, oh I totally get it and then quick story, and then he starts to tell me about his migraines and how they got cured after an unrelated operation.
I see what he’s doing. He’s trying to make himself seem more human so I feel even worse for rejecting his pitch.
You know what? No. We’re not doing this right now.
So I just start screaming NO, NO, NO and I keep screaming until I see him walk down the driveway onto the street and disappear around the corner.
Not today, motherfucker. Not today.
Five Song Friday #149
“An bhFeacais mo Ghuthan” - Suil Amhain, Bantum
I don’t know how to pronounce any of the words. I don’t know what they mean. But this song has a wicked beat and sometimes that’s all a boy needs to get by.
“Work It Out” - Jurassic 5, Dave Matthews Band
I remember back in the 90s, there were lots of people who enjoyed going to the Flood Zone in Richmond every week to watch this guy named Dave Matthews. I was not one of them. It seemed fun if you were into that sort of thing, but I wasn’t a joiner. I didn’t go with the flow or follow the crowd. It was the age of grunge. I wore flannel and knit caps and drank cheap beer. I sat at bars, restaurant booths and front porches talking with other cranky dudes about how much we hated The Establishment. When Dave Matthews hit it big, I would brag about how much I ignored him when he was coming up, because that was what cool people in baggy pants (who drove shitty cars and only smoked once in a while when they drank) did. So when this jam with Jurassic 5 came out in 2006? I missed it completely. Now I feel like a jerk because this is a nice song and Dave sounds like a lovely young man. My bad!
“We’re So Ugly” - Hornet Leg
All that negative talk is just going to wear you down from the inside out. You can’t love anybody else until you learn to love yourself.
“Once in a Lifetime” - Kevin Abstract
How do I work this? Where is that large automobile? What is that beautiful house? Where does that highway go to? Am I right or am I wrong? My God, what have I done? All great questions that deserve answers. And maybe someday we will get them.
“No Thugs In Our House” - XTC
Go ahead, check in the closets. Look under the beds. Don’t forget the basement and the crawl space. Heck, you can even go poking in the bushes outside if you like, but I’m telling you… this place has been thug-free since 2003. How do we do it? Door locks mostly. A baseball bat in the front foyer. Pepper spray in my night table drawer. I don’t open the door for suspicious salesman and I never invite strange men over for dinner. There’s the hand-painted “Nazi Punks Fuck Off” sign in my front yard. That also helps.
“The only justification for looking down on anyone, is that you’re going to stop and pick them up.” - Quincy Jones (Born March 14, 1933)
Thanks for reading!
Have fun. Stay safe. Don’t be a jerk.
Sincerely,
DJ CrankyPete