I wish I had noted when Ollie, the bug guy, first showed up at our door. It’s usually not notable, these dates when door-to-door sales people come peddling their services. The connections are typically forgettable, the awkward interactions on one’s front steps a relief and only slightly guilt-tinged when they’re over.
Even though I’m not sure when I first met Ollie, I know it was during a workday.
“So sorry,” I said, a bit breathless, looping my purse strap over my shoulder that day in front of my open door as he stood on the front step. “I have to leave for a meeting right now.”
He pulled out an iPad with images of bugs and lobbed me a few insect questions, his eyebrows coming together each time I said we didn’t have a problem with whichever species he mentioned. It seemed his business took care of everything from Japanese beetles to house mice, and he may have even mentioned raccoons. I reminded him of the truncated time I had allotted for our visit. He flashed me a broad grin and assured me he’d be back later.
Husband and I relaxed on the couch one evening two weeks later, indulging in our show au moment. Three knocks splintered the peace of our Netflix drama. Flicka strode to the door so we didn’t have to.
“They’re preoccupied right now,” she said to the visitor. The person responded to her statement, and her melodious laugh floated up to us on the couch.
Minutes later, Flicka chuckled again at something the visitor said, delivered an affable goodbye, and rejoined us in the living room.
“You could’ve just told him we were here,” I said.
“You should’ve just told him no,” Husband said.
“He’s a good salesman,” our girl said, still smiling. She talked about him pulling out an iPad with all kinds of insect pictures to show her. Hmm. Sounded suspiciously like a certain bug guy I knew. “Anyway, he said he’ll be back.”
“Great,” I said.
The next evening, the house was all mine as I fried up six chicken patties for the others who would soon return home for dinner. A knock at the front door interrupted the sizzling.
I opened it. Ollie.
“Hey, thought I’d check in again,” he said, a sparkle surrounding his words. This one wasn’t easily dampened.
“Ah, I have food on the stove right now,” I said, thumbing the air behind me. “Sorry I can’t talk.”
“No worries,” he said, his way as beachy as the waves in his hair. “I’ll come back later.”
Later? Like today? Or a different day? Maybe sometime while I’m chewing a mouthful of food? Or on the cusp of out-of-town company arriving? Or in the chaotic mess of a painting project?
“Okay.” I started to close the door.
“Because you’re gonna wanna hear this,” he said, beaming, his confidence unswerving as he stepped away.
No one could say the guy wasn’t persistent. And in the face of likely rejection, his exuberance was commendable.
Two hours later, Flicka and her fiancé, Snipp, rolled up in Snipp’s old Silverado, just in from a Facebook Marketplace run to Mankato and back, their new-to-them elderly couch reclining in the bed of the truck like she was too old for all the nonsense.
But what was taking them so long to come in? After several minutes, the front door opened.
“Are we going down?” said a familiar voice. Ollie.
He hefted one end of the vintage couch while Snipp lugged the other end down our steps to the lower level. They put the ninety year old to rest there, and I later learned Ollie had come over by hoverboard and invited Snipp, three times his size, to take a spin on it before the couch transport occurred.
Someone sent Ollie around to the backyard—where Husband was laying flagstone—to talk with him about insect eradication. Soon, I spotted Ollie in the front yard again. He mounted his hoverboard and rode off into the sunset.
“Outside of the bug thing,” Snipp said, “Ollie would be pretty cool to hang out with.”
“No, I know,” I said.
Later, I heard about my man’s earlier conversation with the salesman.
“What kind of bugs do you get rid of?” Husband had said.
“What kind of bugs don’t you like?” Ollie had said back.
“Mosquitoes?”
Ollie was happy to inform Husband he could offer him a ninety-nine-dollar-a-month deal to erase all the mosquitoes from our lives. It was such a deep discount, he said, because he was treating our neighbors’ properties too, lucky for us.
In the end, Ollie didn’t make a sale at our place, but I wonder if he’ll find his way back to us one day anyway. Maybe while I’m in the middle of brushing my teeth or hauling an unwieldy dresser.
I’ll keep you posted.
*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo), @TamaraSchierkolk (PayPal), or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.
