Mudblood Rising

For an hour I've been listening to the rush of the wind through the branches. It's been causing the canvas bag above our heads to swing back and forth like a small corpse this entire time. I can feel the dirt of the day turning to grime against the sweat of my cheek while on my right Jori is still sleeping soundly. A gust of wind draws my eyes back toward the canvas sack as its branch groans under the extra weight. All of our food sits nestled in the bottom of the sack; well out of any greedy animal's reach. I continue straining my ears for the sound of a bear's plodding feet, but am again disappointed. Instead my ears are met only by the sound of the wind. It's growing louder.
Strangely, the wind seems to be getting especially louder on my right. It's probably the sound of rain pattering on the leaves. Surely enough, before I can think to react, the first drop hits my face. I hope in vain that it will pass quickly as it steadily intensifies. My mind wrestles with the decision of whether or not to wake Jori, but as drizzle turns to downpour I know that within seconds I will no longer have a choice. The tarp on which we're lying is supposed to be wide enough to fold over as cover, so I tell Jori to hand me the opposite corner. He doesn't hear me. I raise my voice and say his name again. A lack of reaction forces me to finally yell, "JORI!"
"Hmmm..?"
"Dude, it's raining. Hand me your corner of the tarp."
"Huh?"
Frustrated, I lean toward him and say again, "It's raining. Give me the tarp!"
Jori rolls over, grabs the edge of the tarp, and rips his arm through the air back toward me. Unfortunately, my face hovers directly in the path of his elbow. Not having noticed that he may have broken my nose, Jori immediately falls back into a deep slumber. I tuck the tarp snugly under my side and lie back down. I can smell the iron-rich aroma of blood curdling in my sinuses. Soon I will feel its warmth on my upper lip. I set my head far back on the ground in the meager hope of staunching the coming flow, but to no avail; within seconds the blood is running down both sides of my face. Rainwater is forming a pool under my sleeping bag; I can feel it seeping through and onto my back. I arc my back in order to avoid its wet chill as mosquitoes flock to the wet heat now smothering my face. I'm trying to swat them away without removing the protection of the tarp, but I have to give up as this proves impossible.
Miserable. I have nowhere to go. No tent. No gauze for my nose. No mosquito repellent. I find myself staring blankly into the plastic draped over my face as if it were a starless night sky. If it weren't for the blood gushing profusely from my nose I know that I would be smelling the strong scent of dirt-stained plastic. I try to focus on something else. Anything else. But instead I keep questioning myself as to how I got stuck in this plastic bag filling with mud and my own blood.

Intercom Interactions

Currently I'm a dashing 22-year-old who is lucky enough to have had much experience selling various goods door-to-door. Some of these goods have proven to be more, for lack of a better word, sellable, than others. Selling boxes of candy in elementary school went well. Really, who doesn't want to buy a box of candy from some cute 8-year-old kid? (That's right, ladies, I was just as cute 14 years ago and I'm available for a limited time only). If you don't, then you're purely unamerican. Opening the door to that, you know you have to buy.
However, as I aged and increased in man-beauty, I suppose my looks and lack of edible products caused my number of buyers to decrease dramatically. As a studly, confident adolescent with braces, pigeon-toed feet, and glasses (yeah, the whole sexy sha-bang), my success began to wane. The sale of my services as a flag-posting boy scout was met with more indifference and fewer cheek pinches, but still enough success to be content.
As a brawny 19-year-old, I embarked upon a two year trek in Holland and Belgium in order to sell religion. I was ready. I had studied my Dutch and Flemish, I had brought my best suits and ties, and my teeth were at their pearly-whitest. I was confronted with hostility, no doubt, but the degree of indifference that I encountered was greater than I could have fathomed possible for walking, talking, supposedly compassionate human beings. Did selling religion on the door go well? That's a matter of definition, but I sure got to meet some winners!
Let me describe one fabulous experience for you, dear reader:
It was a beautiful day in May of 2008, and I was residing at the time in a gorgeous city called Leeuwarden in the far north of the Netherlands (the exact original Dutch will appear in parentheses next to its English translation). My sales associate, Nathan Lye, and I were buzzing every doorbell on an apartment building early one afternoon in hopes of making a sale for the month. Nate pressed one doorbell, keeping his ear close to the intercom awaiting any response, when a young man answered, "Yes? (Ja?)"
Nate tossed in his usual pitch, to which the voice replied, "Are you horny? (Ben je geil?)"
The conversation then proceeded as such:
Nate: "No... (Nee...)"
Voice: "That's a shame, I am. (Jammer, ik wel)."
Nate: "I'm not gay. (Ik ben geen homo)."
Voice "Wanna try? (Proberen?)"
Nate: "No. (Nee)."
Voice: "You sure? (Zeker?)"
Nate: "I'm sorry, but no. (Het spijt me, maar nee)."
At long last the awkward debate had reached its end. I, always in support of my sales associate, was already weeping with laughter against the wall. "All right, dude, it's your turn now." "Yeah, I'll take care of it in a minute," I tell Nate through my tears. Once I'm back on my feet, we both realize that we've forgotten which doorbell is next. We take our best guess, I push it, and then extend my ear back toward the intercom.
Another conversation then commences as follows:
Voice: "Ja? (but the voice is eerily familiar...)"
Me: "Umm, did we just talk to you? (Ahh, hebben wij je net gesproken?)
Voice: "Are you alone? (Ben je alleen?)"
Me: "No, there are two of us. (Nee, wij zijn met z'n tweeen)."
Voice: "Threesome? (Drietje?)"
Me: "No. (Nee.)"
Voice: "That's a shame. (Jammer)."
Me: "Yeah, too bad... (Ja, helaas...)"
Yes, this did indeed happen. Yes, we really did ring his doorbell twice. And yes, going door-to-door in Western Europe has given me some of my most cherished memories. Believe it. Try it. You'll see.
My latest experience as a a door-to-door salesman was only this past summer. This time, Holland was replaced by Utah, my suit was replaced by a polo t-shirt, my sales associate was replaced by a clipboard, and my religion was replaced by insurance. Was I met with indifference and hostility again? Somewhat. Apathetic as many of the people were, Americans seem to lack a Dutch hostility. Strange, seeing as how the Dutch haven't done very well in any of the past few wars.
So, the underlying message of my time as a door-to-door salesman is, please contain your anger and hostility until a maniacal despot takes power. Then, and only then, must you release your fury upon him/her and his/her regime (did you notice how I kept the despot asexual? Yeah, I'm not a sexist). It has paid off for us here in America. Follow our lead, world, and make the earth a better place.