Life Without Pizza

Looking into the mirror on my left, I can't help but wonder why anyone would ever install mirrors in an elevator. Something important must be afoot, because the girl next to me is texting more quickly than I can imagine her speaking. Her auburn hair is pulled into a ponytail and a stack of books is occupying her left arm entirely. When the elevator stops and the doors begin to pry themselves open, she steps out without so much as a glance toward anything or anyone but her illuminated screen of connection.

As the doors again begin to close, I see her rip her eyes from their entrancement up at the world around her before spinning back toward the closing elevator doors. A look of understanding passes over her eyes just as she becomes shut from my view. The wrong floor.

My destination, the top floor, is almost completely empty.

There was a time when I really enjoyed these meetings, but that was when there was pizza and single women. Now there's no more food and only a few chicks who complain to each other about their dismally inadequate boyfriends. Looking down to the floor below this one, I see a former coworker of mine. She chopped all of her hair off. Maybe I should yell something down to her, but maybe this is a library and maybe I shouldn't.

Standing just outside the cracked door, I can see a few people on the opposite side organizing their things. Sighing, I open the door slowly so as not to interrupt any integral thought processes revolving around the wrong doings of paramours former and current.

Before anyone can make an accusation, I say, "I know; I'm about five minutes late. I didn't expect you all to be here already."

Sitting on the opposite side of the table are two people I haven't seen here before. One of them endeavors to say something before I do, "Hi, I hope you don't mind that we came. We missed our group earlier today."

"That's fine. What's your name?"

Reaching across the table I grasp her hand as she answers, "Katie."

The guy next to her says, "Chris," as I in turn shake his hand. 

"Cool. I'm Dallin. It's nice to have you guys here."

Sitting down, I look around the room. "Well, does anyone have questions about anything in particular?"

People just shake their heads while I tell myself that this is the last time I ever take a tutoring position.

"Nothing? Okay, are there any areas you guys want to hit? The test is tomorrow."

Finally, the girl at the end of the table makes a suggestion, "I was thinking we could just do an overview of everything," to which everyone vocalizes their agreement.

Forcing a smile and a happy tone, I nod and tell them what a good idea that is. "No better place to start than at the beginning."

Reviewing everything without any direction or specifics will take at least 4 hours, but they don't know that yet. I hear Katie and Chris both eagerly pulling note paper from their bags. I lied. I know who Chris and Katie are: they've been on my list all semester but have never shown up until today. Unfortunately they will probably fail.

Instead of telling them of their fate, I choose to give them another day's hope and turn back toward the room. 

"Hey guys, before we get started, does anyone have a whiteboard marker that works?"

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.