The Barker Street Regulars

Twenty-four
     
    G IRL SCOUT COOKIES? I was far too old. Vacuum cleaners? Because of the dog hair, I burn them out all the time. There were two broken ones in the cellar, but neither those nor the one that was still working would pass as a demonstration model. Besides, did anyone still sell vacuum cleaners door-to-door? Magazine subscriptions? I could legitimately present myself as a representative of Dog’s Life, and we’re always eager for new subscribers, of course, but for once, I preferred to avoid the subject of dogs. So much for collecting donations to Alaskan Malamute Rescue. But what about another charity? Or better yet, Cambridge being Cambridge, a political organization? I owned a clipboard, and could easily fake a petition of some sort and forge the signatures of imaginary people ardently in favor of such-and-such or adamantly opposed to this-and-that. But no matter how Cantabrigian the cause I selected, around here, I’d be doomed to encounter a devil’s advocate or possibly a Cambridge misfit who’d keep me stuck for hours listening to the case for global nuclear armament or the imminent destruction of the rain forests. But solicitors for charities and lobby groups needed licenses. I didn’t have one. And solicitors always handed out literature.
    The availability of props thus determined my role. I already owned a Bible. My possession of the collection of leaflets and tracts was mainly the dogs’ fault. I’d opened the door without knowing who’d rung the bell. To prevent the dogs from getting out, I didn’t open the door all the way, but held it a little ajar. Standing there was a sweet-faced, dowdy woman accompanied by a guy in his twenties with hair so oily and skin so red and clean that he looked as if he’d been submerged in hot fat, like a fried clam, but not for long enough to turn brown. As I was about to say politely that I wasn’t interested and then swiftly shut the door on my callers, Rowdy and Kimi poked their noses out, thus making it entirely unnecessary for my callers to get a foot in the door; I couldn’t shut out the Jehovah’s Witnesses without simultaneously squashing the dogs’ muzzles. The woman caressed the Bible she carried and, instead of telling the blunt truth (“I’m a Jehovah’s Witness here to plague you”), said brightly, “We’re Jehovah’s Witnesses, and we’re sharing some Good News from the Bible.”
    The woman and her underfried clam wasted forty-five minutes of their time and mine sitting in my living room trying to convert me, of all people, to a sect that would’ve required me to do an awful lot of walking without being able to take a dog. I’m serious. I asked whether dogs could go along. Why I bothered, I don’t know. I mean, have you ever opened the door to find a Jehovah’s Witness standing there with a dog? It’s obviously a good idea. With gorgeous dogs along, these poor people would have a lot fewer doors slammed in their faces than they do now. Greenpeace should also consider the possibility. As to vacuum-cleaner salespeople? Yes, imagine! With long-coated dogs trained to shake hair all over the houses of likely prospects, who’d then have no choice but to agree to have the mess cleaned up? Indeed, a foot in the door no more. From now on, it’s a paw. A nose. Or an awful lot of fur.
    Anyway, I retrieved the sheaf of religious tracts that I’d put with the newspapers and other recyclables. Then I worked on my disguise. After taking a hot shower, I put nothing on my face except moisturizer, and with the aid of a blow dryer, I did my best to convince my hair to curl conservatively under. As a costume, I selected a white blouse, a gray wool skirt, black flats, and my navy blue wool coat. The finishing touch was a white rayon scarf fashioned into a wide headband that held my hair back from my face the way mothers always like. The only missing element was a second Jehovah’s Witness. It seemed to me that like the legs of panty hose, they always traveled in pairs. A man and a woman? I couldn’t remember for certain. It didn’t matter. The only person I could think of who’d join me in the charade was my cousin Leah, whose red-gold curls would create an undesirably pagan appearance and who, in any case, had classes to attend. Men? Steve and Kevin would’ve been equally opposed to the project. I toyed with the idea of enlisting Hugh or Robert, who’d have enjoyed emulating the Master by traipsing around in disguise, but I was