I’ve been listening to a persistent knock for the last ten minutes. I check my Arlo camera alert and, sure enough, there is a man dressed in a black business suit gently knocking on the door with his rather pale first knuckle joint and finely manicured nails, like talons.
What do I do now? If I didn’t have the camera, I wouldn’t know who was there. I might have even opened the door. Not now! No way could I do that with the evidence on video. I go down to the door, wrapped in my flu blanket.
“Go away.”
“Special delivery. I have a special delivery for John.”
“Leave it on the table.”
“I can’t do that, you have to sign for the package.”
I’m looking at the live feed; he doesn’t have a package. He’s lying! Okay then, so this is the relationship that we have.
“Listen, I don’t believe you have a package, what is in the package that you don’t have?”
“Um, food. Some tasty food.”
“I have you on video, you do not have a package. I will not open the door to a liar.”
I see on the video that he pulls out a plain envelope. “Seeds, I have an envelope of seeds which can be planted to grow tasty food.”
“Nice try, but I’m not going to have the time to grow them if I open the door. I said before, go away!”
“Come on, John! Open the door. This flu thing has gone on long enough, it’s time.“
“I said go away!”
He knows my name! The knocking stopped briefly, then resumed at a faster rhythm, punctuated with the word “Johnny.” Apparently on Death’s off hours, he watches TV. Another five minutes passes.
“Listen. Being irritating is not the best way to convince me to open the door. What works on television does not relate to the real world.”
The knocking stopped. I looked at my phone and the live feed; he was still there, and he appeared to be scrolling through his phone. Then the knocking started again. “Open up, can you produce your driver’s license and proof of insurance,” then some more knuckle tapping.
This repeated for another few minutes. I was confused until I remembered a few YouTube videos. “I don’t have to show you any ID. I am a free sovereign citizen. Am I being detained? Or am I free to go?”
The knuckle tapping stopped. “John, can we just talk? I’m just trying to do my job, and here you are just messing with my timetable.”
I thought about this for a moment and decided that perhaps I should take another tack.
“Okay, I see your point. I’m good with the whole timing thing, but there is something you don’t understand.”
“Okay then, what is the problem? I’ll work with you!”
“Well, if I open the door, I imagine I’ll have a second or two before I collapse…”
“Okay, maybe less, but there is nothing I can do about that, it is what it is.”
“Okay, but my problem is the guest bathroom is right next to the front door. If I go down, then there is better than a 50 percent chance I will fall into the bathroom. Then my whole life will end with the ‘found dead in the bathroom’ statement. If you check on my blog, I really don’t like that idea. How about you going to my back patio door? I’ll be found dead in the kitchen, then!”
“Umm, it’s a little unorthodox, but sure, I can do that. I will see you in a few.”
I checked on my security camera for the back patio, and there he was, gently knocking. I grabbed my keys, tightened my flu blanket around my shoulders, and headed for the Jeep.
I’m thinking I need some black tea at Starbucks, and no, I don’t feel bad about cheating death. He was a liar from the beginning.
John Diestler is a retired educator who has some time on his hands. He has lived the phases of the typical work life: terrified new person, under-qualified responsible gatekeeper, the “go-to guy,” the seeker of opinions, the shaper of opinions, the reliable “old hand,” “the quaint professor,” and “who invited him to this meeting” guy. With a nice pension and unrestricted time, why not try new things? He has been a feckless hitchhiker, a pre-hippie hippie, a professional soldier, a steelworker, he canned fruit cocktails, he worked as a printer’s apprentice, he was a senior electronics technician, he was a graphic designer, he taught graphic design, he was the chair of a media and fine arts department, he sculpts, and he makes edged weapons. And when time permits, he puts phrases together until they are sentences. And enough sentences sometimes makes a story.
