Ding Dong! I answer the door.
"Is this your lawn?" says the big sweaty man with a beer belly and a wiener dog. He's wiping buckets of sweat from his forehead with a dirty rag while he scans my shabby lawn with disgust.
"Yes." I say flatly so to express my disinterest in anything he has to offer.
"Are you going to keep watering it like this?" He says like a father who has found out his teenager is running the car without oil.
"We're moving." I hope this will make him give up and walk away. I've been dispensing prickly fevered anxiety needles throughout my pores all day and so far it has not worked at all. People keep talking to me.
A long pause. He does not turn and leave nor even step back. He wipes his wet face again and thinks about his next line, which is this. "Why are you moving!?" Not a quizzical small talk question, more like demand.
"Why not?" I said, since it's none of his business.
"Are you moving local?" he blurts whilst still avoiding eye contact and checking out my lawn.
"Yes. In a couple of weeks. So we don't have any money right now."
The man seems irritated at this news. As if I've really let him down. "Where's all your money?!"
"Its at the new house!" I started to feel a little defensive.
"So you've spent all your money on a house in the same place as your old house. [not a question, a recall statement of dismay and scorn]
"Yep." and I stood their waiting with my hand on my hip for his next tactical salesmanship question or perhaps a PowerPoint presentation. But he just turned and walked away. Not a good-bye or a screw you. His little wiener dog followed him.
He hopped into his repainted U-haul truck and left my neighborhood.
The lesson here is: Never open the door for a sweaty man with a little weiner.