Elissa ElyHe was a lively and informative young man—well-mannered, too, stamping his work boots on the bottom step to loosen dirt and mud. A company logo was embroidered on his shirt pocket and across the front of his baseball cap, but I didn’t think to notice it. During his lively, informative conversation, I didn’t think to notice there were no brochures in his hand and no truck on the street, either.
He explained that he specialized in pest control, carpenter ants, and had just sprayed ‘Chris’ house on Myrtle’ (this familiarity caused me some neighborly shame; I could not have picked Chris out of a lineup). A miscalculation had left him with extra treatment, and — he said, charmingly — he was willing to offer it at a cut rate. I explained that we had been sprayed already. “Well”, he said. “Would you mind if I poked around?”
Ten minutes later, he knocked on the back door.
“I want to show you something,” he said. The dog and I followed him to the side yard by the house’s foundation, where he turned over a large rock. Ants poured out. “Look at this”, he said. “See the two sets of wings? That’s them. I spray out to a 15-foot perimeter, totally organic, won’t hurt kids or your dog. No one else does that. This is a golden, right? What’s his name? I grew up with retrievers.”
He pulled a laminated fee card from his pocket. “I can bill you for the townhouse rate: $219 today, three times a year afterwards. Since I’m here, we could start right now.”
Something in Denmark seemed wrong. A person most unlike me, yet using my very voice, answered that my husband made the decisions and wasn’t at home (he was unloading the dishwasher in the kitchen).
“Of course,” the young man said, as if we were colluding in the most pleasant way. “Husbands always want to decide. They want to know two things: how much will it cost and how long will it last? But we could get it started while I’m here.”
We stood together: pest control specialist, and homeowner of a certain age who relied for all decisions on her husband, though the husband would have been stunned to hear it. I asked for a brochure and a business card. Certainly, the young man said. It was in his truck around the corner at Chris’ house (our dear mutual friend), and he would drive by and drop it off in a few minutes. We shook hands and he added that he was very much looking forward to working together. He never returned.
No Nigerian prince or destitute mother of seven appeared from across the sea. There was no offer of insurance with bottom-drawer premiums and exorbitant returns. Newspapers tell me my generation is ripe for scamming, but I send these e-mails straight to trash in a superior way.
Still, looking back, I admire him for his agility. Those ants had no wings.
Elissa Ely writes about seniors/baby boomers for The Belmont Voice. She is a community psychiatrist.