Young Writers Society

The first thing I learned about being a door-to-door salesmen was that I wasn’t any good at it. I couldn’t lie. Not for my life! My teaspoon of empathy soiled every chance I had at success; that month, I’d sold one vacuum to a retired scuba diver who pitied me too much to turn me away. Worse, my boss Tom had caught on.

“You’ve the worst sales record of anyone on the team,” he yelled, “Either get your act together, or bug the hell out!”

“I need this job,” I told him, thinking of official-looking envelopes and scowling landlords.

Tom glowered from behind his desk, “Then act like it.”

So, I stood on that porch, heart throbbing so bad against my chest I thought I’d sooner throw up than make a sale. I must’ve looked so stupid standing there- a gentle breeze would’ve blown me away. But I gritted my teeth, sucked in my gut, and knocked on that door.

An old woman answered, half my height and too light to be a paperweight. She squinted up at me, mouth screwed into a frown, “Are you lost, dear?”

My face flushed with shame, and I feared I fumbled the sale before one word had left my mouth. But I couldn’t give up so easy; I scrounged around for my most winning smile and proffered a pamphlet-and-order-form.

“Good morning, ma’am. The neighborhood looks lovely with all these orange leaves, don’t you think? But spring’s not the only time for cleaning- Ron’s, Ron’s, and Ron’s is selling our most premier vacuums at the lowest price on the market; take a look!”

A wave of relief crashed over me, as she took the pamphlet and examined it with no small amount of curiosity. “I have been on the market for a vacuum. Why don’t you come out of the cold and tell me more about it?”

I entered the living room, extraordinarily grateful, and followed her to the kitchen. It was very homely, the kind of space I wanted for my own one day, with calming, sage green walls. She sits me at the table, decorated with a floral cloth: butterflies floating about a sea of flowers. Not a care in the world.

Something was gurgling inside the crockpot on the stove, and it smelled divine. My stomach grumbled but I ignored it. The old woman sat across from me.

“I can’t imagine doing what you do,” she said, more wrinkles folding her face as she frowned at me in sympathy, “People can be so rude. I’d quit my first day!”

I shifted in my seat and cleared my throat and folded my hands. I grimace when I lie, “I like talking to people.”

“Son, you look like you’re about to vomit all over my carpet. Unless- oh my! is that your plan? Then I would have to by your vacuum!” She made herself laugh, sharp and awful like a bellyache.

All I wanted in the whole entire universe was to bolt for that door and make off down the street. I went so far as to place one foot on the outside of the table. Instead, I dug crescents into my palms and offered up a laugh of my own.

“I admit it, madam, I’m nervous. You see, this is my first day on the job. I want to do well. To impress my boss.”

“Oh!” The old woman’s eyes widened, and she smiled, “I’m sorry for teasing you, dear. You’re doing wonderful. I remember my first job…”

Like a drowning man proffered a rope, I grab onto this thread, “Where did you work?”

It was the longest I ever talked with a customer. The clock behind her read 12:02, a full forty-five minutes since I knocked on her door. She had to buy a vacuum now, I thought, somewhat desperate. Only problem, that hadn’t been the topic for discussion in a long while.

Midway through the biography of grandchild number eight, I far-from-elegantly cut her off and said, “So about the vacuum-“

As you’d know if a sword pierced your chest, I knew I made a mistake. I saw her face darken, and I felt a chill in my heart. “Yes, yes,” she said, “I’ve kept you here long enough. You’re itching for your lunch break, I bet?” She hobbles to her feet and toward the stove, where the crockpot is sizzling. “Why don’t you eat with me. Then I’ll buy your vacuum.”

All the blood gushed to my head, and I beamed like a goof. Free food and a sale? Maybe I wasn’t all that doomed…

“Thank you,” I said, startled and embarrassed by the pinpricks of tears in the corners of my eyes. I scrubbed them away before she could turn and see me, “You won’t regret it! I promise!”

She brings the crockpot to the table and sets in front of me, “It’s my own recipe,” she said with a wink, “made with love, and a healthy helping of protein.”

The old woman removed the lid, and revealed a sea of squirming, slimy, glittering bugs. My poor heart, which had already been through so much: stopped.

She lowered a ladle into the inky mass. I remained quiet, and listened to the chorus of melodic trills, angry rasps, and the low, persistent buzz. From the ladle leapt grasshoppers, escaping all across the room. One clambered over my hand, before I flung it away in a rush.

She produced a soup bowl, then jostled the cornucopia of bugs in. Before I could stop her, she returned to the crockpot for a second helping, then another. She slid it across the table to me and barred a smile.

“Eat up.”

I stared into the writhing bowels of my bowl. Cicada’s were buried beneath the squirming, fleshy bodies of worms, who in turn were scurried over by desperate ants clawing for escape, and twitchy spiders who sunk into themselves, contemplative, and angry wasps, half dead, wings and stings clipped.

And more. Millipedes. cockroaches. A caterpillar half spun into it’s cocoon, curled in on itself like the capital letter j. All of them, moving.

I looked up at the old woman. She had helped herself and returned to her seat. With another wink and smile, she raised her bowl to her nostrils and inhaled deeply. Then, she placed it to her lips, and poured the flailing, panicked bugs into her gaping mouth. Some escaped down her cheeks, like iridescent tears- but most met their fate with a crunch as she wielded her teeth like an executioners axe.

She set the bowl down with a clink and looked at me, expectant.

If you want this job, I thought, shaking hand snaking toward the spoon, then act like it.

I didn’t break eye contact with her. Not as I lifted an unknown bug from the bowl and placed it on my tongue. It squirmed, there, pincers digging against my cheek, wanting to burrow for freedom- until I swallowed it. It writhed. All it’s way down.

I gasped, sweat breaking across my brow. But once more, I struck my spoon into the bowl and drew out another. This bug was bigger, slimier, but didn’t move so much; this was a relief.

I got experimental. The next creature, I chewed. It crunched beneath my teeth, a texture that wasn’t all that bad- until it’s goop coated my tongue in a way I couldn’t banish. Not even with the imbibement of the next bug, or the next.

Finally, I let the spoon clatter to the floor. I braced both hands around the bowl and lifted it to my lips. My mouth creaked open, and the bowl tilted forward, and from that the insects poured, an unstoppable waterfall. I squeezed shut my eyes, and tears leaked down my cheeks. But when I set the bowl back down, it was empty.

My next breaths rattled my body. I hugged myself and rocked forward, blood pounding in my ears.

The old woman placed a paper beside my empty bowl. I didn’t recognize it at first, as the order form I gave her before.

“You’ve got yourself a customer,” she said, smiling, “I can’t wait to get my vacuum.”