The Price for Peace of Mind

by Anna Vecellio

            When it comes to the job, most of my co-workers source their sales leads from social media. They spend hours on apps optimizing their funnel and tracking click-through rates to build the sleekest, hippest B2C strategy. But me? I think that’s an expensive slice of bullshit. I prefer a high-touch, boots-on-the-ground approach, the kind where I learn everything I need on the walk from the sidewalk to the buyer’s front door. 

            Just look at the home I’m outside of today. It’s immaculate—puts every other house on the street to shame. Not a blade of grass out of place or a weed in sight. The windows are crystal clean. The sidewalk has been pressure-washed to perfection. Hell, the roof even looks like it’s gotten a wash recently. With how property values have been rising in this zip code, the cost to buy this place would send a shiver down even the richest man’s back.

            But it’s the equality sign in the front window that really tips the math in my favor.

            I’m gonna make a sale here. I can feel it.

            I straighten my tie, smooth out the shoulders of my suit. An older man answers on the second knock. At first, I peg him for seventy, but then I see the callouses on his hands. A lifetime of hard work has aged him. Sixty, then. That’s perfect. He’s got just enough life left to live.

            And more than enough to lose.

            We exchange names. George’s handshake is firm. I notice a bit of paint dried under his nails. I thought the white porch railings looked especially crisp. When I comment on them, George smiles and thanks me, but there’s a suspicious glint in his eye.

            That’s alright. The husbands usually have those. All I have to do is keep him talking until… There she is. The wife always comes to the door eventually. Pam is George’s opposite, as couples from their decade usually are. She smiles where he frowns. Prefers bohemian garb over his pressed shirts. But beneath her charm and welcome, she carries the lonely smile of a woman whose children never visit. 

            That’s another point to me—and one you’d never score just by scouring Facebook. Anyway. Now that they’re both here, the pitch can begin. This is when I have to be most on my game. If I’m not careful, my spiel can sound robotic or, worse, turn into a real brain dump. So, I smile, but not too wide. Keep my hands moving, shoulders loose.

            I tell them I’m a salesman.

            “Oh, and what do I sell?”

            “Well—” (I always add a self-aware smile here) “—I sell peace of mind.”

            George chuckles. Good.

            Pam asks what I mean by peace of mind. Even better.

            My employer, Serenity Solutions, is a subsidiary of a big name. You’d know the company if I told you, which is often a value add. But if the fresh paint and custom trim are anything to go by, George probably built this house himself. A guy like him won’t appreciate the big, faceless conglomerate that signs my checks. So, I tell him I work for a boutique outfit focused on risk mitigation and asset protection. Or, in plebeian speak, we make people feel safe in their homes. 

            “Make them feel safe how?”
            I answer as quickly and straight to the point as I can. “Panic rooms.”

            “… Panic rooms?”

            Customers always parrot the product back to me. Bewildered. Laughing. And that’s a-okay. It’s a weird product to be hawking, especially door-to-door. I’m always the first to admit that—and always with a laugh.

            George asks me if people actually buy those things.

            “Yes, sir.”

            Pam asks, “Whatever for?”

            I tell her that times are a bit trying these days, dangerous even, depending on where and who you are. A panic room is a simple way to make sure you never have to worry again. My fastest rejection was 2.3 seconds. This was back when we timed a whole day of pitches for an office bet. I didn’t win, but I did get second. I’m pretty sure Brittany sort of cheated with her entry. She knew the lead was going to have a problem with her, skin color-wise. But I don’t mind. We’re both in it to win it. That’s just the kind of people the company hires.

            George is polite. He gives me 10 seconds, then refuses my offer of a business card. I thank them for their time and shake George’s hand. They assume that’s the end of it.

            But for me, the pitch is just beginning.

            After the door shuts behind me, I trek back to the sparkly new metro station across the street. The new line had been touted by the city as a way to make commuting less hellish. Maybe it has, but it’s also spread the homeless like a plague. This neighborhood went from coveted mountain views to streets full of encampments in a matter of months.

            George and Pam never stood a chance. 

            I made sure to time my visit to their house for after the last train. Silly me. And now, oh my, I think it’s getting dark. I pace outside the station, making a show of checking the posted schedule. Good lead management sometimes requires a bit of theater, a performance to make sure the brand narrative really connects with the customer’s pain points.

            As I wait, I turn to make sure, and, yep, George and Pam’s porch light is still on.

            Then, some nearby tent dwellers stagger toward me, their drugged laughter bouncing off asphalt. From the house, they must look like a bevy of giggling devils closing in on a poor boy. 

            I sit and wait as they circle closer.

            And closer.

            And closer.

            “Son!” George calls to me from his front porch, beckoning me back to his home. He doesn’t take his eyes off the tents, or their occupants, until his door is safely locked behind me. 

            This is starting to look like a shut-out.

            Pam pours me coffee from a well-loved, tie-dye pot, part of a set George got her on an anniversary trip to Sedona. Have I ever been? No? Well, I just have to make the time to drive out sometime. Pam and George insist that I sit and chat until the car I ordered arrives. This time, when I offer my card, George takes it with a smile and a clap on my shoulder.

            “Stay safe out there.”

            “I will.”

            The average sales cycle for high-ticket conversion in this business is a week. George calls in three days. I win 20 bucks from Lenny over it. He sits in the same huddle of desks as Brittany and me. Every time I get a call, Lenny complains that he doesn’t get how I do it.

            See, by company standards, I have the “hard” market. My guys aren’t Christians (the hardcore kind, anyway), preppers, or gun freaks. Those guys are easy. All Lenny has to do is keep his crew cut in sharp and parrot back whatever he heard on talk radio that day. Me? I work what Lenny and Brittany call the “normies” — well-off white people living in the suburbs of Los Angeles. They should scoff at the idea of what they think we’re selling.

            But, as I always tell Lenny, safety trumps creed. 

            I call George with my regular spiel, “How are you doing, sir? I just got your message and wanted to ring you back right away. Of course, I remember you. I’m glad you called. If you have the time, I’d love to give you a deep dive on our product. We’re really disrupting the personal safety arena in a way I think you’ll connect with.”

            I use Lenny’s money to buy coffee for everyone in our huddle. It’s good to keep morale up, and it gets me favors from time to time. I end up needing one for this job. Of course, I knew George would be particular. The house is his baby, after all. But I had no idea matching his custom 100-year-old flooring would be such a make-or-break deliverable. I owe Brittany a million times over for helping me leverage that ask.

            George picks out the staircase for the location of the build. There’s already a small closet built underneath. By breaking into the floor, we can get plenty of space. Nothing huge, mind you. But I remind Pam when she’s curious that it’s not supposed to be a permanent residence, just a safe place to hide out till the good boys in blue get there. George and I spend months cramped in that tight space, necks and backs aching. But for every custom bit and bob George asks for, I remind myself that no one gets rich quick.

            Plus, I make 1% just on the build cost. So it’s no sweat off my back if George wants to cut a bigger check. It’s nothing compared to what I’ll make later, but a good salesman knows that counting pennies is the first step to counting millions.

            I give George and Pam a tour when the room is finally done. Despite the size, it’s pretty impressive. There’s a bunk bed. A week of rations and water. A TV for George. Bookshelf for Pam. George was right, the flooring really ties it in with the rest of the house. And the best part? It’s hidden in plain sight. None the wiser. There’s even an electric burner for Pam’s beloved coffee pot, right next to the intercom that alerts us if they utilize the room. I tell them it’s a direct line to my office. Someone’s keeping an ear out for it at all times, 24/7.

            But when I offer to demo how it works, George and Pam brush me off. They aren’t planning to ever have to use the panic room, so why waste the time? And boy, have I heard that one before. It’s such a classic in my sales zone that I could recite a dozen versions:

            “I’m sure it works just fine.”

            “I think we can figure it out if we ever need to.”

            “Let’s not go and jinx ourselves now.”         

            But listen, I get it. George and Pam are good people. They donate to charity. Shop local. Hang nice little political signs in their window. They probably even vote blue in most elections. They love their neighbors—whether they live in a house or a tent. Not that they want people to live in tents, of course. That’s not what they meant. They want housing reform just like everyone else. In fact, did I read that new article about the mayor’s initiative in the LA Times? Anyway, the colorful people are why George and Pam love this city.

            They swear.

            And this is where I remind them that the room is “just in case”. They don’t need to use it. No one even needs to know they have it. In fact, it’s better if they don’t. For security purposes.

            And my own.

            As I’m leaving, George hesitates over the cost. I remind him that we have a money-back guarantee. If they don’t like it, I’ll be back in 30 days to tear that sucker out and refund them. No questions asked. George smiles at that, not a flicker of the suspicion left in his eyes. We shake hands, and I go on my way, another sale on the books.

            The rest of the month goes by quick. It always does when I’m juggling a couple dozen leads at once. But I don’t mind being booked and busy. After all, the more people I have on my schedule, the more money I make.

            I have an in at the local SVU, a friend of a friend who gives me a new list every month. The background checks spit back three names who can afford what I’m selling. I visit one while she’s in the hospital to give her my card and tell her I hope they catch the guy. She shudders when I try to shake her hand, so I make a note to circle back in two weeks.

            While I’m getting lunch, I call back the rich daddy of a college girl whose school turned out to be in a nastier area of LA than he expected. Concerned parents are a harder demographic to finesse, but the few I’ve lined up might just be enough to put me over the top come the end of the fiscal year. So, it’s a risk worth taking.

            Between that and the other clients I have in construction, I’m back at George and Pam’s house before I know it. On my way over, I get off the metro a stop early to grab coffee. I like to stroll when I can. It’s good to get steps in, and it lets me reacquaint myself with the changes to the area since I’ve been there last. And, boy, there have been changes.

            Like the shit smeared across the sidewalk in front of George and Pam’s house, for instance. It’s crusty and dry, a couple of weeks old I’d guess. Then there’s the broken glass glittering in the driveway, left over from the shattered window in George’s truck. But the piece de resistance is the mattress impaled on their fence, just hanging there in the open air. I weave around it as I step through the gate, picking my way through the trash covering the front yard. When I finally make it to the porch, I find the mahogany front door caved in across the entryway.

            Now that one must have really made George just irate. He told me during the build that he’d had that door shipped in from Morocco. Now it’s in pieces on his floor. Pity. I peer through the opening. No police tape. People just don’t look out for each other anymore—even in a neighborhood like this.

            “George? Pam?”

            It’s so quiet I could probably hear a pin drop. I step inside and wander over to the staircase. I knock on the hidden door to the panic room, then press my ear to the wood.

            “Are you guys in there?”

            Logically, I know I shouldn’t be able to hear them. Brittany once screamed herself hoarse trying to be heard from inside the model unit at HQ. It’d been one of the holiday party games — the company’s way of helping us let off steam after the stress of the year. But I can’t help but expect something at this stage of things, the echo of crying maybe, or the sliver of a scream.

            But, as usual, it’s dead silent.

            It may surprise you, but in 13 years, none of my clients have ever bothered to check. That’s the trick Lenny doesn’t know. The one that gives me the best margins company-wide. The traditional market is paranoid. Lenny and the others have to jump through hoops to fool them. But my customers always swear they won’t use the room. They’re too fair, too loving, too enlightened.  What would it say about them if they admitted they were afraid?

            So, they don’t bother to check if the intercom works. 

            Or confirm that the door opens from the inside.

            As I’m leaving, I notice that Pam forgot to bring her coffee pot with her. I do feel bad about that. It probably would have been nice to have something familiar around in the end. I take it with me so it doesn’t get lonely.

            My first stop is the tents over on the corner. I already have the guys’ money all neatly divided into envelopes. They’re expensive for contractors, but a living wage is important for employee retention. Also, I did ask them to camp out here all month on top of giving two impeccable performances. The only unfortunate part about this particular crew is that they don’t mess with kids. So I’ll have to brainstorm on who I can use for my college student play. I wonder if Lenny knows anyone from his military days.   

            When I get home, I print out a little label with today’s date plus seven years. That’s how long it takes for missing people to be declared dead. Once that happens, the house will go to the kids. Between the ghosts and the property taxes, they’ll sell it. They always do. And that’s when our parent company steps in. They’ll scoop the place up, monetize the distress, reposition the asset, maybe bank a favor by gifting it to a friend on city council – whatever option best paves the holy road of profits. But that’s just the side profit. A little icing on top for me and the folks in sales to base our commission off of.

            The real prize starts the moment someone finally reports those two missing.

            Herd The Sheep. That’s what the sign in the office break room says. A good sheepdog knows how to nip at people’s heels—use fear, paranoia, and doubt to move them. You pick the right sheep, or pair of them, to pluck out of the flock, and the whole group gets skittish. And once they’re on edge, it’s pretty easy to lead them all off a cliff. What cliff will Pam and George lead people off you may ask? I don’t know, and, if you’ll pardon my frankness, I don’t really care. The company will pick whatever suits them most that quarter. Me? I’ve done my part.

            Woof. Woof.

            Not that my piece of the job isn’t important, it is. I once had lunch with a girl from operations who told me that recently a single sale had pushed the needle on who ended up in the White House. Can you believe that? She wouldn’t tell me if it was one of mine, but I’m thinking there might be a nice little note waiting for me in the next quarterly impact meeting.

            Either way, though, I’ll get my cut.

            That’s the other nice thing about my sales zone. It may be harder work, but, the value of the sheep around here is sky-high. I’ll put 30% into savings, 30% into fun, and 30% into scaling my operation. Invest in the future of my portfolio. Brittany swears the right social ad campaign can “turn a no to a yes in 90 days”. We’ll see. Maybe I’ll give it a try.       

            In the meantime, I tuck Pam’s coffee pot onto a bookshelf with my favorite odds and ends: the jade dragon from Luke and Mark’s ocean-side vacation home, an antique cuckoo clock from Eleanor and Sam’s duplex, the bonsai from the Freddy job. Brittany thinks I’m overly sentimental. Lenny thinks it’s some “Joel Rifkin shit”. But those two just don’t understand how rewarding it is to have a physical portfolio of your work.

            I paste the label underneath the pot to remind me when Pam and George will pay out. By then, I’ll have been at the company for 20 years. I wonder what I’ll get as an anniversary gift. They gave me a lifetime membership to my favorite juice bar at 10. I could ask some of the old timers, I guess, but I don’t mind waiting for the surprise.

            After all, good investments take time. 

            And fear pays. 

BIO

Anna Vecellio is a queer Southern writer whose work centers morally complex protagonists in genre worlds. She began her creative career at the Atlanta Film Festival as a short film and screenplay programmer before moving to Los Angeles to pursue her passion for writing and filmmaking. The Price for Peace of Mind is her first short story and was originally written as part of a 48-hour short story challenge. When not writing, Anna enjoys fixing up furniture she finds on the street, obsessively prepping for The Big One, and waging a losing war against the skunks that live under her floors.