"May I come back later?" he asks.
"No," says the woman.
She shuts the door.
Porter's eyes reveal nothing.
He moves to the next house.
The door opens.
Then closes.
38 He doesn't get a chance to speak. Porter's expression never changes. He stops at every home in his territory. People might not buy now. Next time. Maybe. No doesn't mean never. Some of his best customers are people who repeatedly turned him down before buying.
39 He makes his way down the street.
"I don't want to try it."
"Maybe next time."
"I'm sorry. I'm on the phone right now."
"No."
44 Ninety minutes later, Porter still has not made a sale. But there is always another home.
He walks on.
He knocks on a door. A woman appears from the backyard where she's gardening. She often buys, but not today, she says, as she walks away.
"Are you sure?" Porter asks.
She pauses.
50 That's all Porter needs. He walks as fast as he can, tailing her as she heads to the backyard. He sets his briefcase down and opens it. He puts on his glasses, removes his brochures and begins his sales talk, showing the woman pictures and describing each product.
51 Spices?
"No."
Jams?
"No. Maybe nothing today, Bill."
Porter's hearing is the one perfect thing his body does. Except when he gets a live one. Then the word "no" does not register.
56 Pepper?
"No."
Laundry soap?
"Hmm."
Porter stops. He smells blood. He quickly remembers her last order.
"Say, aren't you about out of soap? That's what you bought last time. You ought to be out right about now."
"You're right, Bill. I'll take one."
63 He arrives home, in a rainstorm, after 7 p.m. Today was not profitable. He tells himself not to worry. Four days left in the week.
At least he's off his feet and home.
Inside, an era is preserved. The telephone is a heavy, rotary model. There is no VCR, no cable.
Inside, an era is preserved. The telephone is a heavy, rotary model. There is no VCR, no cable.
His is the only house in the neighborhood with a television antenna on the roof.
67 He leads a solitary life. Most of his human contact comes on the job. Now, he heats the oven and slips in a frozen dinner because it's easy to fix.
The job usually takes him 10 hours
He's a weary man who knows his days -- no matter what his intentions -- are numbered.
The job usually takes him 10 hours.
He's a weary man who knows his days -- no matter what his intentions -- are numbered.
He works on straight commission. He gets no paid holidays, vacations or raises. Yes, some months are lean.
71 In 1993, he needed back surgery to relieve pain caused from decades of walking. He was laid up for five months and couldn't work. He was forced to sell his house. The new owners, familiar with his situation, froze his rent and agreed to let him live there until he dies.
72 He doesn't feel sorry for himself
The house is only a building. A place to live, nothing more.
His dinner is ready. He eats at the kitchen table and listens to the radio. The afternoon mail brought bills that he will deal with later this week. The checkbook is upstairs in the bedroom.
His checkbook
He types in the recipient's name and signs his name.
The signature is small and scrawled
Unreadable.
But he knows.
Bill Porter.
Bill Porter, salesman
82 From his easy chair he hears the wind lash his house and the rain pound the street outside his home. He must dress warmly tomorrow. He's sleepy. With great care he climbs the stairs to his bedroom.
In time, the lights go off
Morning will be here soon.

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