Kleen-N-Kleen = Ch-ching!

I open my front door and I am greeted by a giant toothy smile with a small man connected to it—a Bob Marly-esque man dressed in a crumpled white button-down and khaki shorts.

I am thinking of how much I love reggae music, when I see, on the porch at his feet, an industrial spray bottle, half-full of a yellowish liquid.

I give an internal eye-roll. Oh my God he’s going to try to sell me something! Is it too late to shut the door?

“Good afternoon, Miss. Is this a bad time?”

Did he just call me Miss? I like to be called Miss. Much better than Ma’am—sounds younger. “Oh, no, no it’s okay,” I assure him, poking my head out the door.

Extending a weathered hand, the man says, “My name is John.”

John? I was hoping for Ziggy, or something more artsy or island-y. I take his hand. “Hi John. What can I do for you?”

“Just a minute of your time, please.”

Is that a Jamaican accent? I love a Jamaican accent. “Okay, John, shoot,” I say. “But make it quick, I have to cook dinner.”

“Quick, yes, quick. Tell me, Miss, do you have kids?”

“Yes, our youngest is off to college this fall.”

“No!” he leans back, eying me. “You can’t possibly be old enough to have a kid in college!”

Giggling, I step out onto the porch and shut the door behind me. It’s a step that will cost me. I don’t know it yet, but specifically, it will cost me $42.79.

Without wasting any time, John picks up the spray bottle, unscrews the nozzle and runs his tongue across the length of the nozzle tube, lapping up the yellow liquid. “Before I show you what this amazing cleaning product does, I wanted to prove to you that it’s non-toxic.”

I am grossed out. I am intrigued. I am skeptical. If it’s non-toxic, it can’t possibly clean anything...

As if he had read my thoughts, he puts the nozzle back on the bottle and pulls a white washcloth from a well-worn backpack, and then a Sharpie from his shirt pocket. He hands me the Sharpie, and somehow I know, without him having to tell me, that he wants me to mark on the washcloth. So I do. And as expected, he sprays the cloth with the cleaner. Almost immediately the mark begins to disappear.

I am not impressed. Spot Shot—$2.99 at the Wal-mart—will do that.

Sensing that he’s loosing me, he quickly begins cleaning my storm door with the liquid and the washcloth.

Okay, I think, you can’t use Spot Shot on glass. That’s why there’s Windex. But I allow him to continue, because he thinks I look young, and because I have a weakness for a Jamaican accent, and because he’s blocking my way back into the house.

When he has polished the door to a sparkling shine he runs the palm of his hand down the center. “No smudge!” he says. “Now you try. My hands are dry, but a lady like you usually wears lotion.”

I try to smear the glass with my fingers, but it remains clean. I think of my Jack Russell’s wet nose against the back sliding glass door. I could use some of this stuff.

I am now trying to decide whether I want to pay by check or charge.

But John isn’t taking any chances. He produces a wire brush from his backpack, drops to his knees and proceeds to clean a large rock (yes a rock) beside my porch. When he has finished the rock appears to have been bleached. He moves on to another one.

“No, John, stop! You don’t have to clean anymore rocks. I’m sold.”

“Thank you Miss. Thank you very much. What is it that made you decide to buy?”

“Actually I think you had me at Miss.”