The latest version of the American Dream consists of your own San Francisco Bay Area home, your own anxiety, and the relentless privilege of being harassed by door-to-door solar evangelists who treat personal boundaries as a suggestion rather than law.
This is a story of a guy in his mid-30s, finally parked in his garage, savoring a fleeting moment of peace, when a teenage salesgirl enters the scene, marching into the garage as if she owns the deed, all business, zero self-awareness. She demands to see the homeowners because solar panels wait for no one, and apparently, neither do uninvited sales reps from the Minnesota School of Pushiness.
The pitch is a bureaucratic fever dream. She is not here to sell anything, but also here on vitally important solar-panel-related business, and by the way, could you hand over your parents’ contact info even though they have not lived here in years. Her actual company remains as mysterious as her logic. As she repeats her demands, she weaves in a warning that someone else will definitely drop by soon, turning the garage into a set for the next episode of Paranormal Solicitors.
Each polite refusal is met with stubborn escalation. She’s “not selling anything,” but she’s pre-approved your roof for solar panels and needs your parents’ contact info—despite them not living there and you declining harder than the Nasdaq in 2008. As if grinding down your will to live will reveal hidden homeowner secrets.
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