Don't Knock Doorknockers

The Big Issue, 7 April 1997

Are you troubled by over-confidence? Ever felt like you're the smoothest, smartest, most-likely-to-do-something-really-important big shot in town? Well, I have a surefire cure for rampant egotism: try becoming a door-to-door collector for charity.

I've spent the last couple of weeks knocking on the doors of strangers, asking for donations to a charity which will remain unnamed to save face for all those involved. It's been an interesting experience; I have developed whole new dimensions in humility and obsequiousness and an almost-genuine glow in my voice when I speak of the Stylishly Classic yet Really Useful items that donors can receive in turn for their cash. And trudging round the streets of suburbia all day gives you a lot of time to think. Occasionally I ponder this and wonder why I haven't managed to write my magnum opus in the time spend fiddling with gate latches. But the fact is, nearly all one's available thinking time is spent mulling over topics which never really held much interest before, but which suddenly become excruciatingly important.

For example, I believe I am now conversant with every major brand of doorbell in use in Australia. There is an astonishing variety in the range of things people attach to their doors to enable you to get their attention -- from your basic 'ding dong' and its variations (which include 'ding dong ding dong', 'bing bong' and simply 'bonnnnggggggg', but strangely enough, never 'dong ding'), through to perky renditions of Brahms' 'Cradle Song' at double speed and rusty sqawks reminiscent of an emphysemic crow.

The most alarming one I came across was a version of 'When The Saints Go Marching In', rendered in its entirety twice through and with a disturbing tendency to creep upwards at the end of each line, as if it had secret longings to be an air-raid siren. The good thing about doorbells is the illusory feeling of power they give you when things are going well; you just stroll down the street pushing buttons and people pop up and give you money. But of course it doesn't happen this way very often.

And not only are there doorbells to think about, there are gates, dogs and screen doors to cope with. Then of course, having managed to gain access to the front door, you have to be ready to deal with the householder. It can be a little unnerving, wandering onto people's properties and right into the middle of their domestic lives. I was once startled to walk up to an open door and see what looked like a naked man lying tied up on the floor, but he turned out to be wearing underwear (hidden at first by a towering belly) and was listening to music with the headphones cord draped over him. I'm not sure why he was twiddling his nipples though. There there was the time I entered a driveway and was told by a man hurrying towards me with an armload of fruit that no one was home. Seeing my doubtful expression, he said "well, you can try if you like but I'm pretty sure no one's there because I've just nicked all their lemons." And a co-collector once became engaged in conversation with a woman who was packing up the car preparatory to leaving her husband. "I've been told I'm a heartless bitch," she said, "but here's three dollars."

And one old man sticks in my mind, for the simple reason that he was the maddest person I have ever had the pleasure of speaking with. He thought he was Jesus -- "I was born two thousand years ago!" he confided in a surreptitious whisper while his wife was off rummaging through her purse -- and claimed he could cure the particular disease in aid of which I was collecting with a teaspoon of orange juice and a similar measure of cod liver oil. But that wasn't all -- he was privy to secrets beyond the comprehension of us mere mortals. For example, he explained, on 7 February the CSIRO¹ scientists sent two laser beams around the world in different directions, which had the logical consequence of removing all the oxygen from the atmosphere. "You may think you're breathing oxygen," he told me knowingly, "but it's actually ozone." Not only that, but in a week or two those dastardly scientists will be dealing with all the ultraviolet rays as well. He got a bit metaphysical after that and I lost his train of thought -- "see this door, what a strange thing it is," he expostulated, gesturing at said (quite ordinary-looking) door and flailing about for a suitable surface on which to demonstrate the act of knocking at it, settling eventually on his own forehead. I made my excuses and left with his blessing, and five dollars.

Anyway, I could go on about the minutiae of door-knocking -- I haven't even got started on the Relative Ranking of Cold Drink Offers (suffice it to say that the words "would you like a beer?" are right up there at the top) -- but I won't, because I have a new job now. As of next week I get to grovel to strangers over the phone instead of in person, and will no doubt be forming elaborate theories on the negotiation of answerphones. But I'm a better person for my career in doorknocking, I think. I've learnt a valuable skill sometimes known as 'swallowing one's pride' (proving the maxim that if it tastes bad, it must be good for you). If I ever build my own house and can choose the doorbell myself, I'll have a solid grounding in experience to base my decision on. And you can bet I'll be watching out for those dodgy buggers at the CSIRO.

1. the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation (or something)