Barely 5 hours since I’d responded to the job listing on the ‘Odd Jobs’ message board, and I’d already traveled 200 miles west to the unassuming farmhouse on the outskirts of Harrisburg PA.
It could be inferred from my hurried departure and the nature of the location that I was a foolhardy and uncautious man, and generally I could not argue with this measured and natural response to my unusual actions. But this job was a type of which I’d recently become accustomed to responding to, and where I had once shown some semblance of restraint in my undertakings, of late I’d been rushing headlong to discover what oddities awaited on my adventures.
The listing made no mention of the job’s particulars (a telltale sign of something interesting or peculiar and worth investigating), and the response to my inquiry only solidified my curiosity.
‘I’ve several entryways in need of servicing. Pay is per entrance. You may keep what you find. Address is …’
The money, I must admit, was not my real goal. I am very good at finding things.
The typical European styled farmhouse had no porch, and was closely surrounded by dense forest. I proceeded up the short driveway on foot and knocked 3 times on the well serviced front door. Indeed, I’d yet to notice any entryways needing service and began to doubt the validity of the request.
When no one answered the door I became very suspicious and decided to search around the house. I did find several signs designed to ward off trespassers with some vaguely threatening warning that dangerous dogs may be about. Others might have left then, but I decided it was best to try the backyard. The foliage on the edge of the forest surrounding the house was so dense that I was forced to my hands and knees, and endured every nature of scrape, scratch and bruise imaginable as I squeezed myself along the side of the house.
In pain and out of breathe, I finally pulled free of the bushes and stood triumphantly amidst a veritable army of entryways enshrouded in a dense fog. Entryways of all style and manufacture littered the otherwise open farmland. I began walking among them, touching them. Getting a sense of them. So many doors to check, so many possibilities.
A dog barked.
Turning I saw a scowling young woman in overalls and dirty boots. In her left hand she held the leash of a large, drooling, grey dog (a hound of some sort) not a threatening looking breed. In her right hand was a large ball-peen hammer. “I’m here for the job,” I said, “I knocked.”
She relaxed her grip on the hammer and smiled, “The first entryway is in the front. Knocker doesn’t work.”