The lady of the house opened the white front door to her modest bungalow-style home. On the doorstep stood a middle-aged man in a plain suit. She recognized him from his signs.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “I am Alfred Samiel. I am visiting every home in the district which I hope to serve in the legislature. I would like to take just a few moments to tell you where I stand on the important issues we face.”
She scowled at him.
“I know your stands on the issues. I don’t know how you can say any of that crap. You’re disgusting. You’ll never get my vote. I hope to God you don’t get elected.”
She slammed the door on him, and he heard something fall from a shelf inside.
Samiel stared hatefully at the closed door, silently fuming. None of the well-intentioned warnings had prepared him for the fact of rejection. He poured out his anger and stepped down from the porch, moving on to the next house.
He reminded himself that it didn’t matter if he was not loved. All that mattered was making a good effort. When election day came, he was certain he would be elected – despite the woman’s prayer to the contrary: God wasn’t running a candidate for office.
Behind him, the white door now bore Samiel’s silhouette. The homeowner would later discover that paint would not adhere to it.
