The world is different than the one I grew up in. Used to be, when I rang your doorbell, I had a product in hand: some gizmo or another meant to solve one of life’s nagging problems. Something to remove the metallic taste from your tap water, or dust from your air, or pet hair from your sofa.

Nowadays, I carry flyers for a local pest control company. It isn’t just my cargo that’s changed; people have changed. If I approach fifty doors, I’m lucky if one or two open. Some days, the only voice I hear is that of the robot from those silly camera doorbells. When the robot speaks, walk away—that’s the policy of the youngsters I ride with on these neighborhood deployments. Most of them won’t bother trying, when they see that camera peering down on them. I figure, what the heck; I might as well push as many doorbells as I can, before my legs give up on me.

Hello, you are currently being recorded…
I gaze into the eye of the doorbell cam (the fifth such one I’ve gazed into this afternoon), assuming human eyes look back at me, and the person behind those eyes wonders why this old guy is on their porch; what scam is he peddling?
Not a scam, ma’am, I imagine saying to the person, See those gray structures under your roof line? Those are hornet nests! How would you like them to go away and stay away?
Thirty seconds. When the door doesn’t open, I move on.
I follow the sidewalk, kicking stray gravel, avoiding the weedy cracks, a habit formed when I was a kid, never outgrown. The next house sports an active lawn sprinkler, watering more pavement than grass. I skip it. I’ll approach any door, unless I have to get soaked to get there.

The next house is bustling. Judging by the balloons and streamers all over the porch, it’s a kid’s birthday party. I linger, a thought tickling my memory muscle.
I think it might be my birthday.
A glance at the old Timex confirms.
What am I? Sixty-eight? Or is it sixty-nine…
“Dad? There’s a guy out there!”
A small boy stares through the screen door. A brilliant white smear of something or other contrasts his brown face. An older version of the boy appears beside him, examining me with wide eyes.

I shouldn’t tarry here. Door to door etiquette states thou shalt not trespass upon family gatherings, but I cannot help myself. I don’t do this for money. I walk these neighborhoods to feel less lonesome in this lonely world.
“All right, what ya sellin?”
The man appears beside me, his expression earnest, not reproachful. A rarity. My seller’s reflex kicks in; I open my mouth to release my pitch, but like a trick knee, my memory fails me. It happens from time to time: I forget what I’m selling. My skill remains sharp as ever, but a sharp tool does you no good if you can’t recall which drawer you stashed it in.

“Pest control services?”
The man examines the flyers in my hand. Before I can respond, the man continues.
“I got a cousin who does that. No pests around here, less you count all the kids.”
He laughs at his own joke. I do as well.
“It’s hot out here, guy,” says the man. “I’m going back to the air conditioning. You wanna come inside a minute? Grab a drink, cool off?”
Come inside?
This sort of thing does not happen, not these days, anyway. I glance down the block, where the rest of my team—all seasonal college workers—camp on the corner, dabbing their phones.
“Yeah sure,” I say.

Inside the house is cooler, though only a little, thanks to the collective body heat of at least thirty people milling about, ducking in and out through the patio door. There is music—an uptempo number in a language I can’t decipher. I don’t know the background of this family, but they are numerous and they are good at partying.

Cold aluminum appears in my palm. Cherry Coke. I haven’t had one of these in decades (too much sugar, says my preachy doctor), but it’s my birthday, for Pete’s sake. I swipe the chilled can across my hot forehead before throwing it back. The carbonated sweetness makes my eyes water. I let out a soft belch and write myself a mental note to pick up a pack of this stuff next time I’m at the store.

It’s a mental note I’ll likely misplace. It’ll wash away in the sea of forgetfulness which occupies much of my brain space. My own home used to be like this one—busy and noisy. When you live in a loud place like this, you wish for quiet. Then you get what you wished for, and you discover nothing is noisier than the grind of your own thoughts, clanking against each other like parts of an engine starved of oil.

My attention is drawn to a presence at my hip. It’s the little boy who spotted me earlier, he with the messy face—the birthday boy, I presume. He holds a paper plate with the visage of one Optimus Prime, topped by a slice of chocolate cake with white frosting. He offers me the plate, absent a fork. The frosting is embossed with fingerprints, leading me to think the boy loaded the slice with his hands.

Who are you, little boy? Did you know it’s my birthday, too?

I shovel wads of cake into my mouth with my fingers, like a toddler. It’s true what they say: in life, you go out the way you came, aware only of what you see, feel, and taste. Awareness of self, happily fades. There is peace in forgetting, if you allow it.

Happy birthday to me,
Happy birthday to me,
Happy birthday, dear—