Chapter Sixteen - The Rain Will Break You (If You Let It)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Rain Will Break You (If You Let It)

I WAS OUT of money.

No cheese, no more chocolate milk, not even enough quarters for another vending machine Dr. Pepper. We’d been promised a $250 stipend in the off-season, something they paraded like it was generous. Like they were doing us a favor. Like it wasn’t the bare minimum to survive after dragging us across the country.

But Monday came. No money.

I checked my account. Nothing. Caleb checked his. Same. We had both just survived our first week, knocking doors in ninety-degree heat, no sales, no food, no breaks. And now we were being told we didn’t qualify for the money because we hadn’t closed.

Apparently, the stipend wasn’t a stipend. It was a commission with better PR.

I was pissed. Caleb was pissed. But there wasn’t time to be pissed. Connor was already waiting.

James was gone now, he’d moved states after week one, so Caleb and I got stuck riding with our manager. Which meant we got to listen to Connor blast the worst EDM remixes known to man while pretending not to spiral in the back seat. I didn’t know how I was going to eat. I didn’t know how I was going to survive. And this guy was cruising like we were on the way to Coachella.

We pulled into the meeting. I was still fuming. But then I remembered: North Carolina is a one-party consent state.

So I hit record.

I had my phone sitting on the chair next to me the whole time. And honestly, most of the meeting was business as usual: fake motivation, fake clapping, and fake prayers. But then Jacob stood up for the cookie of the day.

That’s when he gave us the iPad leash technique.

He said, roughly:

“Here’s what I do. I hand them my iPad… and then I walk away. Just walk away. Now they have to follow me, ‘cause they have my iPad. Now I have them on a leash. Wherever I go, they have to go.”

Everyone nodded like it was church and the pastor just said “praise the Lord!”

I had it all on audio.

After the meeting, Connor took us to our new area. Caleb and I were finally in the same neighborhood, our first time together. We figured we’d stay close, maybe split the street and work toward each other. But Connor shut that down immediately.

“Nah. You’re not doing that.”
He pulled up the map, split the neighborhood top and bottom, and assigned us each a half.

Remember: we were independent contractors. Supposedly.
No control. No boss. No oversight. And yet, here we were. Being told exactly where we could and couldn’t knock.

We didn’t argue. There wasn’t any point.

He dropped us both in the middle of the street and drove off. It was already drizzling.

I didn’t have a hoodie. I didn’t have a poncho. We were told not to get rain gear. I had my phone, my charger, and a thin T-shirt. That was it.

I knocked on one door. No answer.
Second door. Still no answer.
By the third, it was pouring sideways. Like, biblical rain. Full Old Testament vibes. My phone was soaked. My shoes were soaked. Everything was soaked.

And the third door had a “No Soliciting” sign.

Now, I usually skipped those, but Connor had given me one of the worst metaphors I’ve ever heard in my life:

“Best gamblers hit on sixteen. You gotta hit the No Solicitors. That’s how you win.”

Yeah, thanks for the blackjack advice, my guy. I’m not counting cards. I’m begging strangers in the rain to let me poison their lawn.

But this time, I didn’t care. I hit the door.

It opened.

And for once, I didn’t pitch.

I looked him in the eyes and said,

“Hey, man. I’m not selling anything. I just need a place to sit for a minute and make a couple calls. Is that alright?”

This guy was an angel. A legit, full-blown angel.

He said yes. He invited me to sit on his porch. He brought me a water bottle. He asked if I needed food. He offered to dry my clothes and said he’d toss them in the dryer for me. I swear, I almost cried. I wasn’t used to kindness anymore. Not here.

I sat there, dripping wet, staring at the street.

And I started thinking.

I mean, put yourself in my shoes.

You’re a week into a job that feels like a cult.
You’re starving.
You feel like you’ve been lied to about your pay.
You just got told to leash people with an iPad.
You’re soaking wet with no raincoat.
And you’re supposed to be out there, right now, for the next ten hours.

Ten.

I hadn’t even started the day. I’d knocked three doors. And I already knew deep in my bones that I couldn’t do it. Not like this.

So I made a call.
Literally.