Avon as a Shamanic Journey
I walked three miles this afternoon. I carried fifty stamped Campaign 11 brochures because I didn't have any current books due to the bird incident. Campaign 11 starts in a week and a half.
My walk took me through the barrio to Skyline Drive where the nouveau riche reside. My house sits in barrio-lite, a neighborhood built on the side of a canyon in the early '70s. When I moved in four years ago it still sported original red shag carpeting, fake wood panels, and one hundred million fleas. The prior owners bred cocker spaniels.
Southern California is full of these retro pockets. Turn one corner and a sign welcomes you to "Capri," where the homes have expensive red tile rooves and tall queen palms lining the drives. Some day my neighborhood will look like that, too. One by one these properties are bought and leveled and ressurected in upper middle class Pottery Barn splendor. It's progress, they say.
I stuffed a Planet Spa African Shea Butter Hand Creme sample and a "Hi, I'm Birdie the Avon Lady" letter in each book during my lunch break, and placed them in a black vinyl backpack one of my boys used to carry to school. I wore sneakers with my blue denim Avon halter demo dress. Fifty brochures means a long, long walk.
So I walked. And walked. And dropped brochures on driveways, on porches, at homes where no one was home. We're still having a heat wave, and my back felt wet sweaty denim under my backpack.
No streets are flat here. They rise and fall, all canyon and mesa, like an echocardiogram printout. My heart rose and fell, too, hiking with books and beauty, forgetting my goals and business, just an automated robot brochure delivery device.
A middle-aged man in cargo shorts and a brown wrinkled linen shirt sprinkled his aloes with water at the end of Highland Avenue. His hair was black and gray and gelled into a bedroom mess. I didn't drop a book at his driveway and he shot me a glance.
"Hey miss! Miss! You didn't give me one of those!"
"Oh, sorry, I'm an Avon Lady, would you care for a brochure?" My face burned with embarrassment and fatigue.
"No f***ing way!" he exclaimed. His face broke into a huge grin. "Wait right here! Please! Wait!"
Sprinkler Man dropped his hose and ran up the stairs into his house. The water made a muddy river from the aloe and bouganvilla into the street. I watched it flow past my sneakers, mesmerized.
"See! Honey, look! It's a real Avon Lady! An Avon Lady! Look!"
Sprinkler Man held the hand of a trim woman in fancy black gym clothes. The word "Princess" was embroidered on the butt of her low rise shorts.
Gym Woman laughed and waved. She rolled her eyes and pushed Sprinkler Man in jest and ran back into the house.
"Sorry! She's late for Pilates." He reached for the brochure I held in uncertain hands and picked up his hose.
"We'll look at this! We'll call you!"
I don't think they'll ever call.
A half-mile from home I was startled by rustling in the avocado tree next to the sidewalk. I thought it was a squirrel, but a Great Horned Owl turned his head and stared at me for a moment, then spread his feathered tips and rose into the sunlight.
5:03:37 PM 
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