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Window ShoppingDAY EIGHT
By Staff Writer COLLINS CONNER Upset over her neighbor's complaints about Bear's barking and worried about her window purchase, Linda takes the Yorkshire Terrier to Chesnut Park in Pinellas. She tries to shake off her worries. "It's not fair. I guess that's the biggest thing I got to work out." Linda Howe returned home on Jan. 5 and stood there, in her living room, looking at the dregs of the holidays. It had been five months since Milt died, and the new year yawned ahead of her. "I know it's time to start pulling the bull by the horns and getting on with something," she thought. But what? Always, Linda had defined herself by the roles she played: a daughter to her parents, a mom to Monie and Ray, a wife to Milt, a servant to God. When Milt died, she lost her preeminent role. She needed something to take its place. Her thoughts turned to finding a husband. "I don't want to stay alone, that I know. I would like to be married again." She had fancied Roger Miller, the tenor in the choir, but infatuation had turned to friendship. "He has kind of cooled off of my heart." She yearned for someone new. "I'd love to meet a rich guy with a motor home and travel around the United States." Along came the window salesman. On Jan. 10, Linda got a call from Permaguard Industries Inc. A year earlier, she and Milt had considered buying windows from the company. They decided against it because they'd already improved their 17-year-old, single-wide mobile home with a new roof and new cabinets; the windows seemed extravagant on a home worth $5,000. But Linda hated her fake French windows. So when Permaguard called again, she told them she'd be interested in hearing their pitch. "When the wind blows, my curtain moves," she told Alan Engman, the Permaguard rep who visited her home. "I'm definitely losing heat or air conditioning." Engman said his company would install tempered glass, double insulated, custom-made windows, and a new door. She wouldn't lose air then, he said. The price? $8,000. Linda wasn't the least bit skeptical, and she was too timid to say no. As Engman recited reasons to buy, Linda told herself Milt would approve. This price was less than the quote they had gotten a year earlier. Engman told Linda she had three days to back out of the deal. She bit. "If I change my mind, I can cancel the contract," she thought. "I can chicken out in three days." She chickened out by 10 p.m. "I'll never get to go to Germany or Italy or all the places in the world I want to go if I spend $8,000 on windows," she thought. Then she thought, "If I try to sell the house two years from now, because the guy I was marrying had his own home, I wouldn't get my money's worth out of it." She called Engman early the next morning to cancel the contract. Engman was at Linda's house that afternoon. Nattily dressed in a crisp white shirt, sharply creased trousers, paisley tie and black tasseled loafers, he sat on the couch, his brown briefcase on his lap, a yellow pad on the briefcase. "I can give you some different options and such," he told her. "We'll try to work out something." He said he had talked with the "big, big guys in the company," and they could tack her small residential job onto a commercial contract, thereby reducing the price. "This is what they came up with and we can go ahead and do the whole thing, including your door, at . . ." He scribbled on the legal pad and handed the pad to Linda. He'd written: $7,254. "I still think that's more than I want to spend right now," Linda said. Engman said: "We're able to guarantee the 25 percent savings on your power bill. . . . If you don't want (the new windows), if it's not what you want, that's fine. If it's something you like and want . . ." "Oh, I love them. I really do like them. I think they'd be really nice, but I don't know which way my life is headed." Engman paused; 30 seconds passed, 40, 45. "I've got the computer breakdown on it, all the windows situated," he said finally. "They were sending an engineer out." He paused again. His silence hung in the air. Linda fidgeted. "It's just the money. This is a big chunk." He paused. "You know, prices only go up." "A widow, my age, I have to have money for the rest of my life. I guess I was just pipe dreaming. I just can't do it. I'm really sorry. Nothing against you." He paused. "If you want to just do the front windows, we'll do just the front." "Right now, I'm just burnt out on the whole thing." He paused. "It's all logged in, ready to go. If you want to do it later, we'll have to start from scratch." "I think for now I'll just drop it." He paused. "You don't want the windows done at all, right?" "Right." He sat still, said nothing. Linda told him about her dental bills and health problems. With each of the salesman's silences, Linda became more discomfited. She filled the dead air with witticisms or with details of her life or with compliments on Engman's honesty. He responded to nothing, which compelled her to talk more. Finally, he tossed the note pad into his briefcase. "I guess that takes care of that," he said. Linda shut the door behind him and plopped on the couch, scooping up her dog as she sat. "Boy! I snuck through that one, Bear!"
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