by Paul Slaybaugh | Dec 19, 2010 | Scottsdale Real Estate, This & That
Somewhere in 2008 …
“Yeah, and if Abe Lincoln wore a skirt, he’d a been the bearded lady,” Ramiro scoffed. “Look, I don’t care how it got there, all I’m telling you is it wasn’t there on Tuesday.”
The three flannel clad men stood shoulder to shoulder around a five by eight foot depression in the Spanish colonial’s front courtyard. Remnants of the displaced cobblestone pavers lay at their feet, mixed in with the ring of loose dirt that lined the hole’s perimeter.
“Maybe it’s part of an old Russian satellite,” Gerry offered. “Decommissioned after the Cold War, no funding to maintain it? The news is always talking about those pieces of junk falling out of the sky.”
“That’s no satellite,” Blum replied, rubbing two day’s worth of stubble on his Popeye chin. “Where’s the hammer and the whatsamacallit?”
“Sickle, Bloomer. Hammer and sickle. If you’re feeling so smart, what is it then,” Gerry challenged.
In unison, all three leaned in for a closer look at the amber light pulsing within the small, metallic orb at the bottom of the crater.
“Meteorite, maybe? Whatever it is, that wasn’t made by any man,” Blum answered.
“I don’t care if it’s a plutonium care package from Ted Kaczynski so long as someone fixes this,” Ramiro announced, toeing the dirt as he removed his faded ball cap to run a hand through the unkempt brown hair beneath it.
“I figured out the smell. Cabbage. Smells just like microwaved cabbage,” Gerry mused. “You get a hold of your agent yet?”
“Yeah. She said there’s nothing she can do since it happened after the final walk-through.” He put the cap back on his head, snugging the visor down low over his bloodshot eyes.
“Probably doesn’t want to interrupt her afternoon bridge game,” Gerry snorted. “What about the seller?”
“Suggested I call the home warranty company,” Ramiro replied.
“Did you?”
“They claim it’s a pre-existing condition. Besides, they consider the courtyard part of the landscaping, not the house. Won‘t cover it,” Ramiro lamented.
“It could be some kind of stargate,” Blum hypothesized.
“What,” he demanded in response to their withering stares.
“Stargate for who, Darby O’Gill and the six inch Klingons? Did your parents huff Reddiwhip or something,” Gerry asked.
“Screw you, Gerald,” Blum replied, resorting to disparaging his childhood friend through the use of his formal name.
“What about your home inspector,” Gerry asked, turning back to Ramiro.
“Called him five times, left three messages. Haven’t heard back yet,” said Ramiro.
“Termite guy?”
“Yeah, because the mother of all termite colonies ate my courtyard on the day of closing,” Ramiro quipped.
“Just trying to help here, man. Of course, if you don’t need me …,” Gerry trailed off as he took the last swig of cold coffee from his Styrofoam cup and made as if to leave.
“Don’t get your underoos in a bunch, Geraldo. I’m just pissed is all,” Ramiro offered by way of an apology.
“I’ve got it,” Blum announced. “It’s the fallen sun of a tiny solar system.”
“What color is the sky in your world, Bloomer,” Gerry wondered.
“Depends,” Blum responded with a Cheshire cat’s grin. “Remind me what color the walls are in your mom’s room again?”
Gerry shook his head in exasperation and turned back to Ramiro, who had retreated even further beneath his hat.
“Looks like you’ve got yourself a real hot potato here, Ram. I’m fresh out of ideas,” Gerry confessed.
“Time capsule from the future,“ Blum proposed before shrugging his massive shoulders in similar defeat.
Ramiro looked from one to the other and nodded, coming to a decision.
“One for the money …”
“Don’t do it, Ram,” Gerry warned.
“Two for the show …”
“Don’t,” Gerry warned again.
“Three to get ready,” Ramiro continued, then jumped.
“Ramiro,“ Gerry shouted.
“And four to go,” Ramiro finished from the bottom of the crater. Determination shone in the green eyes that looked up at his aghast companions.
“Crazy SOB,” Gerry muttered, shaking his head.
“If I don’t make it out of here, tell your kids their real daddy loves them,” Ramiro instructed.
Gerry smiled, unable to deny the humor in the well-played jab.
“Oh man, oh man, oh man …” Blum mumbled as he swayed from one foot to the other.
Ramiro stretched one hesitant hand towards the glowing anomaly. Everything stopped as his index finger hovered a scant two inches from its smooth surface.
“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” a stern voice from topside advised.
Ramiro looked up to see an unfamiliar figure sandwiched between his friends. Eight pounds of yipping terrier strained at the other end of the pink leash he held. Electrical crackling and popping drew his gaze back to the now vibrating orb. The yellow glow had morphed into a deep, angry red.
“What the hell is it,” he called to the creased face that loomed over him.
“Nasty business, that’s what. You’ve got yourself a recent sales comp there, son.”
“Sales comp,” Ramiro mouthed, reflexively withdrawing his hand. “But I just closed yesterday?”
The old man pointed at something Ramiro couldn’t see from his vantage point as his friends dropped their cups and ran for their lives.
“Cowards,” Ramiro called after them.
“The Peters place … or the Peters place before the bank took it back, I should say. Just closed this morning.”
“How much,” Ramiro asked.
“Two fifty,” the old man answered.
“Two fifty?! That’s ten thousand less than I paid!”
“Oh, cry me a river, son,” the old man stiffened, “I’ve been getting pelted with these things for the past eighteen months. Last one took out my master addition. One before that got my kitchen remodel. Too many more direct hits and my retirement goes on indefinite hiatus.”
“So what do I do with it,” Ramiro asked.
“Nothing,” the old man replied.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. The HOA board will be by with the space suits and shovels to fill in the holes this weekend. We bury our own in these parts,” he explained.
“But it will still be here,” Ramiro objected. “Shouldn’t we dig it up and get rid of it or something? I don‘t want this thing in my neighborhood!”
Steam began rising off the shuddering orb as a high pitched warble sent the cowering dog between its master’s legs.
The old man chuckled, extending a leathery mitt into the void.
“Fool’s errand, son. Like trying to drink your way out of the ocean. Dig up one just in time for two more to hit. They’ve started hammering us so hard that all we can do is bury them as best we can and pray the appraisers don’t find’em.”
“Yeah, swell,” Ramiro replied as he was pulled out of one hole and into another. “I think they bussed in a nearsighted cyclops from Calcutta to do mine.”
by Paul Slaybaugh | Dec 15, 2010 | This & That
“And here is the mezzanine. Happy hour runs between five and six, Monday through Friday. Three dollar wells and half-price appetizers. You have to try the shrimp cocktail. It’s to die for.”
The new arrival looked about in wide-eyed wonder. He hadn’t known what exactly to expect, but it most certainly wasn’t … this.
“This way, please, sir,” the concierge prompted as he led the guest through the piano bar and into the landing beyond. The haunting bridge of the Doors’ classic People Are Strange followed them into the passageway.
“That is the best Jim Morrison impersonator I have ever seen,” Carl gushed as he cast one last look over his shoulder at the opulent parlor, squinting against the restless light that chased itself from one diamond-studded adornment to another.
“The gym is open 24 hours,” the concierge informed him upon stopping short, causing a distracted Carl to bump him. A pleasing combination of magnolia and sun tan lotion escaped the smart, white linen suit.
“Free weights, nautilus, cardio. We have spin classes from 9 to 10 AM, and combat pilates from five to six PM on weekdays,” the concierge continued.
“Combat pilates,” Carl echoed.
“Beats me,” the concierge chuckled in response to Carl’s raised eyebrow, “but the ladies love it.”
He looked in both directions before addressing Carl again in a theatrically hushed voice.
“Word has it the program was developed specifically for Jane Fonda. We’ve been told to expect her any day now.”
“I’m not really much of a workout guy, but the sauna looks incredible,” Carl admitted. “Mind showing me the theater room I read about in the check-in literature?”
“Fifth floor, right next to the all you can eat lobster buffet,” the concierge replied. “We’ll hit that right after the complimentary day spa on four. Peruvian mud wraps, deep tissue massage and the best exfoliating facials this side of heaven … if I may be so bold. If for no other reason, I recommend visiting for the eucalyptus water alone.”
He led Carl to a bank of elevators. There were no buttons to depress, but one arrived of its own accord, opening to reveal an all glass enclosure that looked out to a vast, watery panorama.
“Ah, Lake Styx. No matter how many times I see her, this view never gets old,” the concierge admired. “As I understand it, you have been upgraded to one of our waterfront suites.”
“Lake Styx?”
“Yes, isn’t she grand? Damming up the river has not only allowed us to power the entire facility, but also to host a bi-monthly regatta. Captain Hazelwood looks tough this season.”
He waited a beat before continuing, an amusing thought appearing to grip him.
“Damming the river of the damned, now how’s that for irony?”
“I must confess,” Carl said as the elevator closed and began its descent, “this is not at all what I thought it would be.”
The concierge chuckled.
“Expecting fire and brimstone, were you? We still offer that in the basic package, of course, but you left your mortal coil in style.”
“I don’t follow,” Carl confessed.
“You packed a golden parachute before jumping from your previous plane of existence,” the concierge expanded.
“Meaning …,” Carl pressed.
The elevator came to a stop.
“Meaning your Certified Distressed Property Specialist designation is in demand.”
Carl stared at his olive-skinned host, too confused to speak.
“What? Don’t look so surprised. The man downstairs got caught holding a few investments when the market went to … well … here in a hand basket. The cash flow properties in Boca and gold are about the only performers left in the portfolio. We are sitting on a massive shadow inventory of souls, thanks in no small part to a rather unfortunate dalliance with sub-prime candidates. Faded rock stars, former child stars, ice road truckers … suffice it to say we entered into a few too many binding agreements with less than reputable types. With the topsiders defaulting at a record clip, we don’t have nearly enough agents to get these toxic apparitions off our books. The boss sends his apologies for putting the bacon double cheeseburger on the menu at Wendy’s, but the massive coronary you suffered was entirely necessary. We need you.”
The doors dinged open to a blast of in-rushing sulfur smoke.
“Sorry about that,” the concierge apologized between coughs. “Seals in the boiler room need to be replaced. Gets in the shaft every time they run the pyrotechnics on nine.”
The pair stepped into a hazy corridor as the smoke dissipated. Carl squinted at the hunched figure that awaited under a red velvet bellhop’s cap. His luggage was strapped to the porter’s back.
“Johnny Cochran?”
“Just JC here, sir,” the porter mumbled.
“WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT TALKING TO THE GUESTS, SLAVE?”
Carl jerked to look at the concierge, disconcerted by the wickedly sharp features that had arisen from his previously nondescript countenance. The impossibly bass-heavy admonition held none of the sing-songy patois that had lulled Carl into comfort with its easy cadence.
“My deepest apologies, master,” the porter whimpered into his patent leather shoes. “Please not the Ito again. Anything but the Ito.”
“I’ll deal with you later,” the concierge promised. Turning his attention back to Carl, the wicked point of his chin receded to its prior blunted state. The burning embers inside his silver eyes smoldered for a moment before winking out altogether.
“I beg your pardon, sir. You just can’t get good help these days,” he lamented, nodding in the direction of the sniveling porter.
“JC here will show you to your room now. We can finish the rest of the tour after you get settled. Please help yourself to the complimentary minibar. The tequila is superb, distilled directly from the liver of Jose Cuervo. It regenerates daily, so the shelves are always fully stocked.”
“Thank you for everything,” Carl responded, offering his hand.
“The pleasure has been all mine, sir,” the concierge assured him with a smile, engulfing Carl’s hand in his own. The dainty grip of the long, slender fingers did nothing to camouflage the crushing power of a tiger shark that lurked just beneath his good humor. He winked, turned on his heel and strode back inside the waiting elevator. A fresh blast of sulfur strafed the hallway as the doors closed and whisked him away to depths unknown.
When the air cleared, Carl was alone with the porter, who signaled him to follow. After a seemingly endless procession of twists and turns along the serpentine corridor, they stopped in front of a room.
“No numbers?”
The porter didn’t respond as he selected a key from a crowded ring and opened the ornate door.
Carl’s face wrinkled in confusion. There was no bed. In fact, there wasn’t a stick of furniture in the room save for an IKEA desk cluttered with ten open laptops. A massive chain was anchored to a steel plate in the floor beneath the accompanying chair. The other manacled end lay open.
“There must be some kind of mistake,” Carl objected.
The porter offered of rueful shake of his head.
“No mistake, sir. Take my advice and get started on those BPOs. You don’t want to make him angry.”
“But, but … but I’ve got reservations for the centaur ride in thirty minutes,” Carl stammered.
“And I’m still waiting for my ride in the white Bronco,” the porter retorted. “Just keep your head down, turn your reports in on time and don’t ask any questions. Make waves and he’ll pull your account.”
“And then?”
“If the account don’t fit, he must acquit,” the porter replied.
“What is that supposed to mean,” Carl demanded.
“You go back above ground.”
Carl shuddered as he recalled the nomadic months of wandering a barren wasteland in search of a profitable niche amidst the post-Apocalyptic Real Estate market. One thousand undead zombie listing agents crawling over every remaining equitable seller. He took a deep breath, shuffled to the desk and secured the shackle around his left ankle.
“I’m not going back to that hell.”
by Paul Slaybaugh | Dec 9, 2010 | This & That
“Did you get a look at your attacker?”
Gertrude looked down at her bare feet before responding to the patrolman.
“I told you, it was dark. And bright,” she explained. Her matted, grey hair clung to her scalp in incongruous clumps.
“Dark and bright. Got it, ma’am,” Officer Page replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. He was at the tail end of a double shift, and no loony old bat was going to cost him the first five minutes of Glee. SVU was going to give him eight kinds of hell for calling this one in, but they could kiss his wide Welsh keister. She would be their problem as soon as he finished up his incident report.
“How about height? Tall, short or average?”
“How would I know what’s little for a little, green man,” Gertrude asked.
“Okay, I’m just going to put down average,” the officer noted. He did the same for weight and listed race as other.
“And you say this little, green man … he, uh … probed you?”
He regretted the question before the words were out of his mouth. Sure as the crazy in this hag’s milky, hazel eyes, he’d just forfeited the title sequence.
She stared off into the night, appearing to see nothing and everything all at once.
“Yes, that animal probed me. In all my years, I’ve never been so mistreated. Not even that weekend in Puerta Vallarta when Harold, God rest his soul, mixed up his blood pressure medication with the Spanish fly that Marvin from the bowling league gave him as a gag gift for his seventy fifth birthday.” A violent shudder wracked her entire being. “I’ll never get that smell out of my nose. Like burning tires in a snowcone factory. Cold as ice, and scalding hot.”
“Cold and hot, got it. How many times have you been abducted, Ms. Gunderson?”
“Counting this time? Once,” Gertrude said. She began fiddling with the hole in the knee of her pantyhose.
“Let’s get back to the actual abduction. You say there was a bright light and tractor beam,” the officer asked, turning to wink at the dashboard camera in his cruiser as he did so. The fellas would eat this up, especially Pennington.
“I already told you all about that. One minute I’m sitting on the sofa watching my program, then before you can say Here’s Johnny, I’m flying through the bay window. Harold, God rest his soul, was always on me about leaving it open, but it was such a pleasant evening. Now are you going to sit here and ask questions all night, or are you going to catch the monster that had me spread out on that table like a fish,” Gertrude demanded.
“And what else did this … processor, you called him? What else did this processor do to you, ma’am,” the officer asked. He hazarded another glance at the camera, crossing his eyes and twirling his index finger near his temple in the universal pantomime for crazy.
“Are you having a laugh at me, sonny?”
“No, ma’am,” he replied, stiffening and turning back to find the galactic traveler eying him with evident suspicion.
“You look here, young man,” she began, wagging a crooked finger at the officer, “that thing is getting away while you have yourself a gay old time at my expense, and I won’t stand for it.”
“We need to make sure we get the right one is all, ma’am,” Page responded, suppressing a grin.
She continued to scrutinize him under a furrowed brow.
“He took my blood,” Gertrude said at last.
“You mean he drew some blood, like a sample?”
“No, I mean he took it. All of it.”
Page stared at the translucent face in front of him and suddenly felt pity. Nutter or not, this was someone’s mother, someone’s grandmother. The panicked family was probably canvassing the streets right now, wondering where she had wandered off to this time. He thought of his late Uncle JJ.
“How about we get you a cup of soup back at the station,” he suggested. He grasped the radio on his belt to call off the special victims unit. The lark had gone far enough.
“There’s no time,” Gertrude objected. “It could be violating somebody else right now! You have to stop it!”
“I understand, ma’am,” the officer began before she cut him off.
“You don’t believe me. Here, I’ll show you,” she interjected.
Before he could stop her, she withdrew a plastic spork from her purple, zebra-patterned handbag and plunged it deep into her forearm.
“Christ,” the officer shrieked, lunging for the makeshift shank.
He yanked it out by the white plastic handle, the beefy fingers of his left hand disappearing into the spongy folds of her triceps.
“Told you,” Gertrude boasted, extending her arm into the pale moonlight for him to see. Not a single crimson drop of blood arose from the fresh wound.
“What the hell,” Page exclaimed, directing the beam of his maglight to the mottled appendage. Three holes connected by a semi-circular gash, completely free of gore.
“It took my identity,” she informed the incredulous officer. “Poked me, prodded me. Stole my DNA and credit information.”
“Hold on,” Page objected, willing the jumbled thoughts in his head to coalesce. “Credit information? What would an ET want with your credit information?”
“I can’t rightly say, but it made me provide my social security number, date of birth and proof of employment on three separate forms. It also demanded bank statements for the past three months.”
The officer stood in slack-jawed silence. His eyes remained fixated on the bloodless wound.
“That’s the only reason it let me go, you know,” she continued. “I’m supposed to fax all of my documents by the end of the week.”
The patrolman’s radio squawked to life, startling him.
“Dispatch to one thirty eight,” a non-inflected voice croaked.
“One thirty eight, go, dispatch,” the officer responded.
“Are you still with the 13-1202, Page?”
“Affirmative. And look, this is going to sound crazy, but,” Page began.
“Hold fast, officer, a black and white is on its way to your location,” the voice interrupted.
“Copy,” Page responded, holstering the radio as a pair of headlights swung around the corner, bathing the pair in halogen light.
“It’s back! Oh, lord help us, it’s back,” the woman squealed.
Page had to physically restrain her as the driver side door opened.
“Got a guy in the back who thinks your lady might belong to him,” the approaching officer announced. “He’s been out looking for her all night. Found him talking to a cat over on twelfth.”
The rear door of the squad car swung open. All six eyes squinted against the glare at the form that stepped out.
“Gertrude,” an uncertain voice called.
“Harold?”
An old man shuffled forward with a hurried, laborious gait. Page released his hold on the woman, who lurched to meet the newcomer. The couple cast an enigmatic two-story shadow on the warehouse behind them as they shared a fierce hug, the officers looking on from just outside the glow of the headlights.
“What’s your guy’s story,” Page asked his colleague, checking the name on the badge.
“He’s not much help,” Officer Davies confessed. “Until dispatch put it together with your call, I figured the old coot was just confused.”
The two watched the couple in silence for a moment.
“Only thing he said that made any sense was that they were signing papers on a house this afternoon. From the sound of it, they haven’t taken out a new loan in damn near forty years,” Davies continued.
Page let out a low whistle.
“Poor bastards,” he acknowledged. “They wouldn’t have known what hit’em.”
“Apparently, the missus went outside to grab some air around the time they were redoing the affidavit statement because the signatures were outside of the margins. She never came back in,” Davies concluded.
“Ah, I get it now,” Page said.
“Come again,” asked Davies.
“When I first found her, she was mumbling weird numbers and trying to snatch something out of the air. Four point three five, two points. Four point eight, no origination … must have been the terms that finally made her snap.”
“You wanna deal with this, or should I,” Davies asked, taking a half step back from the scene.
“Ah hell, I’ll do it,” Page answered. “I already missed the Cardinals’ tip-off.”
“You mean the Suns?”
“Yeah, the Suns,” he acknowledged, feeling his face flush. “Besides, I’m refi’ing my house right now.”
“So?”
“So I want to see where they put the microchip.”
by Paul Slaybaugh | Nov 12, 2010 | This & That
As I prepare to place a new business card order for the first time in forever, certain aspects of its predecessor can stand some revision. After years of template neglect, for instance, I’m humiliated to admit that my email still reflects the AOL address I acquired in college. While not amongst the technology snobs (you know who you are) that mock those still utilizing the America Online paradigm, I made the switch to a branded gmail account several years ago. I’d say I never looked back, but that would be a gross distortion of the truth as I have to log in sporadically to ensure I haven’t missed any correspondence from a holder of one of the 3″ x 2.5″ instruments of disinformation I continue to dispense with impunity. Or for confirmation of my Nigerian lotto winnings (funny, I don’t recall purchasing a ticket …). While ironing out such inconsistencies, it’s probably not a bad idea to include passing reference to the website to which I’ve devoted THE LAST TWO YEARS OF MY FREAKING LIFE either.
So I can be somewhat resistant to change, sue me. One person’s hoarding is another person’s preparedness. Roll your eyes if you must, but don’t come looking to borrow my red parachute pants when breakdancing comes back.
Amongst the myriad changes that Business Card 3.0 will entail, I figure it’s time to roll out a new tagline. You know, like Hasta la vista, buyer, or I’ll be back … with a standard AAR purchase contract. Just updated to have a relevant, modern edge. Given the changes in the industry over the past few years, I need a blurb that tells people I am hip to the new jive. Let’s try a few out.
Transparency, it’s all the rage in modern internet marketing. With that in mind, we could always cut straight to the quick with, You need a house. I sell houses. Boom, done.
Post-Bubble Apocalyptic: Leg stuck in a negative-equity bear trap? I have a saw.
Partisan: Freaking Obama. (alternate version: Freaking Boehner)
Short Sale Negotiation: Don’t call me, I’ll call you.
The Foreclosure Specialist: Predators, Incorporated. You need’em, we bleed’em.
The Roger Waters BPO: Hello, is there anybody in there?
The Lawrence Yun: It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia
The John Merrick: I am not an animal, I’m a licensed Realtor!
The Full Monty: I’m broke. Buy something!
The REHarmony.Com: Deep Levels of Compatibility with Your Money
The Ike Turner: Slapping the taste out of value’s mouth since 1999!
The British Petroleum: Your guide to housing values that have fallen by 2%. Okay maybe 5%. 15% tops. Alright, 60%, but it’s not like you can’t go commune with a cactus in the Gobi, you bunch of moisture-starved jawas.
The Chilean Miner: Trapped in an underground mortgage since 2006, and I all got was this lousy t-shirt.
The Baby Jessica: Posers.
The Max Von Sydow: Your REO Hellhole Exorcist
The B of A: Your One Man Foreclosure Moratorium
The FED: Going Out Of Business Sale, All Rates Must Go!
The Realist: Paul’s House of Puppeteering, Magic and Real Estate
The Obscurist: When your donkey brays in fiscal agony, don’t let it bleed out on the berber carpet
The Serial Market Killer: Have you checked the Zestimate? (alternate: It puts the charge-off on its credit)
On second thought, maybe I should just let the marketing talent at HA Media save me from myself.
by Paul Slaybaugh | Nov 9, 2010 | This & That
“I’m not going to GIVE my house away!”
Blaine leaned back in his seat, laced his fingers behind his head and closed his eyes. This appointment was over. It was over before it started, in fact. A humorless smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“Something funny,” the would-be seller demanded.
“No, Mr. Davis, nothing funny. It’s just been awhile since I’ve heard that one,” Blaine replied.
Opening his eyes, he was surprised to find his red-faced counterpart had gone an even angrier shade of crimson. The lone stop remaining in the color palette of denial was purple. He’d only seen purple once, and that poor bugger had stroked out right in front of him while discussing the merits of a leaky faucet in an inspection report. One more comparable sale placed upon the glass top of the breakfast table between them and he’d be calling Mr. Davis an ambulance.
“Goddamn Realtors. I was dealing with guys like you before you were born. You just want to slap the lowest price you can on a house so it sells fast,” the now twitching homeowner spat.
“I’m just showing you the data, Mr. Davis. Do you want to see the rest of it,” Blaine asked.
“Waste of time, I can see where you’re going. You want me to list my house at the same price that all of those bank and short sale properties sold for, but my home IS NOT DISTRESSED, you nitwit,” Mr. Davis railed.
“It’s awfully hard to propose an opinion of value without first presenting the background data, Mr. Davis,” Blaine countered. “I put two days into the analysis, but if you want me to cut straight to the chase, I will.”
“About time,” the seller scolded. Even his hair looked pissed.
“Five hundred thousand.”
“FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND?! I paid five fifty for it!”
“Yes, you did. Two years ago. In a declining market,” Blaine finished.
“But, but …,” Mr. Davis sputtered, “but then I have to pay commissions and closing costs on top of that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Blaine looked at his watch and fiddled with his briefcase. He knew exactly what was coming.
“Well, I’m not paying you to sell my house at a loss! Your commission will be whatever we get over five hundred,” Mr. Davis decreed.
“You don’t understand, Mr. Davis. Five hundred thousand is my recommended list price. I anticipate you will actually sell closer to four seventy five,” Blaine answered.
That did it. Mr. Davis turned purple.
“FOUR SEVEN- you want me to sell seventy five k below what I paid, and to pay you for the f&%$ing privilege,” Mr. Davis bellowed.
The sudden rise in octave caused a stirring behind one of the barnyard-themed curtains in the adjoining bay window. A black form exploded past Mr. Davis’s shoulder, leaving a tornado of paperwork in its wake as it shot across the table and out of the room.
“What the hell …,” Blaine mustered, absently pawing his face for blood.
“I guess Mordor doesn’t like your price, either,” Mr. Davis opined, cracking his first smile as he gestured in the direction the previously unseen cat had fled. His face receded to an animated pink, and the whites of his eyes returned, liberating the inquisitive green irises that had first greeted Blaine at the door. A deep sigh punctuated the sudden shift in disposition, and resignation washed across his creased features.
“List at five and sell for four seventy five, you say,” Mr. Davis asked.
“Yes, sir. That’s the best we can possibly hope for.”
“I suppose you have something for me to sign?”
“I do,” Blaine confirmed and withdrew the listing forms from his briefcase. He stooped to gather up his strewn paperwork while the seller signed the agreement, but was stifled by a light palm across his chest.
“It’s my mess, son. I’ll clean it up.”
———— <BEEP> <BEEP> <BEEP> <BEEP> <BEEP> <BEEP> ———–
Blaine blindly groped the nightstand for the shrieking alarm. Finding it, he pressed random buttons until the dark room returned to silence. Once fully immersed in the wakeful world, dread began forming in the pit of his stomach. Yet another day of unlistable listing appointments. A quick shower and quicker breakfast, and he was out the door, for once hoping to cross paths with a few black cats.
