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r so Maggie always says) I drop it and walk from the kitchen into our office. I sigh and match her glare with one of my own. “Fuck them, let them leave if they want,” I say, turning on my heel and letting my hair flip around in a way that lets her know exactly what I think about her disapproval. I close my office door and yell loud enough for her to hear, “Remax sucks anyway!”
Right, because that didn’t look childish or anything.
With an empty mug, a surge of sugar and caffeine energy, and Grandpa’s Rolex around my wrist giving me a reminder of why I’m here in the first place, I organize an open house for the property on Mike Street—for tomorrow. The homeowners, a couple in their early twenties who bought a house they couldn’t afford with borrowed money from their parents, are thrilled when I tell them the news.
“We did everything on your list,” Mr. Addison says. His first name has been legally changed to Axe, if I recall correctly, but that’s not why I call him Mr. Addison. Homeowners like being treated with respect, and it makes them more likely to listen to my suggestions.
“Well, almost everything,” Mrs. Addison says, placing a tattooed hand on her husband’s shoulder. “I couldn’t find the electrical covers you were talking about, and we’re still missing some light switch covers. Plus we can’t afford to pay for that broken fence out there, and the kid who hit it just drove off so we don’t know who it was.”
I bite my tongue and don’t point out that they can’t afford to fix a fence but she can afford to carry a new designer handbag and get a full sleeve tattoo since the last time I saw her. “The fence will hinder your asking price. We can get away without fixing it, but the buyers will call for an allowance when they make an offer. It’s a good thing you don’t have a swimming pool or we’d be in violation of state law. I’ll pick up the light switch covers at the hardware store.” I scribble a note on my clipboard. “Did you paint over the naked woman in the sunroom?”
They glance at each other.
“That’ll need to be painted over. You can do it tonight.” I mark it on my clipboard, ignore their groans of protest and proceed with my walkthrough.
“I’m glad you moved the clutter out of here,” I say as I walk, remembering the wall to wall stacks of DVDs and video games. The guitars have been pared down to three, neatly displayed on stands and not propped against the wall like before. It no longer looks like the inside of a grunge band’s tour bus in here. Unfortunately, it still smells like one.
“Where are the dogs?” I ask. As if on cue, I hear a bark from the back yard and walk to the kitchen window to see. Three massive pit pull maniacs mull around the yard looking like they’re just waiting for a child to maul. “It’s good that they’re out of the house, but is there anywhere you can take them for the open house tomorrow?”
“I don’t trust my babies at some kennel,” the woman says, hissing the word kennel like it’s a concentration camp. “They don’t do well with other dogs anyway.”
“They have to be gone for open house. People are scared of pit bulls. Can they stay with a friend maybe?”
The couple turns to each other and Mrs. Addison starts wringing her hands. “Todd?” she asks. Mr. Addison shakes his head. “They pissed in his backseat last time. What about your parents?”
“Fuck them, you know they’ll say no.” She turns to me and twirls her finger around her temple as if that explains everything I need to know about her parents.
“Robin,” Axe says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “It’s a small back yard. People can just look out the window and see all they need to see. The dogs will be fine.”
I flash a polite smile. “Maybe you could take them for a walk when people arrive to look at the house?”
Mrs. Addison groans. “Not happening. They outweigh us both. They’d take us for a walk and then tear up the neighbor’s flowerbeds while they’re at it.”
Mr. Addison laughs. “That was so funny that day you took Max out. You were covered in mud, oh my god. It was fucking hilarious.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Six months ago, this would have been Grandpa’s client. What would he have done? He would have shook their hands with his mighty grip, told them a story from the good old days, connected with Mr. Addison over guitars and then he would have won their hearts and convinced them to do whatever is necessary to sell their house.
The weight of his watch feels like a thousand pounds as I lift my arm and point to the guitars. “So who plays guitar?”
“He does. I sing and sometimes I play keyboard.” Mrs. Addison wiggles her fingers on an air keyboard in front of her.
“Awesome,” I say, sounding as enthusiastic as I possibly can about a hobby I know nothing about. “I love…er…guitars.”
“Sweet, do you play?” They say in unison.
“No, but I’ve always wanted to,” I lie. I have no clue where I’m going with this conversation, but this is exactly the kind of small talk that Grandpa always did and it somehow always worked for him.
“Dude, I’ve got just the guy to give you lessons,” Mr. Addison says. He pulls open a kitchen junk drawer and digs around for something amongst all the crap in there. One of the pit bulls outside lifts his head and stares intently at the floor to ceiling windows in the kitchen’s French doors. I wonder if he can hear us talking with the way his ears perk up.
Mr. Addison slams the drawer closed with an annoyed, “I swear I have his business cards somewhere.” He pulls open the next drawer and shoves aside a package of dog treats to feel around the back of the drawer for these supposed cards. Two dog bones fall out of the drawer and land with a crack on the tile floor. There’s a blur in the corner of my vision and I look out the window just in time to jump out of the way as the dog who was watching us leaps into the air.
Mrs. Addison screams and I pull her to the side as we all watch in shocked horror as her beloved pit bull dives through the glass window and pounces on the fallen doggie bone. Shattered glass flies everywhere. The dog plops to the floor and chews on his prize, unfazed by the glass shards all around him.
Mrs. Addison puts a hand on her hip. “I’m not paying for that shit.”
Chapter 2
Maybe it’s the money. It has to be the money. Because in seven years of selling real estate, I’ve never called a client and dropped them. Dropped them! Just a carefree hello and a, “I don’t think our professional relationship is going to work out right now. Good luck finding a new Realtor.”
