Adventures In Real Estate

When you have lived alone in a place for a while you get a sort of sixth sense for when someone else has been in it. Strangers should only be in your home without you under very specific circumstances. We do live in a society where a certain level of privacy is still valued.

Unfortunately, for me, I find myself in one of those bizarre circumstances. I am trying to sell my condo. So every now and then somebody needs to come and look at the place so that they can decide not to buy it. At some point in history it was decided that it is better for people to make this decision if you are not in any way involved. Therefore the etiquette of real estate sales requires you to not be there while these strangers come to visit. All the better for them to have some time to sift through all your dirty drawers.

The way it works is a real-estate agent calls you up and asks if they can bring some clients over. They usually do this with very short notice. Although sometimes they kindly give you several days to prepare yourself for the violation. So you clean up all your messes, and hide all the stuff that is You, and basically try to make the place look as generic as possible. Sometimes the people actually show up. Sometimes they don't, and you cleaned it all up for nothing. In theory you shouldn't be able to tell the difference.

The agents always say they will leave a card behind or something. Although in my experience they never do. Or maybe they hide it somewhere. Maybe one day I will open up a cookie jar I forgot I have, and hundreds of business cards will come spilling out much to my surprise. But I have yet to find any of these promised cards.

However, I do know when these people have come. They always leave their mark. They almost always leave a light on. I could have left the living room light on myself, but then I can sense that things are somehow out of place. I am known to leave cabinet doors askew. But I leave them specifically askew. When others have looked through them I find them wrongly askew, if that makes sense. Sometimes the people will open every single cabinet, and drawer in my kitchen and leave them all agape.

I have found bottles moved around in my refrigerator, or my clothes all pushed over to the wrong side of my closet. The bathroom door is always left open. I always leave it closed because there is a fishbowl that sits in there, and my evil roommates have conspired against that poor creature since day one.

The strangers seem to take a perverse satisfaction in pulling the chains on my ceiling fans random times so that they are both turning at the wrong speed, and in the wrong direction, when I return. When I see that I become convinced that they are just taunting me. They may as well write, "I was here", on the wall in blood. It's very creepy to a guy who has devoted a great deal of effort to getting all of his fans to function together in a synchronized air flow. I can not understate the importance of getting your ceiling fans set to the correct speed. And then these people just walk in and funk it up.

The whole thing can be rather disconcerting. I feel as though archaeologists from some other world have entered my domain with a microscope and scrutinized every detail. They must know everything about me now, and yet I know nothing about them except that they were born in a barn and never learned how to shut doors and cabinets. They probably return to an office somewhere and file reports on all of my antiquated customs, and eating habits.

I can't let them know too much, so I try to throw them a few curve balls. What might they think, for instance, of the one green dress hanging in my closet, or the stuffed Richard Nixon toy laying on my bed? What sort of person reads National Geographic, and Vanity Fair, and has 5 copies of The Road by Cormac McCarthy? My random furniture probably leads them to believe that I am a senile old man, but then they must wonder about the bizarre, and mystifying photographs of hobos and misfits that are randomly strewn about; the ridiculously expensive mountain bike hiding in the closet, the curious, and atavistic film cameras. These are not the telltale signs of your average grandpa. They must know that they are dealing with a very hardcore, unusual person. Surely they must know that I am dangerous; a rare, and exotic homo sapien that has seen things both wondrous and terrible, and lacked the wisdom to know the difference. And so maybe they just left quickly. Fleeing the place with no time to waste on setting things back in their proper order. I guess I can forgive them for that. I would probably do the same thing.

Nevertheless, all is still well in my mind. The right person is still out there who will see the mystical beauty of the Central Park Condos as I once did. And they will buy that place out from under me and I will take that stuff that is Me and I will move on down the road to newer places, to live a different life, and commune with different spirits.