“Aren’t you feeling overwhelmed with options already?” I said. I’d heard top saleswoman Lois Grimbaldi from the office talk to clients this way, and they always came around with a little persuasion. “I can give you several reasons why we shouldn’t even bother checking out Ballard.” I stiffened my voice, sounding more like an attorney than a realtor. “It’s miles away from the freeway, which would make Wayne’s commute longer.”
Sherry’s round hand grasped the doorknob. “We already figured that out. Wayne could hop on Highway 99. It would be a straight shot into town.”
“What about your kids?” I stalled, my mind floundering for a new approach. “You and Wayne said you wanted to live within walking distance of a good elementary school. And I thought you loved Wallingford Center. It’s so much fun to browse around in.”
“There must be good schools in Ballard, too. I love the quaint main street.” She tugged open the door. “Let’s at least swing by.”
After a hurried drive, I coasted up to a sprawling two-story residence. The unappealing structure, with its added second floor, a garage that had been converted into a bedroom, and a makeshift carport, towered over its neighbors. The architect, if there was one, should be ashamed of himself. Most likely the owner came up with the design himself.
“That’s it.” Sherry craned her short neck to gawk out the side window. “What do you think?”
“Now, Sherry.” I killed the motor without removing the key. “Right off the bat, you need to understand that the size of this house enriches the values of the smaller ones around it, but receives no monetary advantage from them.”
“I don’t care. Let’s go in. Looking is such fun.”
Of course, I would do whatever she wanted. The situation reminded me of my father’s old Pontiac. Once he’d invested in a new engine, he felt obligated to spend whatever it took to keep the automobile running.
After I dropped off Sherry, I headed to the office. Now that my sales had slackened, all the workdays seemed to blend into one another. I thought about the past year. Even when I’d jumped through every hoop set before me, most of my promising deals had trickled away. Several buyers were unable to obtain adequate financing. Others frightened themselves with their own self-doubts. Then calling me with what sounded like a fabricated excuse, they’d demanded their earnest money back.
I could recall beating myself up over every lost sale. But that only made the losses hurt more, as if dollars had been stolen directly from my own billfold. After each defeat I contemplated switching to a dull, predictable nine-to-five job. But the next day I returned to the same old thing. What other skills did I have? None, really. I should have learned to type back in high school when my mother suggested it. But I was determined never to work in an office.
I cruised around a corner and into the office parking lot, which sat adjacent to the one-story brick building. By the time I got to the receptionist’s desk to check for messages, I felt myself slipping into the doldrums. My little desk, surrounded by three movable burlap-type fabric walls, was no place to liven my spirits. On the other side of the building, I thought, before a glorious picture window, which looked out onto a tree-lined street, Lois Grimbaldi was putting together million-dollar house deals at her mahogany desk.
I strolled into the Monday morning sales meeting bringing with me the kind of jubilance only a sale can produce. I waved across the room at Lois, the woman who’d made my achievement possible. As I found a seat, I remembered how she’d persuaded me to hold an open house at her listing the previous Sunday, while she and her husband flew to Palm Springs for a weekend of golf. At first I’d resented spending the day in that dreary little home no one seemed to like. That is, until Bev and Bill Avery showed up. The sale had seemed too easy. Bill was being transferred to the area in two months. The Averys’ only question was “When can we move in?”
It had been a mediocre month in the real-estate market, and after the meeting several colleagues congratulated me for selling the property. I thanked them. Maybe things were starting to turn around for me after all.
That evening, I ate a quick meal, then stretched out on my living room couch. I sank deep into the worn velour cushions; my heavy lids blackened the room.
I was startled back to consciousness by Charlie’s barking, followed by the shrill ring of my doorbell. I stood up too quickly, and watched the room do a spin, then staggered to my feet and yanked open the front door to find Laurie standing on the porch, rubbing her arms to keep warm.
“You ready yet?” she asked.
“I totally forgot about the class.” I checked my watch and realized I’d slept over an hour. “Maybe I’d better skip tonight.” All I was good for was watching TV, then diving into bed.
“No problem, I’m early.” Laurie sashayed into the living room, her hips swinging. “I had to leave before Dave and the kids needed something.” She plunked down on the wingback chair, which stood perpendicular to the couch. “I’m not cooking on Monday nights anymore. No way. That’s my artist’s evening.”
I took note of my sadly wrinkled work clothes. “I can’t leave the house like this.”
“If you’re not going, I won’t either.” She crossed her legs at the knee, then selected a fitness magazine and started reading the table of contents.
I knew that escaping Laurie’s grasp was like attempting to fly out of a spider’s web, so I caved in without a struggle. “Fine, give me ten minutes to get ready.” I changed into chestnut brown corduroy slacks and a matching sweater. There was no reason not to look
