Realty reality

So you want to be a real estate professional?

I remember my first day of real estate school as if it were yesterday, sitting at the desk listening to the instructor and noticing her excitement and love of her career. She painted a picture of happy homeowners and satisfied sellers.

I remember drifting off, my mind wandering, fantasizing about my new career. Of course I would be dressed in my white linen business suit, leaving my home for the first time without toddlers in tow.

I would find my freshly painted office. A cup of home-ground espresso would rest comfortably my hand. I would glide to my desk in my high heels, check my messages and pick up my pile of commission checks.

While sipping away at my second espresso the potential home owners would walk into my office, share with me their dreams and I would, in turn introduce them to the best my firm would have to offer.

Maybe I would show them a pristine lakefront, sitting high on a hill. I would point to the sparkling blue waters and listen to a hawk in the background. Maybe instead they would prefer a farm. The one that I would select would have those amazing Arabian stallions running effortlessly through the fields of waving grass.

Of course the buyers would instantly fall in love with their dream home and hand me $200,0000 in cash. They would sign on the dotted line and invite me to their next dinner party, celebrating a job well done.

Yep, that’s how it works. I was sure of it.

13 years later, the call comes in, and its my turn on the rotating schedule. “We want an old house. A handyman special is okay.”

“Are you sure that you want to come in today?” I ask, hesitation in my voice. I check outside the window. “After all, it’s ten below and we will be losing the light soon.”

“We really want to look today,” the voice on the other end of the phone repeats. “We know that it’s late, we promise to be there by 3:00.”

 Well my kids are now teenagers and they have a nasty habit of wanting food on the table at night. But I agree.

3:00 comes and goes. The happy couple wanders in at 4:30 p.m. “He refused to use a map,” she explains. “I really wanted to stop for lunch. We have not eaten all day. Where are we, anyway?”

My eye begins to twitch. They are arguing, it’s getting dark, they have low blood sugar and haven’t a clue where they are. This is going to be an enjoyable appointment for sure.

“That’s the one,” he nods as he looks at the photos on the wall. I sure hope that it’s the $300,000 Victorian that’s in mint condition and was owned by those two lovely people who pampered it.

I look up at the one they select. “My God in heaven. Not that one,” I say to myself. It’s a total disaster. One of the owners has disappeared into the night with the furnace, I’m not sure who owns the driveway and the roof has a tree growing through it.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “It needs some TLC.”

“We don’t care. I can fix anything,” he says confidently.

His wife looks faint.

“Well, let’s get started,” I suggest. “I don’t think we need the keys, since the back door is missing.”

I put on my faux-fur coat, having discarded the white suit idea the first time I had to climb through a window to get the well-hidden key. I’ve gone with durable and rugged. This day I had on two pairs of leggings. I don’t care if they make me look fat as long as I’m warm.

Of course, I’m the professional so I go first. The buyers follow me on this Sunday night adventure. I climb the first step, and my heel gets caught, pulling me to the side. My creaky knee doesn’t always bend and this time it saves my balance.

“Anyone home?” I shout, making my way through the darkness. No response. Where is the pet cat, I wonder as I make my way upstairs. The buyers are very closely following my every step. We enter the upper level. I reach for the doorknob. “Anyone here?” I say again, almost in a whisper. No response.

So, I push the door open and it makes a deep, creaking noise. The buyers, not quite as sure of the country lifestyle as they were when they stepped into my office, are now a considerable distance behind me. For some reason the Realtor has taken the place of the sacrificial lamb.

I turn the knob a second time and I hear a noise inside the room. “I’m sure that it’s just the cat,” I tell them, trying to convince myself also.

Just then, a slitted set of eyes meet mine and I try to step back, but the buyer is in the way. It’s not a cat, it’s the biggest snake I have ever seen and we all know how I feel about reptiles.

It sees my faux-fur coat. I just know it thinks that I’m lunch. I jump back, nearly knocking over the other buyer.

The owners have become snake enthusiasts. I shine my light up the walls: rows of snakes everywhere. There are tubs to my left filled with live mice; dinner, I suppose? Better them than me. And what happened to the guy’s cat?

The buyers by now have made a mad dash back to the jeep. They are no longer hungry, and are considering the more expensive house.

It went just like they taught me in Real Estate school.