The Realtor

Seventeenth street in my part of town is rather nondescript.  The houses are of the post-war starter variety; the kind they call bungalows in sale ads to make them sound quaint instead of cramped.  Some have a second story, but that space is really just an oversized attic.  The single car garage is detached and white picket fences run rampant.1

Last week a realtor knocked on my door and asked if I was interested in selling.  I was taken aback by his forthright manner and said in no uncertain terms that I was not selling.  That was six days ago.  Yesterday I saw a pickup truck with the name of a local developer parked down the block.  A man was taking pictures of several houses, including mine.  Unfortunately I was in my bathrobe and by the time I got dressed and stepped outside he was driving away.  I decided to investigate.2

I went next door to the Quan’s house and knocked on the door.  After 5 years as neighbors we were still not friends, but we did look after each others homes when the other was away.  Mrs. Quan answered the door and invited me in.  Her house smelled spicy and exotic like it often does.  She invited me to the kitchen where she spends much of her day.  I wanted to just blurt out my questions right away, but with Mrs. Quan there were always preliminaries.  To my surprise her first question was regarding the realtor that had been through the neighborhood.  She asked me if it was true they wanted to tear down our houses and make rows of houses instead.3

Row houses!  It was not possible, although it suddenly all made sense.  Our quiet little street was very accessible to the busses and not too far from the freeway.  It would be an ideal place to put in a mess of ticky-tacky cookie-cutter style townhouses.  Too bad it would change the mood of the entire street.  Mrs. Quan said they had offered her husband much money for the house and they were thinking about it.  And Mrs. Derby next door had already said yes.   Mrs. Derby had watched last week and when the realtor finished with our block he went around the corner and talked to people there.  It sounded like they wanted our whole block.  Would they push me out?  Would I be able to find another home in a quiet neighborhood I could afford?  What is this world coming too?4

I said my goodbyes and headed back home, as I stepped off Mrs. Quan’s porch I noticed the same realtor across the street.  I decided maybe I needed to talk to the man and see what was happening.  As I approached him he looked at me trying to place who I was.  Having the door shut in his face must not be something that leaves an impression anymore.  I told him who I was and his face lit up.   I guess he thought I was going to give in.  I invited him back to the house so that we could talk.  I know he was doing a little dance inside, boy was he in for a rude awakening.  If they wanted my house they were going to have to pay for it, and not just some little offer.  They were going to give me enough to move into something equally as nice or better.5

Mr. Phillips, that greedy little realtor, was such a gentleman.  He sat quite properly and drank his coffee and used the saucer.  He asked me the types of questions one is trained to ask when they learn how to soften people up for the big kill.  He admired the photos on the mantle and the quite amateur painting hanging on the wall, the last one my husband had painted before he passed away.  He did as many do, he apologized for my loss.  I asked him if he was the one who had given the blood at the blood bank that was HIV positive?  He was stunned into silence for a moment not sure if I was serious.  I told him I never understood the need to apologize for the death of someone if I had never met them.  My husband did die from HIV complications, a disease he picked up from a blood transfusion after a car accident.  Only one person owes an apology and I suspect they are no longer alive to give it.6

Being ever the professional salesman, Mr. Phillips was quick to recover and started asking questions about the house.  He was cautious in his approach having been taken by surprise once.  Why is it people expect older ladies to be docile and take things lying down.  I think Mr. Phillips began to get a sense that I was not going to be a pushover and that my disinterest in selling was not sentimental, at least not primarily as he once had thought.  He asked several questions I knew he had the answer to.  A title check and appraisal are available to anyone.  I am sure he knew fully what the assessed value of my house is, or at least could have come close based on the houses on our block.  When he started asking about the interior and how old the roof was I told him to cut the crap.  Again he looked at me as though shocked.  Did he not realize everyone in the neighborhood had an idea what was happening?  I asked what he really cared since he intended to tear it down and put up cookie cutter townhouses.   He then made his first real mistake.  He asked me if maybe it wasn’t time to remove the cookie cutter breadboxes that were so popular in the fifties and replace them with something a bit more up to date? Homes with more than one bathroom and more than one outlet per room?  I stood up and I am sure he thought I was going to send him packing.  He began to fidget in his chair, but all I did was ask if he would like more coffee and perhaps some cookies I had made yesterday.  The way his lips moved with no sound coming out reminded me of a fish in a bowl, trapped and no means of escape.7

I went to the kitchen smiling.  He thought I would be another Mrs. Derby.  Say all the right pretty things and make an offer so I could move to some little retirement place closer to the kids or where the weather was warm.  When I returned with the coffee and a small plate of cookies his smile looked tighter than when I had first invited him in.  He was having to dig a bit deeper in his salesman tool kit and he was not used to that.  But then he surprised me.  8

“Mrs. Roberts, lets just get our cards on the table.  Williams and Marshall Developers are looking to buy several blocks in this neighborhood and take down the existing homes.  They will be building town homes and some single story connected homes as well.  They are making very generous offers and many of your neighbors have accepted.  You are in fact the last person on your block that has not signed a preliminary agreement.  As you are well aware I knew the value of you when I knocked on your door and, as you so succinctly pointed out earlier, I do not have a great deal of interest in the age of your roof, except in how it effects the value of this house.”9

He proceeded to make an offer.   He said that he was not going to play games, but instead would offer what they authorized and I could take it or leave it.  Then he gave me a number; $185,000 in cash at signing.  Thank heavens I spent all those years playing cards with the ladies.  I think my poker face held.  Doing some quick math I realized they were offering nearly 25 percent over the assessed value.  What did they think they would get for the new town homes?   I told Mr. Phillips to write up the details so that I could go over them with my oldest son, who is a lawyer and that I would get back to him.  He looked at me with a bit of consternation.  Here he had just made the best offer anyone on the block had received and I was balking.  I could not let him know straight away that I was willing to accept that offer, it would be like letting him win after all.  I sent him off to write up the offer and I straightened up the cups and plates.10

About 7:00pm that night I decided to go walk through the neighborhood and see what would not be there in the very near future.  Mr. Phillips had been right, most of the houses in our neighborhood were of a similar design.  The biggest difference being which side the garage was on or the style of front porch.  There were a few here and there that had additions made through the years and then there was the new house about two blocks away.   It had been built when an electrical fire had destroyed the one built at the same time as the rest.  It was new, but is was still a modest dwelling that blended in well.  Would the developers come this far down?   Would there be anything left?  I promised myself right then and there that when I moved I would not return.  To me it was like going to an open casket funeral.  I would rather remember this neighborhood as it is, alive with all its wrinkles and age spots.  Tomorrow I will find myself a realtor and start looking, I have always wanted to move to a smaller town, maybe this was the time to do it.11