Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Real Estate

Being a a real estate agent in such a mudpile of an economy has never been easy, but I think today is the day I finally quit. It’s a Tuesday afternoon, and earlier today I was setting up a newly renovated house after the poor thing was the victim of a drugs bust about a year back. Since then, the cocaine has been removed from the walls, the neighbors have forgotten those blaring police sirens at 2 am, and Old Man Shallenberg has “moved out.” As I breathed in my signature lilac air freshener, I added lemon circles to the water pitchers and headed to the doorway to greet visitors for today’s open house. This was my favorite part of the job: the house is empty, I am wrapped in the artificialness of my off brand Febreze, and I can just pray that someone is feeling adventurous enough to buy. As I basked in my scheduled five minutes of peace, I heard a faint screeching sound. Weird, but I didn’t care enough to investigate. The sound grew louder, however, and I recognized the sound to be music. Screamo music. Surely Old Man Shallenberg would not have had any screamo records laying around, and being a lover of jazz I knew it wasn’t me. This might have made for a great story, but I am not a storyteller. I ran into the kitchen to retrieve my air freshener and bolted. There is just no way I am dealing with some emo teen ghost. I smacked down the open house sign on the lawn and kicked off my heels as I sprinted down the street, my heart pounding out of fear and how out of shape I am. It was then that I realized two things: One, thank god that my Fitbit is charged, Susan at reception can eat my dust. And two, a career in real estate is just not for me.


I hear Baby Gap is hiring.

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