By Dan St. Yves
Artie Behr’s day was starting just like any other in his fledgling real estate practice – setting up appointments in the morning, making sure his car was clean and ready for showing his client around, and being well-rested to prepare for whatever the day might bring.
What this day brought was Goldie Loxx.
After Artie picked his client up, as they drove to the first listing, Goldie again went over everything that she wanted in a house. He had spent numerous hours ensuring that every home they would see that afternoon had the widest variety of inclusions from her wish list.
The first home was a rustic bungalow on a nice-sized suburban lot, with plenty of mature trees and privacy. As they entered the house, Artie could see that Goldie didn’t share in his opinion that this might be a proper fit – she became very quiet as she peered around the interior.
After a moment, that awkward and uncomfortable silence was broken. “This house is far too small. The trees block all the sun and the hardwood flooring is far too… hard. Those birds outside chirp so loudly I swear I would spend all my time firing cannons to chase them away!”
“But, you said specifically that you wanted a rustic bungalow on a private lot with plenty of mature trees and hardwood floors!” countered Artie Behr.
“Yes” replied Goldie. “But this one is much too hard on my soul, and I need something softer.”
Locking the home up, they drove to the next appointment, which was unfortunately quite a bit like the last one. There were a few less trees and it was situated on a busier road, but it was nonetheless a rustic bungalow.
Entering the property, Goldie peered around again, before allowing the faintest curvatures of a smile to appear on her face. “This is TOO soft! There’s wall-to-wall carpeting instead of hardwood flooring and all the mint green walls make me feel like I’m trapped inside of a Keebler Elf breath mint factory!”
Cordially pointing Goldie towards the door, Artie made a mental note of the remaining homes where he had pre-arranged appointments. This second home had been the gem, the pick of the litter. He had to devise a new plan, perhaps try faking a severe allergic reaction to his chewing gum. Then, out of nowhere Goldie cried out enthusiastically, “There!”
Artie looked over, to see an open house. The home was three storeys, on a tiny city-sized lot that allowed just enough room for a hummingbird to glide between the neighbouring house. It was just off the major intercity turnpike, with a train coupling yard behind the residence.
There was one tree, if you will – although that could have just been the best-fertilized dandelion ever.
The inside had mismatched linoleum floors and all the ambience of an aircraft hangar, given the gaps between the windows and the drywall.
Out of the living room window, the house featured a predominant and fulsome view of the long-abandoned Woody Meadows Porridge Factory, or what was left of the crumbling frame of the building.
“This house is just right!” Goldie exclaimed, “It’s absolutely everything I told you I wanted, right from the start!”
Artie wrote up the offer of purchase and sale as quickly as he could, as he thought to himself that there must be a moral to this story somewhere. He would likely have that come to him over drinks later that night.