could also be a whole lot better.
I don’t dare look at Jack as Verna leads the way up the walk, maneuvering her shiny black patent-leather loafers carefully around the puddles left over from last night’s rain.
“That azalea will be scrumptious in a couple of weeks.” She points at the overgrown shrub that obscures most of the living-room picture window.
I nod and murmur something appropriately passionate about the soon-to-be-scrumptious azalea, while scanning the listing sheet she just handed me.
Built in 1972—what’d I tell you?
It’s billed as the Perfect Starter Home, which right off the bat tells you—at least it tells me—that you’re probably not going to want to stay long. The nine-hundred-square-foot house has a front entryway, plus an LR, Updated EIK, 2 Brs, 1B, At Gar, FP.
This I have learned by doing my homework this past week, translates to Living Room, Updated Eat-In Kitchen, Two Bedrooms, One Bathroom, an Attached Garage and a Fireplace.
There is also a Level Lot with Mature Plantings, catchphrases I noticed in quite a few ads as I was perusing the papers. I’ll admit, I’ve never given much thought to Level Lots and Mature Plantings, but some people must be into them. And you have to admit, there’s not much appeal to a Steep, Rock-strewn Lot or Immature Plantings, which would be…what? Saplings?
I don’t know.
I just hope the inside of this place is more promising than the outside, because I’m already not loving it, Perfect Starter Home or not.
Verna unlocks the front door—which is made of yellow-orange wood and has an arched window in the top—and we step inside. There, we find ourselves standing on a rectangular patch of tile patterned to look like flagstone.
This, I assume, would be the front entryway, separated from the carpeted LR by a flat gold metal strip of flooring. It’s like we’re standing on this ugly little fake stone pier jutting into a turquoise shag sea that smells strongly of cat.
On the upside, there probably aren’t any rats in this house.
On the downside: in addition to a strong cat aroma, there are warping sheets of wood paneling, fake brick veneer on the fireplace and those small slatted windows you have to crank open.
The Updated EIK is no better. Avocado-green appliances, green—a different shade of green, like emerald—indoor-outdoor carpeting, sagging dark brown cupboards with black metal pulls. Okay, so…updated when? 1973? And the tiny eat-in alcove, which lacks a table and chairs, is mostly occupied by a plastic step-pedal garbage can and a litter box. I’m not sure which smells worse.
Onward we trudge, encountering a highly pissed-off-looking black cat who doesn’t look the least bit pleased to see us.
Bathroom: blue tub, blue sink, blue tile and an even smaller, narrower, crank-open window, which is located just at boobs level in the wall above the tub. No curtains, shade or blinds. The lovely Tudor next door has a prime peepshow view. Nice.
Bedrooms: small rectangles, pretty much the same size, though the master is distinguished by a shallow double closet with pressboard slider doors that aren’t quite operating on the track. In fact, one is swinging free from the top track and nearly knocks me unconscious when I go to open it.
Garage: oil stains on the only patch of floor visible amid heaps of things like broken-down lawn furniture and rusted yard tools. It smells of spilled gasoline. Heavy scampering overhead alerts us that something—maybe another cat, maybe God-only-knows-what, a raccoon? A bear cub?—is living in the rafters.
As we go back through the house, Verna keeps pointing out all the potential. I honestly do keep trying to see the place without the home-owner clutter, the god-awful furniture, the cheap, shiny drapes, the litter box, and oh, yes, not one but two pissed-off black cats who watch us warily and stealthily follow us from room to room.
Finally, as we return to the living room, I look over my shoulder at Jack and raise my eyebrows, as if to ask, Well? What do you think?
Jack shakes his head slightly at me, as if to say, I’d rather endure all eternity amid the rats and roaches, beneath the circus-freak family, with the Mad Crapper creeping ever nearer to our doorstep.
I nod in complete agreement as Verna leads us out the front door, pointing out the additional potential in the concrete slab, which she generously refers to as a “porch.”
The whole experience is somewhat depressing, and the fact that it’s starting to drizzle outside doesn’t help. I give the house one last glance as we drive away. I mean, I’m sure there could be potential here somewhere.
Maybe some savvy buyer could knock the place down and start fresh amid the Mature Plantings. But that savvy buyer is not going to be us.
“It’s not quite what we’re looking for,” is how I phrase it to Verna, who wants to know what we thought.
“Mmm, hmm. Well, it was on the small side,” she says.
I nod vigorously, as if small is the deal breaker.
What I want to say is, “Got anything that doesn’t reek of cat pee?”
But who knows? Maybe cat pee is all we can afford in Glenhaven Park.
Nope.
We learned on our next stop that we can also afford a partially gutted wreck whose owner started a massive renovation and then either ran out of money, or was run out of town on a rail—something like that. Verna kind of mumbled the details, which involved running. Maybe from the cops, or a gun-toting ex-wife.
Anyway…the gutted wreck is out of the question, affordable or not.
We then find out that we can also afford a flooded basement. The two-story Victorian on a nice block is actually promising until we start to descend the subterranean stairs. There must be at least two feet of standing water there.
Verna, ever the optimist, begins, “You can always pump it out…” Then she catches sight of our expressions. “You’re right. You don’t want this place. Let’s move on.”
House number four, another seventies ranch, is empty, so we don’t have to try to envision it without furniture or home-owner clutter. But there’s a definite pall hanging over it from the moment we cross the threshold.
“The seller is very motivated. The owner passed away suddenly last summer…” Verna pauses to close the door behind us and fumble for the light switch.
Jack and I exchange a glance, wondering just how motivated a dead guy can possibly be.
“Anyway,” Verna goes on, “his nephew, who inherited the house—” Aha, lightbulb moment. So the seller is the nephew, who is apparently very much alive, living on the West Coast and hoping to unload it. According to Verna, “I’m sure he’ll entertain any offer you might want to make.”
The house is your basic seventies ranch, no frills, but no cat smell or piss-yellow siding, either. White paint inside and out, hardwood floors, rectangular rooms. There are three bedrooms and two baths, as well as a nice screened-in patio off the back, and a deep lot with trees, which I guess don’t qualify as Mature Plantings? Or do they? I’m still not
