Down in the Gutter, Halloween isn't so much about treats as it is the tricks.
The trick is to make it out alive, baby.
The trick is to make it out alive, baby.
Regular Customer by Ian Woollen
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Sorry, late again for elevenses. Took me
forever to pick out a tie this morning. The usual concoction, please. We don’t
have a lot of time. I’m due at a condo showing in Chestnut Dale. Allow me to be
brief. The moon was hidden behind the clouds. The intruder did not take
anything. He left a cigarette stubbed out in the sink. With lipstick on it.
Maybe the ‘he’ was a ‘she’. You never know these days. The house attracts all
kinds. People want to see where it happened. First, the mourner types left
mounds of flowers at the front door and along the driveway. Then the horror
tourists. Last night’s intruder, for example.
Yes, top me off.
I should have known something was up
when the senior broker at Sunshine Realty handed the property off to me, the
newbie. He pitched it as my chance to join the Super Sellers Club. Beautiful
lakefront mansion. Five bedrooms and six baths. 4,200 square feet. 5 plus
acres. Dock and boathouse. The publicity materials do not mention the grim
events of New Year’s Eve. The costume party to end all costume parties. The
Queen of Sheba and her court.
I missed the headlines somehow. Who
reads newspapers anymore? I get most of my news online. And, frankly, isn’t one
tragedy the same as the next? Man kills wife and self. Man kills wife and kids
and self. Fired worker returns to plant and kills boss and secretary and self.
Former student shoots teacher and classmate and self. I know, yeah, this one
was different. An old-fashioned robbery gone awry. The crooks in costume.
Excuse me? Sure. Always time for
another.
The property has been a tough sell. Five
coats of paint in the foyer, and still the stains seep out. I dress the living
room with flowers and black-and-white ‘times gone by’ photos and baking-bread
scent. It comes in a spray can. Custom marketed to real-estate brokers. The
little things that make a difference. Dressing a house is an art form. My
secret is the vintage frames. Innocuous, pretty, silver-framed photographs that
function like a hypnotist’s “yes” set. Yes, that’s nice. Yes, that’s cute.
Setting up the prospective buyer for…yes, let’s make an offer.
I sympathize with the young couples who
obviously don’t know what happened. Usually out-of-towners, recent hires at the
university. I can tell by their eyes. They have no clue. They’re searching for
their dream house. A charming place to start a family. But, after ten minutes,
always in the living room—one spouse will turn to the other and mutter: “feels
weird here.”
I’m sorry. What was your question?
Real estate people are always going on
about the ‘story’ of the property. Especially the commercial brokers. Bricks-and-mortar
investors demand a motivating narrative. And, what the hell, I could go with
another angle. The miracle outcome. The miracle of survival. The place where
your greatest weakness becomes your saving grace. God, what was I thinking,
showing up at that party dressed as a martini shaker?
Give me a moment.
And, yes, one more. That’s what saved
me. I drank too much and passed out on in a corner, behind a long sectional
couch. When I came to several hours later - many bodies on the floor. Groggy,
hungover, I assumed those bodies were all in a similar state of unconsciousness.
I picked myself up and stumbled across the carnage and out into the cold dawn.
I climbed the driveway to the road and called a cab. And didn’t think any more
on it, until you asked about my New Year’s Eve.
Whereupon, okay, I did phone the
authorities twice, and hung up. Because of the old lady. Mother dresses me so
awfully proper. And I can be so awfully improper. The truth is, I just can’t
bear the police or Mother or anyone knowing about my martini shaker costume. And
fortunately—don’t take this the wrong way—everybody who saw me at the party is
dead!
