Based on my need for an income and a knack for perfect timing, I decided to get into the real estate game. ME! A new divorcee with a real estate license, wearing beige Micheal Kors suits, Tori Burch heels, and carrying a black leather Chanel bag with my many important files. I envision myself driving rich couples around to waterfront mansions, and magnificent Florida estates on famous golf courses. Of course, they will be taking me out to exquisite lunches of raw oysters and Sauvignon Blanc, while we write up their offer on a million dollar plus home. I love this life!
Now picture me driving around with my REAL client, the grandson of a friend of friend of a friend of the lady who takes my order at Subway. I am driving he and his parents, (who have recently arrived from Panama,) to various 55+ communities. Our goal is to get mama moved in and settled before the hip replacement surgery. I have explained to Juarez that 55 plus means that he cannot live there with them, as he is probably only around 38. He says he is not planning to live there but watching mama buckle him in, I have a feeling he is lying.
Papa is in the front seat next to me. He eyes me warily from across the console. "This complex is wonderful and has a convenient bus service to all the local medical facilities," I explain.
"Where es your oosbahnd?" Papa demands.
I look at Juarez from the rear view mirror.
"Papa, she has no husband," he says.
"Eh?" mama wants to be filled in.
Papa fills her in with a rapid fire of unrecognizable words, but which I think translates into "LOOZAAH."
We arrive and take the elevator up to the unit we will be viewing. I have total clearance from the owner's daughter to go right on in, but still, I begin to sweat as I unlock the door. Ever since I got my license I have nightmares of entering a domain, and finding the people inside, either engaged in sex or taking a shower. Since this is a community of seniors, I can only imagine the horror of either of those two scenarios.
"Hellooooo!" "Hellooo!" I holler loudly as we enter. I glance around, all seems in order. The pink velour recliners are empty, as is the harvest gold kitchenette. "Come right in," I tell my entourage. "Take your time and look around. I'll be right here in the kitchen if you have any questions." But please don't I am thinking, because as this is my first property showing, EVER, I am kind of winging it, sooo..... I can venture a guess, but really that's about it.
I set down my purse and have a seat at the tiny kitchen table. I am staring at the big scuff on my right shoe, when I hear Juarez cry out, "Miss Amy, there is someone here!" OMG. No. Why? What did I do to deserve this hell? I stole ONE mood ring from Sears in 1975 and will pay for it the rest of my life.
I enter the bedroom and I see they are correct, there is definitely someone here. Grandma is sitting upright in a rocker, (fully clothed thank the lord) and is in a condition, that I believe medical professionals describe as... fucking dead. I am fighting to maintain calm even though I am so totally creeped out. Sick. A dead person. Seriously?
We haul ass out of there like the Scooby Doo gang, being chased by a plethora of green apparitions.
With no invite for Sauvignon Blanc, oysters or even another appointment forthcoming, I drop the Panamanian contingency off at their car. As the day shouldn't be a total loss, I decide to head to my favorite sandwich shop for a number five with extra hot peppers. My mouth is watering as I pull up and I grab my purse even as I am still parking. But wait, no I don't. My purse is not here. Where could I have left an entire Michael Kors purse? Then it hits me...it is on the table in grandma's kitchenette. Probably being ripped apart by zombies as we speak.
On the ride back to retrieve my purse from the apartment of a dead woman, I do some thinking. It's possible I may not be on the right career path. I was really hoping to find a job with people are who are funny, engaging and preferably still breathing. Either that or a very rich oohsband who isn't.