"Not for Sale"

By Jerry Zezima

A great many people have told me where to go, but I’m not inclined to listen because it’s hot enough here.

Still, the question of where my wife, Sue, and I would go if we sold our house keeps coming up because a great many people have said they want to buy it.

Over the past few weeks, we have received postcards, texts, emails and phone calls from real estate brokers who covet our home, sweet home.

Not only that, but they want to pay cash, with no fees, commissions or closing costs, and we wouldn’t have to make repairs or do anything that would entail any kind of physical labor.

I trust that includes throwing out the garbage.

It all began when I got a call from a broker named Eli.

“Do you want to sell your house?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. “You’ll have to drag my cold, dead body out of here.”

There was a brief pause before Eli said, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“What a relief!” I said. “But even if I did want to sell, my wife and I wouldn’t have anywhere to go. Could we live with you?”

There was another pause.

“I don’t think this is going to work out,” Eli said.

“I guess not,” I said, “but thanks for your interest.”

Unfortunately, the calls, postcards, emails and texts kept coming.

“I’m going to tell the next person who wants to buy our house that we want a million bucks,” I told Sue.

“Say we want $1.2 million,” she countered.

“Deal,” I said.

The next person who wanted to buy our house was Helen, who had sent us a postcard with her phone number.

With dollar signs in my eyes, which made it difficult to see, I called.

“My wife, who is the boss, the family banker and the brains of the outfit, said we’ll sell our house for $1.2 million,” I told Helen.

“That’s a little above our price point,” she said. “We typically buy houses in distress.”

“Where’s that?” I asked.

Helen ignored the question and said that the kitchen and the bathroom are the most important rooms in the house.

“Is that because you eat in the kitchen and then have to use the bathroom?” I wondered.

Helen ignored that question, too, and said she would have to come over, look at the house, take a few photos, crunch numbers and discuss the situation.

“Before that happens,” I said, “I have to tell you that if my wife and I sold our house, we’d have nowhere to go. Could we live with you?”

“I don’t have room personally,” Helen stammered. “But I would love to find you a great place.”

It was an offer I could refuse. So I did.

But I found a willing landlord in Bernie, whom I called after receiving a postcard from his real estate agency.

“Everybody wants to buy my house,” I said. “I told the first guy I spoke with that he’d have to drag my cold, dead body out of here. Suddenly, he wasn’t interested anymore.”

“I can understand why,” said Bernie, adding that he is in his early 60s and has been in the business for many years. “I try to deal fairly with people,” he told me.

When I told him that Sue is the boss in our house, he said, “My wife is as well. She says I’m aging in reverse.”

Like me and Sue, Bernie and his wife have two grown daughters.

“We seem to have a lot in common,” I said. “So if you bought our house, could my wife and I live with you and your wife?”

“We’re very nice people,” Bernie said. “We would make excellent roommates.”

“If you sold your house, would you and your wife have a place to go?” I asked.

“No,” Bernie said. “We’ve moved a lot in our life. We don’t want to move again.”

“Neither do we,” I said. “But if we do, I’ll let you know.”

“Sounds good,” said Bernie. “We’ll clean up our guest room.”

Copyright 2024 by Jerry Zezima