SHOWINGS -- THE PASSING OUT PART

About a week later we had another showing. Ingo was really excited about this. It was a guy we’ll call “Mr. Fifteen Percent” who was looking for a house for his ex-wife and child. Ingo was unsure about the details, but this seemed the perfect house. They were divorcing and they wanted to stay near the school down the block. Only two people were PERFECT[1] for this tiny house. And a little kid ---- how much time would they spend in the one bathroom! Hell, there would hardly be any pile up at all[2]! He seemed REALLY interested, but…

“He said it was priced fifteen percent too high for the current market.”

Fifteen percent? Where do you come up with a number like that in conversation? Ten percent, twenty, sure. But fifteen? Does your coach tell you to give a hundred and ten percent or a hundred and fifteen[3]?

“Should we talk about it?”

“Not yet. It’s too early,” Ingo said. “We’ll let him think on it. But I really think he was ready to write and offer for five-fifty.”

And because he was an experiences realtor who had come highly recommended to us, I took the tieless wonder’s word for it. But it seemed like if the guy was ready to write and offer…

Patricia and I talked about it that night. She said, and I readily agreed with her that she didn’t want to go below six hundred thousand. The house had been up over seven hundred thousand at one point and, as stated, Ruth’s house hadn’t been touched and went for five-ninety. We at least had a spiffy new kitchen floor and fresh paint throughout. Surely that was worth Ten G’s?

Ah, little did we know.

For the first two weeks, there was a stream of people coming through the house. We anxiously awaited heard from Ingo after each. Would THIS be the one? It was kind of like being the ugly girl at the dance and as each guy comes up, you wonder if this pimply faced yabbo was going to be THE one who would ask you do dance. Then you’d fall in love, get his fraternity pin, go to the cotillion and get married and live happily ever after.

In other words, it was a fairy tale.

All we heard was that people thought it might be priced too high, wanted to look at other things but everyone LOVED the backyard[4].

And the offers not only didn’t flood in, but the pond was turning stagnant and covering with scum.

Easter came toward the middle of April. And so did the most violent bout of flu this side of a Joseph Conrad novel.

Easter Saturday was okay. I walked down to the used DVD store to see what was in stock. It was warm and the sun was bright. I actually enjoyed it, which I usually don’t do[5]. My stomach was gurgling a bit, but it settled down after lunch.

Easter Sunday dawned and I was feeling a little worse, but not awful. I’ve felt must poorer than that. I sat out in front and talked to the neighbors from two doors down who we knew, but weren’t terribly friendly with. But they were nice and they were interested in what we might be selling the house for.

That night, though…

I’ve been sick before. I’ve had the stomach flu two or three times and back in my drinking days, throwing up meant I’d had a peachy Saturday.

But this…

This was the first time I was sick enough to wake up so I could throw up. AND have diarrhea at the same time.

Still, this wasn’t unheard of. It had happened before.

But it didn’t stop.

Won’t go into a LOT of detail, but it seemed endless.

And then one time I went to the toilet[6] and when I was finished[7], I fell to the ground.

And then I couldn’t get up.


[1] His word and emphasis.

[2] A problem we were running into as puberty reared it’s ugly, hormoned head and hair care and curlers and flat irons become more and more of an issue.

[3] Maybe that WAS Vince Lombardi’s secret. He asked for the extra five?

[4] Which would have been great if we were selling a campground.

[5] Being a troll.

[6] And at least the vomiting had ended.

[7] Thankfully.


ENTIRE CONTENTS COPYRIGHT 2009 by Shaun McLaughlin

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