Max & Rachel | Who Let The Dogs Out? Who?
On Lindt Lane—the irony of the name never failed to amuse the woman—there was a house. If, say, this house were a money-sucking pit, the woman could understand, and perhaps even excuse, its sitting empty for months. If another agent, perhaps one not quite as elegant (read: proficient with such elegance) as herself were trying to sell the house, Rachel would find it amusing.
But it was her house. It was her commission. There was nothing wrong with the foundation; the walls weren’t peeling; the backyard was a fairly nicely size; and while not big enough for the general Caucasian middle class family that settled in his neighborhood, it was the perfect house for a family starting out with maybe a dog or two and a kid. It was not ugly. It was not obviously smaller than the houses around it, or obviously cheaper. And it was quite kitsch, if nothing else. The thought had crossed her mind before to buy it herself, just so that there was no threat to her impeccable record.
Every house the agency gave her she was able to sell within five months. Period. That’s it. Five months, and usually well before. Yet this house sat empty. She might call it haunted to explain away the buyers’ disinterest, but the house seemed as lifeless as any old slab of concrete. She just didn’t understand.
Today, she was showing to a young family that didn’t fit the pattern of the suburban neighborhood. Usually adept at predicting outcomes in situations like these, Rachel was at a loss to decide how it would turn out. Most families who bought houses in this neighborhood were in their early thirties. They were the type of family who, despite the scientific impossibility, found a way to have exactly two-point-five kids. The family that greeter her at the end of the sidewalk, she knew, would not be invited over to baking parties before Little League games or asked to grill for the high school football tailgates. Rachel knew that school would be rough for a while. She thought for a moment about not warning them; she could easily rattle on about the wonderful parts of the neighborhood (though she knew they wouldn’t be able to take active part) and probably sell the house today. She wouldn’t have to break her streak, and she’d be able to go out for a damn nice dinner with that commission.
The thought of smoked salmon and risotto was almost enough. And then the damn four-year old had to hold out his hand and introduce himself. His little hand fit completely in hers and Rachel knew she couldn’t not mention the racism of suburbia. She would find out later, of course, that they were prepared. Always prepared.
The showing went well. The numbers of rooms was not ideal—Mom was a lawyer and wanted a home office. Dad wanted space for their grand piano. The backyard, however, seemed perfect for Crosby, their Australian Shepherd. Tyler, the four-year old, perched on Rachel’s hip the whole time braiding her hair, really liked the carpet in the den. It seemed to be just right: not one-hundred per cent perfect, otherwise they would question why it seemed too good to be true, but perfect enough that they didn’t want to miss out. Rachel was getting ready to draw out paper; she had set Tyler on the kitchen counter and had clicked open her brief case when Dad gasped. Oh no, Rachel thought. Fucking hell oh no.
“Puppy!” Tyler pointed toward the window and Rachel rushed to the sliding doors to watch the giant dog destroying the garden outside. The garden, which according to Mom, was a big selling point for their fifteen-year old. The dog himself was huge, but Rachel, briefcase still in her hands, slammed the door open and ran into the yard to shoo him away, heels sinking into the mud as she did so. Not her most dignified moment.