I Never Wanted to Buy a House…

I never wanted to buy a house, which is another way of saying I'd never given the idea any thought.

Five years ago, the only thing I knew about real estate was that I couldn't afford any. So I was content being a tenant, writing a check for eight hundred bucks every month for a fifth-floor walk-up with a view of a weathered shipyard and a giant pile of rock salt. My wheezing neighbor always told me the salt gave him emphysema or at least raised his blood pressure. I didn't care. My blood had always been on the thin side anyway.

But then some guy in a cowboy hat bought me a beer. And some tequila. He wasn't a real cowboy; he was just pretending to be one in a bar on Hot Country Night. Most of the people there that night were doing something called line dancing, which is like the Hokey Pokey only it's done in a straight line and requires less rhythm. I was not among those people. Instead, I sat at the bar with a friend who had brought me there and who had only moments earlier discovered that I don't like country music or rednecks, let alone fake ones.

He knew the guy in the hat. Because I am sociable by nature, and because the man in the hat was buying, I said hello. I didn't have to say anything after that, not as long as I kept drinking. So I listened as the cowboy told us about a house that was for sale in a town north of Boston. It was mansion, really, with nine bedrooms and six fireplaces, right on the ocean, and really, really cheap.

"It's not gonna last long, not in the market," he said. "Nope. Gonna go quick."

I nodded. He bought shots of tequila and more beer. "You gotta go look at this place," he said. "You wanna see it? I know the agent."

I drank my tequila. He bought another round.

"Really," he said, "you should check it out."

I drank more tequila.

This continued for some time. Listen to short sales pitch. Drink alcohol. Listen. Drink.

After the third shot, the cowboy started to slur his words.

His eyes were moist. "It's my wife," he said. "The agent. She's my wife."

I nodded sympathetically. I realized that we were not talking about a house. Every man understands that any barroom conversation that involves moist eyes and the words "my wife" is actually a highly evolved code for "My life is a living hell and since I've paid for the alcohol you are required to do everything in your power to help me, especially now that you are too drunk to realize the barroom code of men is really, really stupid."

The cowboy's wife was new to real estate. In three months, she had sold exactly zero properties. She was desperate. The cowboy was more desperate. He bought one last round.

"Will you at least look at it? Please?"

I told him I would.

*****


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