This Is My House

In 2011, I put my beloved bungalow on the market. It was a sweet little place and I was convinced it would sell quickly. Indeed, the very next day after listing, my realtor called. He was bringing a family over to see the house.

“Could you leave right now, Arlette? They're on their way and I think they’re serious about buying the house.”

“Yes!” I said. "I’ll be gone in 10 minutes.”

Five minutes later, there was a knock at the door. I opened it and there stood a tall, athletic man in his early forties with two little boys wrapped halfway around his legs. Next to him, a woman with long auburn hair and steely grey eyes. I welcomed them and shook the guy’s hand.

“Hi, I’m David. Thanks for letting us come over on such short notice.”

“No problem, I’m on my way out, the realtor should be here in a few so make yourselves at home.”

The kids bolted ahead, exploring, flying up the stairs as excitedly as only little boys can do. The woman however, seemed reserved, a bit timid. Dad looked around, took a deep breath, placed hands on hips.

“Wow. I love this place. I just...love it.”

“Thanks. I’ve been very happy here. It’s got a great vibe.”

I left in a hopeful hurry and crossed my fingers. That evening, my realtor called. David had made an offer, almost full price. But early next morning, he called again. I had cheered too soon.

“Arlette, I got some bad news. David backed out.”

“What? What do you mean? Can he do that?”

“Yep.”

“I thought he loved it. Damn. Oh, well."

I went to work and forgot about it. That evening at home, I made myself a Manhattan and settled in with a book. Before I could turn to page three, the phone rang. It was my realtor. David had come back with the same offer. Great, I thought. He probably had jitters and got over them. The next morning, a Saturday, I woke up to the phone’s jarring ring tone and my realtor’s agitated, shrilly voice.

“Arlette! You’re not going to believe this! The guy, David, left me a message! He backed out again!”

“Hold on a minute. This is ridiculous. Can he do this a second time?”

“Yes. He didn’t put any earnest money down. I’m so sorry.”

I sighed.

“All right. So, we can’t do anything to force this guy’s hand? I know he loves the house. I just know it.”

“No, let’s just move on and require earnest money going forth. I have three people lined up to see it.”

I hung up and took a deep breath but it was too late for namaste. Know thyself, said Socrates. And I did. That’s how I knew I would look at the paperwork my agent had sent. I would find out who this David guy was and where he lived. I would drive to his house and knock on his door and I would take whatever came. Right fucking then.

So I did. Got his address. Jumped in my Jeep. Drove to his house. Parked. Got out and started walking toward his raised bungalow. David emerged from the shady porch, an incredulous expression on his face, slowly recognizing me, the distinct delineation of fear and surprise taking over soft features. He quickly looked around, dug in his pockets, glanced at me. The atavistic sequence of an animal assessing potential danger. I smiled and waved, hoping to reassure him.

“Hi, David. I’m Arlette Torres, we met briefly. You made an offer on my house.”

"Yeah, yeah, of course I remember.”

"Please, don’t worry. I just want to talk to you, no agents, just you and me.”

He seemed to relax a bit.

“Okay...sure...yeah.”

"David, I know you love the house. Your kids seemed to love it. I want it to go to someone who will enjoy it the way I did. So what’s going on? What can I do to make this happen? Let’s just talk.”

David crossed his arms, shuffled his weight, stood with his legs wide apart, firmly planted. He looked down.

"Well. You’re right. I love your house. It’s for me. I loved it as soon as I stepped on the porch. My kids love it. I am so sorry. It’s not that I don’t want it because I want it very much.”

"So are you concerned about anything in particular? Any worry I can help assuage?”

"No. No. The house is great. It’s my fiancé. She hates it. She doesn’t want an old house in the city. She wants a new house in the suburbs and she’s not even paying for it. ”

What? It was my turn to be stunned. Speechless. The fiancé? The fucking fiancé? She was the obstacle? That insipid, utterly forgettable, ridiculously ordinary woman with pinched features and a weak, slippery chin? That selfish thing wielded such power over this man, this quivering mess of diluted testosterone? For fuck’s sakes.

To this day, I don’t know why I said what I said next, except that the words flowed from my breast in a smooth, undeniable torrent.

“You know, Joan Didion once wrote that a place belongs forever to the man who claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it and loves it so radically that he remakes it in his own image.”

While I trumpeted my absolutely random declaration, David looked up at me, lips parted, eyes wide, blinking, watery.

"What did you say? Why did you say that? Why did you just say that?”

“I didn’t say that. Joan Didion did. She’s one of my favorite writers. All I can add is, if you want the house, claim it. If you want the house, take it.”

David stood there, arms hanging loosely at his sides. Disconcerted. Hazed.

"I know Didion wrote that. I went to Iowa for literature. Didion is a favorite.”

We looked at each other and through each other. Empty. Spent. Vulnerable. I finally broke the silence.

“You know, I don’t mean to be rude but if it’s a pussy thing, I can introduce you to ten women who are much prettier than your fiancé and they would love the house. I mean, fuck.”

David immediately erupted in boisterous laughter. He reached out and shook my hand.

“Yes! Let’s do this. It’s a deal. I want the house. I will take the house. You won’t have any more issues from me. Please talk to your realtor. I give you my word. I just bought your house.”

“What about your fiancé?”

“Don’t call her that. Right now, I don’t know what she is, to me. All I know is, I love the house and I will make it my own. Thank you.”

We shook hands. Hugged. I left. David bought the house. I don’t know if they lived happily ever after in my beloved little bungalow. But I know this. David was, if only for a brief time and when it counted most, a man in full.