The Anti-Heroes

Chapter Fourteen LIV

Chapter Fourteen

L IV

The Not-So-Fearless Five, as we’re calling ourselves, have started a group chat. Thus far, Michael hasn’t responded to our ongoing message chain, but we’re pretty sure he’s read the texts. That in itself is progress.

As I wait for my clients to arrive, I dash off a quick message to the group:

This training works! It’s working!

B-Money immediately replies with a string of emojis I can’t quite interpret, and Vishnu sends a big red heart.

Emily writes:

Woo-hoo!

I know it’s working, because yesterday I mustered up the courage to march into Jase’s office and tell him it’s not fair that he and Chase pawn every low-budget buyer and seller off on me. They know that I have my broker’s license and that I could start my own agency. I don’t need them.

Whatever I said (honestly, I was kind of in an adrenaline fog after our big night being semikidnapped) must have gotten through to Jase, because not only did I finally convince them to give me back my Arts and Crafts–style listing on Sheridan, I’m now waiting to meet some clients with a seven-figure budget! A potential million-dollar-plus sale! No one knows the area like me, so I’m supremely confident that I can find the perfect place for them. I have a whole day of appointments set up based on the parameters that Jase collected. Obviously, I’ll ask my own questions, but I guess they were insistent on seeing houses immediately, as time is a factor.

First we’re viewing this show-stopping, freshly rehabbed two-story brick Georgian listing on Oak Street. It’s in the most gorgeous neighborhood. This is the kind of place a really sweet sitcom could be based. I bet everyone here has borrowed a cup of sugar from their neighbors, and I promise you some of these homes hand out full-sized candy bars at Halloween. I so wish Dee and the kids could live in a home like this instead of our toxic three-flat. Yesterday, Tommy was complaining that he had menstrual cramps. He’s clearly spending too much time with Ma lately.

I take in the neighborhood from the cheery area underneath the wide portico (technically, it’s not called a porch), where terra-cotta pots brim with purple-and-yellow pansies next to white Adirondack chairs. In the corner, there’s a big cushioned swing, the ideal spot to while away an afternoon, lost in one of the bodice rippers that I read on vacation.

The trees lining the street are truly magnificent. They create that desirable shady canopy in the summer, with little bits of sun dappling all the manicured lawns. Even on the hottest days, the giant oaks create a cool, green oasis and it’s a pleasure to be outdoors. Homes on this block don’t open up often, so I’m showing these new clients a pocket listing, meaning it’s not yet live on the MLS. The listing broker owes me a favor, so we’re getting in early.

Even though the market has slowed, I am sure this place will be gone by next week when it goes live on the MLS. My listing agent friend priced it right.

I’m planning to show a lot of fantastic places today, and it will be nice to bring my buyers to properties with modern kitchens and updated baths. I don’t get to show listings in this price range nearly often enough because I’m so busy with Chase and Jase’s castoffs and managing the office. (Do I sound bitter? I hope I don’t sound bitter! I’ve just tolerated getting less and losing out for so long that my frustration is beginning to surface.)

Before I can ponder this further, I get what I assume is a text from Michael. It’s a photo of a man’s lap—I assume his—clad in bespoke pants. That he’s not on the toilet speaks to his progress.

A luxury vehicle pulls into the pea gravel drive and a sixty-something couple steps out. Presumably, these are John and Joyce Vandergrift. “Hello, hello!” I call, waving. “Welcome to—”

“What’s with all the birds?” Joyce asks. I must admit, I was expecting a more traditional greeting like “Good morning” or “Hi, I’m Joyce.” Her permed hair bouffants into an impervious helmet, all black with a large white streak on the side. She has the pinched lips of someone who always complains the soup is too cold. (I note that it was her driving and wonder if this is an important detail.) She’s wearing stretchy pants and a sweater that has so much faux fur on it, it appears to need a shave. But my first impressions could be misleading; I have to extend the benefit of the doubt. I scan the area in case I’m missing something, like an enormous sandhill crane having landed on the lawn. We’re not that far from the Skokie Lagoons, so it’s possible to run into some interesting wildlife here. I saw pelicans a few weeks ago when they were migrating! Actual pelicans! “You mean the birds ... in the trees?” I clarify.

“They’d have to go,” she says, nodding as though she’s making a fine point.

“The trees?” I ask, confused and a little afraid. The trees make the neighborhood!

“No, the birds. I hate birds.”

“Hates birds,” John adds. I’m already getting the vibe that his wife takes the driver’s seat in everything, so it will be her approval that I’ll gauge today.

No matter what I consider a selling point, there will be someone who hates that feature or wants to change it. Magnificent fireplace? I’ve had clients board them over because of perceived drafts. Gunite pool with a waterfall feature? Fill it with dirt, stat. Tiffany chandelier in the entry hall? Replace it with a builder-grade boob light. So not liking the sweet songbirds that make this street so enchanting? It happens.

“The birds could easily be taken care of with an eco-friendly solution. I mean, I enjoy birdsong, but I understand why you might not care for the noise. An easy way to repel them is to simply hang a flag out front. Birds are—forgive the pun—super flighty ...” Neither John nor Joyce smiles, even for a second, so I continue. “When the wind makes the flags flap, they get spooked. Hanging any sort of flag is an attractive, inexpensive way to scare them away from your property. There are smells they dislike too—right off the top of my head, I know they hate peppermint and garlic.”

A client not liking birds is hardly the biggest obstacle I’ve come across as a Realtor. I had one guy who wanted to live on a street that didn’t allow cars, because he was a day sleeper. Since those don’t really exist on non-island-based urban properties, I instead found a place with a soundproofed room. The previous owner had used it as a recording studio.

I add, “There are also spike strips, spiral reflectors, garden statuary, netting, just a whole host of solutions. We can make sure birds won’t be an issue.”

“Why don’t we just kill them? Bring in a guy and get rid of all of them in the neighborhood,” Joyce suggests.

“You mean, extermination ?” I ask. I must have misunderstood.

“They won’t bother us if they’re all dead,” Joyce says. John mimes spraying them with an imaginary machine gun, you-dirty-rat style.

Um, that’s a new one. “Okay, I’m not entirely sure if it’s legal to wipe out the entire avian population, but I can certainly look into it for you.” I make a note on my phone to figure out some sort of compromise that doesn’t entail death or dismemberment. “Now, shall we step inside? I’d love to show you the place.”

We step over the threshold into this handsome property, and I slip on the blue shoe-covering booties and ask them to do the same.

“I don’t bend,” says Joyce. There’s not a hint of mirth in her face. My mind begins to race about the other things she may not care for—if bending is difficult, she may do better in a home without stairs, or, barring that, a first-floor primary. She may even want grab bars in the bathroom. I immediately go to plan B. “Sure, no problem, bending is overrated. Would you mind removing your shoes, then?”

“I would,” she replies. Nary a grin nor glint in her eye.

Okay, plan C. “Here, then I’ll bend for you,” I volunteer, as I don’t want to disrespect the homeowner’s property by tracking in outside muck. After I get Joyce set up, John holds out a foot. I guess he doesn’t bend either.

On the continuum of weirdness I’ve seen in my ten years as an agent, this barely even registers. First of all, everyone’s fully clothed. I have far more naked stories in my repertoire than I care to recount. And the accidental (sometimes intentional) nudity stories never involve anyone you’d want to see sans pants. That’s a hard—again, pun intended—truth.

We enter the living area, accented with wide windows and a stunning brick fireplace with a formal mantel. “If you’ll look down ...” I pause, waiting for Joyce to tell me she can’t turn her head, but she remains quiet. “The flooring is original and freshly refinished. These hand-scraped planks were covered up for years, but the current owners just completed a yearlong rehab project, and you’re the first to see the finished product! Isn’t the flooring fabulous?”

I’ll often ask questions even though I’m pretty sure I know the answers. Sometimes it helps a potential buyer to hear their responses.

Instead of confirming this absolute truth, Joyce asks, “What used to be here?” Chase worked with these homeowners a few years ago, back when they bought this place to flip. (Interesting that they didn’t ask him to sell it for them.) Regardless, what a mess it initially was! Over the years, so many of the original details were painted or patched over, and the floor was covered in a hideous, unkempt, Cookie Monster–blue synthetic shag. My legs itch just thinking about it. I’m so glad to see the home returned to its former glory.

I tell Joyce, “The original floors had been covered with a very thick, old carpeting.”

Joyce’s eyes light up. “Nice! I love carpeting.”

“Loves carpeting,” John adds. I wonder if he’s permitted any original thoughts.

“I hate hardwood,” Joyce explains.

Almost as if on cue, John adds, “Hates hardwood.”

Not really the answer I expected, but I pivot. Selling real estate is like a Choose Your Own Adventure book, only it’s the clients who are opening the pages to new scenarios and I must react in kind. “Of course, I understand that bare floors aren’t for everyone and carpeting is a fine way to add warmth and sound insulation. I’m sure it would be easy enough to lay carpet over the planks.” It would be a travesty , but it wouldn’t be hard . “A rug would also work.”

Joyce says, “Oh, no, I hate rugs.” We both look at John, anticipating his echo. But he says nothing, just blinks back at us from behind big glasses that make him look like an owl. “The hardwood would have to go. I wouldn’t want to know it was under there, lurking.”

“To be clear, you’d prefer to go to the expense to tear out all the original hardwood and put down new subflooring, rather than just carpeting over it because you don’t want it lurking ?”

“Wouldn’t everyone?” she replies, dead serious.

I have no idea how to address this, so I suggest a change of venue. “Perhaps we should move on to the kitchen. Do either of you like to cook?” This place has a chef’s kitchen, but that won’t matter if they don’t prepare their own meals.

“I do!” Joyce says. “And he loves to eat, so we’re quite a match.”

“Great! I bet you’ll appreciate this stove.” I point out the top-of-the-line gas Viking range.

“They’d need to take that with them. I only like electric,” she says.

“Only likes electric,” John adds.

Unkindly, I think, For a woman who hates birds, it’s surprising that she’s married to a parrot. But I grit my teeth and smile, saying, “I have so much more to show you!”

Joyce finds fault with every single thing about this home. She’s even offended by the sellers’ furnishings. I mean, the couch isn’t staying; don’t get mad at the whole house about it. As the sellers bought this place to rehab and flip, it’s not even their stuff; it’s just staging. I always urge my buyers to see past cosmetic concerns and concentrate on the big-dollar things.

I’m not surprised that Joyce has been complaining the whole tour, even after I offered to cut it short. This is a common ploy. For some reason, buyers often believe they have to act as though they don’t like a place with their agents, as if it will somehow get them a better deal. Normally, I’d keep this thought to myself, but today feels different.

Midcomplaint, I say, “Joyce, let me stop you for a minute. I need you to understand that I am your advocate . I work for you . Please, be honest with me; it’s the best way for me to help. Playing games helps no one. If all your complaints are an act or a ploy to get me to pressure the seller, I need you to level with me. We are a team here. I am on your side.”

I feel almost breathless after I verbalize all of this. I’ve never been firm with a client like this before. I’ve always allowed them to run roughshod over me, but today feels different.

Whatever I said must have made some impact, because both of them are quiet while we view the rest of the home. When our tour comes to its (merciful) end, Joyce announces, “I’ve made a decision!”

“Well, that’s fantastic!” I say. Sure, if she wants this home, she’ll have to change every single thing she finds offensive, which includes but is not limited to the luxurious primary suite and the new triple-paned windows, but if she’s happy, I’m happy. Heck, I’m already happy that I was able to assert myself.

“What decision have you made?”

She peers out the windows. “The trees would have to go too.”

I’m beginning to suspect Jase and Chase didn’t give me these buyers out of the kindness of their hearts.

When I get home after a very long day with the Vandergrifts, I’m dismayed to find my parking space filled with pieces of drywall. I have no idea who’s doing demo, but they’re definitely not allowed to dump their debris in my space. It takes me twenty minutes of circling the block to find street parking.

My mother’s door is wide open when I step into the vestibule, and I can now see the source of the drywall. My mom’s unit is an unholy mess. All her things are piled in the center of the room, and she’s torn one wall entirely down to the studs. We’ve pulled no permits, filed no plans; what is happening here?

“They had to come down,” my mother says, materializing behind me. She’s in overalls and her chin-length hair is held back with a bandana. She’s a couple-decades-older version of me. The biggest difference is the gray streaks and crow’s feet (and currently, the fine coating of drywall dust).

She managed to avoid COVID over the last few years, but the pandemic turned her attention-seeking behavior up to eleven.

I’d be more likely to buy her constant string of illnesses if she didn’t have the strength to rip down and haul off walls by her damn self, like a stevedore working the docks. We’ve been trying to get her to a therapist, but according to her, only the Bennett side of the family needs psychological help. Her people are a paragon of mental health ... save for her cousin Augie, who was featured on My Strange Affliction because he wanted to marry a bridge. Not a bride. A bridge . Specifically, the DuSable Bridge, more commonly known as the Michigan Avenue Bridge. And we don’t talk about Bruno, her uncle Bruno, who was institutionalized for schizophrenia. Of course, there’s my grandmother, who suffered from incapacitating depression. When I was a kid, she’d sit in a dark living room with her handbag on her lap for hours on end, waiting for the Lord to come claim her. But now that she is on Lexapro and has moved into a senior center, where she hustles all the other residents in her weekly poker game, I guess she doesn’t count either.

“Why did the walls have to come down?” I ask. I feel weary and I’m dreading her answer. There wasn’t a thing wrong with the drywall. I’d know. I take care of all the maintenance in the building.

“Mold.”

Last month, Deandra discovered a tiny leak under her kitchen sink. It was literally a puddle and she caught it almost immediately. The plumber came, fixed it right up, and assured us there was no damage. In an abundance of caution, I called one of my colleagues who does mold remediation, and he did a thorough inspection. My friend is a bit of an odd duck; he lives for mold. Like, nothing makes him happier than finding spores. If he could, he would order remediation upon finding a day-old loaf of sourdough bread on the counter. But he assured us the plumber was correct and the water didn’t cause additional damage. No mold. None. Nada.

I take a deep breath to calm myself.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she says, her hand perched on her cocked hip.

“You wouldn’t breathe?” I ask.

“The air is filled with an aspergillus species. I had to take down all the drywall to get it out,” she replies.

This is always a challenge. I want her to feel heard, but at the same time, I don’t want to play into her psychodrama. “Do you know something that neither Jerry nor I know?” I ask, referring to my mold fanboy buddy.

My mother shrugs. “His tools aren’t accurate. But I know.” She thumps her chest, which releases a plume of drywall dust. “I know in here. I’ve been sneezing and my nose is runny. My eyes itch like the devil. Those are all symptoms of mold poisoning.” They’re also symptoms of hay fever, and our pollen counts have been off the charts in this warm weather. “And today, I started coughing.”

“Is it possible that you started coughing after you started pulling down drywall without a mask?”

“No way.”

I don’t know what to do here. I want to scream and run away, but instead I text my sister.

Are you aware of what she’s doing with the drywall?

She immediately texts me back.

Obvi why u think we went 2 movies

I can’t blame her. I get why she pushes this stuff off on me. Her plate is already so full that who knows what would happen if she were solely responsible for dealing with our mother. I would like to be anywhere but here right now too. I wish we had a training session tonight; I could use it.

My mom sneezes, and I see a familiar glint in her eye, the one that more often than not requires me to spend the evening in the hospital ER waiting room.

You know what? I don’t actually have to be here, even if we don’t have a training session.

I quickly send out a group text:

I know it’s dinner time, but does anyone want to meet up for coffee?

The responses fly in:

yaaasss queen

Of course, on my way

I interpret the photo of an odd angle of Michael’s chin as a yes as well.

I give my mom a quick hug and say, “Well, it looks like you have this all covered, so I’ll leave you to it. See you later!” I don’t look back as I leave, but I suspect her jaw is on the ground. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good.