Chapter 10: Friday Night

The buyer appointment with Dale Wilsh didn’t exactly go as Wendy promised. Dale, who let out three deadbolts before greeting us at apartment door was dressed in fatigues. He quickly motioned us in, popping his head out to make sure the coast was clear, while verifying it was only Wendy and me. As soon as I had cleared the threshold, Dale shut the door and in no time, resecured his home.

Dale’s apartment, with blackout shades drawn, gave me an interesting insight to Dale Wilsh. Along the back wall were several computers, short-wave radio equipment, a variety of guns in a cabinet and what I thought was a grenade sitting on a shelf.

A hard-bound book, “Area 51: The Real Story” caught my eye on the couch. It was open, pages down, with the spine staring up towards the aluminum foil-lined ceiling. On Dale’s walls, were a mounted saber and three different posters of explosive device schematics as well as a map of Nevada. In the far corner, next to the television was a satellite dish, with a red light manically blinking.

“Sit down,” he commanded pointing towards the cluttered table. Wendy sat next to me and moved her chair a bit closer to my side. To my right, was a contraption made of three metal pipes welded together with some sort of pressure gauge. I glanced at it a little too long. “That’s a potato cannon.” Dale said.

“What exactly is a potato cannon?” I asked, picking it up with idle curiosity.

“Careful with that thing!” Dale cautioned. “The potato cannon shoots potatoes of course. I make them and sell them on the Internet. When the invasion begins, everything will become a weapon. From my research, starchy vegetables will work well. I just made a prototype model that will shoot carrots.”

Being from California, Dale wasn’t strange to me. I had seen many Dales in my life. They didn’t live in Shades Crest of course, but certainly they hung around the Bay Area. I completely understood Dale’s answer and where he was coming from. Wendy however, apparently didn’t know what to expect next. She asked the wrong question.

She said, “What invasion?”

Dale, who had taken a chair directly across us, leaned over. His eyes glazed as he whispered, “They are coming. Protect yourself. Prepare now. That’s why I am moving. I need a place with a bomb shelter.”

“Are you concerned about a terrorist attack?” Wendy asked.

Dale’s eyes got wide. “No. That’s the least of our concerns. I have it on good authority, the extra terrestrials are planning infiltration in the next six months. They are looking to set up a base camp near Tucson. They are from Planet Zapwax. They are planning on invading and killing anyone with an A positive blood type.”

“Oh what a relief.” I said. “I am O negative.”

Wendy glared at me. Dale, however, relaxed a bit. “Yea. I am glad you will be ok. You will be able to fight in the resistance, right?”

“Oh, absolutely!”

At this point, Wendy cut me off, taking over. She formally introducing us, giving Dale her remarkable background. By the dull look on Dale’s face, I gathered he didn’t care. Wendy also explained I was in training and would be working under her to learn the ropes. “That way, you get two agents working for you,” she said, giving one of her enthusiastic claps.

Dale looked unimpressed. However, Wendy took Dale’s silence as permission to continue. She began asking him some basic questions. I noticed she was reciting the Metro Realty Professionals’ buyer scripts I had seen in my workbook.

What area of town was he interested in moving to? How many bedrooms? “Is there something special you want in your next home, Mr. Wilsh?” Wendy cooed.

“I need a bomb shelter.” Wendy was momentarily taken aback. I don’t recall bomb shelters being one of the standard answers in that particular script.

I interjected, “Perhaps a basement might work? There aren’t a lot of homes with basements in the metro Phoenix area, but there are some.” I had learned about Phoenix’s lack of basements in real estate school.

He considered for a moment. “It might work,” Dale said. “Yea. I could work with that. That’s a good thought.” He gave me a nod of approval. “You are all right,” he said to me with a knowing smile.

The look Wendy gave me was a cross between relief and annoyance. Quickly recovering, she asked, “So, if we could find you the right home with a bomb shelter—or a basement—how soon would you be prepared to sign a contract?”

Dale considered for a moment. After blowing out some air, he said, “I gotta tell you. I am torn. I got word today about the currency rate. So, I hate to spend my gold on this. And, I am just getting the Internet business off the ground.”

Popping right back into script mode, with a broad smile she said, “But now is a great time to buy you know. Interest rates are low. You can get more house for the money. Just think of what you could do with all that space!”

Dale wasn’t buying it. “Yea, but think about it. Is it really a good time to buy with the dollar about to plummet?”

“Oh, I don’t think—” Wendy started.

“Once the invasion starts our currency will change.” He looked at me, his supposed kindred spirit. Completely ignoring Wendy’s bewildered look he said, “I am not sure what the new currency will be. It might be quartz or even soda straws. It all depends on how the resistance holds up. All the intel I got today makes me think I want to wait a little bit longer. Interest rates may not matter if we are using animal bones instead of dollars.”

As amused as I was by Dale, and how more amused I was watching Wendy become increasingly derailed by Dale’s idiosyncrasies, I really was sorry to see Dale balk. The verbal ping-pong match was entertaining, but I wanted a client.

I waited with baited breath for Wendy to recoup and pull out another pat answer to Dale’s objection, keeping my dream alive. Instead, Wendy gave him her card and offered to help in any way she could when he decided what was right for him.

As we were saying good-bye, Dale exclaimed, “Wait!” And, running into a back room, he reappeared moments later with a potato cannon and a bag of russets. “Here,” he said thrusting them at me. “God speed.”

With a knowing look, he squeezed my arm and pushed us back out the door. I could hear the locks turning even before we had stepped away from his apartment.

On the way home, Wendy didn’t want to discuss the buyer meeting, only to congratulate me on my basement comment. “We haven’t even gotten to that part of our orientation yet—where we talk about alternatives to buyer’s expectations—but you already knew how to handle it.”

I shrugged, “It seemed obvious. You weren’t going to get very far with a bomb shelter.”

“You are a natural at sales,” she said. I beamed. Nobody had ever told me I was a natural at anything before.

“So,” she said, changing the subject, “How did you get a sitter on such short notice?”

I gave her a quick synopsis of getting to know Jet a little bit and how he was watching the kids for me.

Wendy’s face froze. “Jet Tyson?” She said with as much aloof curiosity as she could muster.

“I nodded. Do you know him? He is my new loan officer—for my team. What luck. He also baby-sits.” I said, not quite sure why her mood suddenly changed.

“What luck,” she repeated.

Now with Dale’s appointment behind us, I was anxious to get back before Laura found out I left her boys. The worst part of the whole evening was being stuck in Wendy’s car. She had offered to drive and seemed to be in no hurry to get back to the office. As we rode back as slowly as humanly possible, she was having me rehearse a listing script

“I use a proven system to sell your home for the right price.” Wendy nodded encouragement. “Mrs. Smith, as I said before, the majority of homes sold in your price range in this market are sold at full price or slightly below. I may not bring the seller, it might be another agent who sees my marketing. But, I will be the reason it sells.” I was ready to vomit. Jet was right this was nonsense. Scripts were not the same thing as selling.

At quarter to nine, I walked in to a colossal mess, with the boys super-hyper and Jet apparently hiding and was supposed to be invisible. The boys were having a great time pretending not to see him. “Cookie dough ice cream!” I said, carrying my grocery bag.

I weeded through the mini cars and wooden blocks to a roar of “yea Tinas.” The keeper of the ice cream.

“Anyone call?” I stupidly asked, forgetting I had taken the phone off the hook.

“No, just a guy at the door. He was looking for Laura.” I eyed him. “Didn’t talk much. Tall? Ball cap?”

“It was Juan,” Bruce said.

I turned to him, “You know him?”

“Uh huh, He sometimes comes by to see Mommy.”

 “Hi Brucie” I said the next morning, greeting my welcomed leg ornament.

“I didn’t know you could tell them apart.” Laura said, sipping her coffee.

I chuckled, “Of course I can. Buddy has a scar above his eyebrow.” I added casually.

Laura peered at me over her glasses. “He got the scar at the hotel. When we were living there.” She shuddered, probably creeped out by the thought of imaginary germs getting into Buddy’s open wound. “He hit his head on the coffee table one day.”

At that moment, Buddy, came running into the room with a steak knife, “Looky Mommy! I’m a ninja.”

I damn near died. “Where did you learn about ninjas?” she asked with a bemused look on her face.

I cut in, “Jet—my new loan officer—he stopped by for a minute to bring me some business cards last night. I hope you don’t mind.” I felt like crap for lying to my one and only friend in town. Given how paranoid she was, I didn’t think she would be able to handle the one and only time I ever left her sons alone. And besides, if the truth be told, I didn’t want to disappoint her.

Laura dismissed it with a hand wave. She didn’t flip about the boys having a knife and I took it as a good sign so I dug in, “By the way, Juan came by last night.”

Everything in Laura froze. It was momentary. A casual observer would have mistook it for her cool demeanor. I knew better. I hit something. Not waiting for her to reply to the news, I added. “You know, the other night, when I fell asleep on the couch, I got up to get a drink in the kitchen and looked out the window. It was pretty late and I thought I saw someone. But, you know how it is when you just wake up and everything is dark.” I waved my hand frivolously, “anyway, I thought I saw someone, but when I checked there wasn’t anyone there. But, yesterday, when Juan showed up, it looked like the guy I saw.”

She had recovered. The coolness was back. “Mmm…” another sip of coffee. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Chapter 9: Friday Afternoon

“Before we go any further, there is something you should know.” Jet said seriously, taking in a bite of sandwich. He finished chewing, giving enough time for the suspense to build. “I can’t date you.”

“Uh huh” I replied dully. I didn’t want to break his heart here, but Jet’s announcement was the last thing I expected.

It was Friday. Jet called me that morning, inviting me to lunch. He called it, “networking.” I preferred “free food.” After a quick trip to pay Carl, who thank God, wasn’t able to get up fast enough when I walked in to cop a feel, I had nothing else scheduled for the day. Wendy called me in the morning too, telling me she was in meetings—indicating they were extremely important and I was to fend for myself. Fine by me. She also promised a special assignment for me and she would call me later in the day. So, I was standing by.

“It isn’t personal.” Jet continued by way of an apology. “It is just that, see, I am an earth sign see, so I only date women with nature names.”

He had me there. “Nature names?”

He finished chewing. “Yea, like nature names. Holly, Heather, Ivy, Rose, Bubbles, Bambie...”

I nodded. “Crystal, Ruby, Opal,” I added, with a dismissive wave of my hand.

Jet’s eyes got wide. “I hadn’t considered that. Wow! Think of the possibilities? That is a whole ‘nuther avenue.” He grabbed his phone with gusto and pushed the memo button, “Note to self, explore precious gems.” Back to me, “Thanks. I should also tell you—in case it ever comes up—I will make an exception for French names too, you know, Monique, Celeste, Yvette…” His voice drifted, as he obviously took a detour down memory lane.

“Why” I asked, morbidly curious, and instantly sorry. Jet just smiled and waggled his eyebrows. “Oh.” I said. Got it.

“You aren’t French are you?” He asked.

“Nope, half Irish, half mutt.”

“Too bad.” His look became solemn. “Just so you know, even though we can’t date, I will still sleep with you. If you want.”

I was so thankful I had swallowed my last bit of BLT before his words reached my ears. I held out a palm. “Born again virgin.”

Jet nodded sagely. “Bummer. When you get off the wagon maybe we can make a go of it.”

There was no chance in hell.

He took a swig of his tea, wiped his mouth and said, “So, now with that delicate topic out of the way, how’s real estate going?”

A wave of misery washed over me. It had been a long week. I had learned my success was tantamount to the endorsements given to me by perfect strangers. I was to bug everyone I know with letters telling them I am some so-called expert. And, I knew nothing. And, I was to talk to potential clients through a series of rehearsed tired sales pitches, not through actually getting to know my customers.

“And, what gets me is, this is what all the award-winning million dollar producers I have met do. I can’t get worked up about this because I don’t see any worth in it. I mean, how is this really selling houses?” I whined, wrapping up my tirade. I hadn’t expected it to be such a long bitch-fest.

Jet was contemplative. “Let me ask you,” he began. “How many houses do you think you need to sell these days to be a million dollar producer? It isn’t really very impressive. Houses do cost more than $30,000, you know.”

I hadn’t considered that. A “million dollar producer” sounded like an awesome achievement, but if you broke it down, it was what? A house a month? I laughed shaking my head for missing such an obvious point.

“And,” Jet continued, “If all of these people are so successful doing the same thing? Wouldn’t you want to be different? Aren’t you supposed to stand out?” I said nothing, so he continued. “Think about it. A script sounds canned. Everyone knows a script when they hear it. If a seller’s listing expires, don’t you think every agent out there will be calling them, with the same script, asking for their business?”

The light bulb went off. If what Jet said was true, what could I really learn from Wendy’s training?

Reading my mind, he replied, “Think about this. If these people who are giving you such sage advice—like the guy in the video—why are they training people instead of selling houses?”

“So, what do I do? You are in this business. Can you help me?” I asked.

Jet considered this for a moment. “You want me to teach you? You mean like Mike Dodd training Jake Gibb.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

Leaning forward, he spoke reverently, in an almost staccato whisper, “Mike Dodd is a legend in the volleyball circuit. He and his partner, Mike Whitmarsh won the silver in 1996 in Atlanta.”

It wasn’t the tutorship I had in mind, but apparently Jet got the general idea. “Look,” he said with a tone of exasperation. “If you and I are going to work together, you absolutely must know about volleyball.”

“Duly noted.” I replied impatiently. “Where do we start?”

“Ok, let me think. What do you need most?”

“Money.”

“Ok, so you need to find need to find someone to buy a house or someone to sell a house right?” I nodded like an idiot. “So, go find someone and earn a commission.”

“That’s it? It sounds so simple when you put it like that.”

Jet’s eyes smiled, as he leaned back in his chair with his arms outstretched. “That’s the beauty of it.”

“Yea, but well… not to sound ungrateful or anything. How do I find these people?”

He shrugged. “Search me? Let me think about that one and get back to you.”

“How was lunch?” Laura said somewhat dismissively as I walked in, Dawg and Champ, attached to my legs. She was washing the counter, her hand moving back and forth in the same spot for more than a minute as I watched her.

I saddled up to the breakfast bar, “Interesting.”

“Mmmm.” Laura said, obviously preoccupied in thought.

She was examining the counter—which no germ could survive. “Uh, Laura, is something wrong?” I asked. She had been spacey of late and I figured if she had time right now, maybe she would speak up. I still hadn’t mentioned the middle of the night visitor.

Laura looked up. “No, why?”

I shrugged. Nowhere really to go from there. “No reason.” I said.

Laura gave me a look of finality. She then changed cleaning spots, focusing on the sink behind her. Her back now to me, I recognized a brush off. Whatever was eating Laura she wanted to keep private.

“We’ll manage.” I told her affectionately, after getting last minute dinner ideas. I squeezed the closest Big B to my side.

“Yea Mommy. Tina’s in good hands,” he announced flexing his bicep.

Laura hadn’t been gone ten minutes when my phone rang. It was Wendy. “Oh Tina, We will be meeting at six o’clock, at the office” She gushed.

“Well actually, Wendy, I am baby-sitting tonight.” Silence. “Wendy, are you there.”

Oh yes she was. “Tina,” she said in the same pissed off tone Mother uses, “You are aware you are in training. When I talked to you this morning I explained we were going to meet a buyer. You do want a buyer don’t you? It is as good as yours.”

Wendy hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort. Instead, she had told me to focus on working my scripts and sent me on my way. I would remember a commission being waved in my face if she had mentioned it earlier. “Do I want a buyer?” I dully repeated.

“Of course, if you are coming with me. You would be the co-agent with my buyer. We would work together to find him a home. We will split the commission 50-50. I do it for all my new agents,” she purred.

“I need to get a sitter. I’ll call you back.” I said with a promise to be in touch in ten minutes.

I made a quick call to Frieda. She and Evan were in Laughlin. “How far is Laughlin from Phoenix?” I asked casually, listening to the bells from the slot machines in the background. “Oh, that far?” They wouldn’t be able to make the five hour drive back to Phoenix in 90 minutes.

Matt didn’t answer any of his phones nor the door when I ran across the street. I was toying with calling Laura to see if the boys could come to the hotel for a couple hours when my phone rang again. “I have a brilliant idea.” Jet started.

“I am so glad you called. Remember when you said if I needed anything not to hesitate to ask?” I didn’t give him time to answer. “Well I need something.”

“You off the wagon?” He said with a hopeful inflection.

“Not a chance. Are you doing anything tonight? I need a babysitter just for a couple hours.” I explained Wendy having a buyer she wanted me to meet and how she offered to let me be a co-agent. “I can make money finally.”

“Yea, I will help if it isn’t too long. I have a date.” I gave him the address and thanked him profusely.

Two hours later, Jet was at my door and I was racking my brain for a way for Laura never to find out about this. As protective as she was about Bruce and Buddy, coupled with her distant behavior, I didn’t need a crystal ball to tell me she wouldn’t be thrilled about a perfect stranger watching her boys.

As a pro-active strike, I had called her with an update, letting her know everything was fine at home. “Ok? Thanks?” she sounded bewildered—because she always called me, not the other way around. I accidentally-on-purpose forgot to hang up the phone, hoping if she called back, she wouldn’t think anything of it.

Jet was on the floor playing cops and ninjas with the boys. I hadn’t formally introduced them yet. “What’s your name, dude?” Jet asked.

“Buddy,” the boy said.

“How’d you get the scar?” Jet asked, giving him a high-five, then following up with a second for his brother.

I looked at Buddy as if seeing him for the first time. I gently ran my across the faint scar over his eyebrow.

“I fell when I was ‘iddle,” He said in his sweet baby voice.

“Ok, listen guys,” I said, leaning down and hugging the twins, “Stay inside the house today while Mommy and I are gone. And,” I said raising my eyebrows in exaggerated approval, “if you are super-duper good for Jet, I will bring back ice cream.” The three boys went nuts.

“What flavor?” Jet asked.

“Don’t you have a date?”

“Yea, but after ice cream. Cookie dough if you are taking requests.” I patted him on the head and told him I would see what I could do.

When I arrived at the office, Wendy gave me the particulars on our buyer. Dale Wilsh called the Metro Realty Professionals office yesterday saying he was thinking about buying a home. He needed more space than he currently has in his apartment.

Wendy discovered he was an Internet marketer and he planned on moving in the next few months. “An Internet marketer! I am sure he is quite successful. He sounds like a great start for you. Just think of the referrals you can get from him,” she said.

Then, Wendy gave me a quick tutorial about working with buyers. She had a presentation folder put together filled with lots of information for a prospective home buyer. It contained a book on the actual buying process, a four-color brochure about Metro Realty Pros and Wendy’s impressive resume.

“His buying timeframe is our challenge. You don’t want to take him out looking at homes for the next six months. The key is to change his mind. We need to identify with him—feel his pain.” I nodded.

Wendy continued, “We need to identify with him and help transition him from someone wanting to buy in the next few months to buying in the next few weeks. It is a piece of cake if you follow the scripts,” She said. “With your scripts and our presentation, we will lead this conversation and get our buyer enthusiastic about his next home. He will be ready to sign a contract by the end of next week. This will be a snap. I promise!” Wendy said with her annoying clap.

Chapter 8: Thursday

“Scripts are our best friend.” Wendy declared with the vocal intonation of a nursery school teacher. It was Thursday morning. She had just wrapped up another lecture about consorting with enemy agents.

After a restless night, I arrived at the office a bit early. Wendy showed up soon afterwards and caught me chatting with Roy and Nancy Somebody-or-Other. They were an older couple who happened to be million dollar producers with lots of credentials after their names. They were Metro Realty Pros’s top agents. I had found them sitting in front of one of the computers surfing the Multiple Listing Service—the database showing real estate agents every piece of property available for sale—something I was chomping at the bit to do, but hadn’t the foggiest how to start. So, I asked them for a quick tutorial and they graciously obliged.

They had asked about me and how I got into real estate (I vaguely said change of career). As soon as I finished answering, they started giving me their impressive credentials, in a way that wasn’t exactly bragging. They were just making conversation. In the brief ten minutes we visited, I had a hard time seeing them as the cut-throat types Wendy swore infested the real estate pool. Instead, they struck me as the type who held hands everywhere they went and wore matching Mickey Mouse shirts when they vacationed at Disney World.

The pursed lips and slanted eyes on Wendy’s face when she saw me laughing with them had been murderous. Even Roy and Nancy had excused themselves, with polite, “nice to meet yous” and went back to studying the computer.

Now, I was sitting across from Wendy, my Metro Realty Professionals notebook open ready for today’s topic.

“Scripts?” I asked stupidly.

She eyed me. “I take it in addition to not writing your thank you notes to your new teammates,” she started, (“How are they supposed to remember you if you don’t thank them?” She had asked with all seriousness, as her star-and-only pupil hadn’t done her homework. How indeed?) “You didn’t watch Don Kublensy’s video last night? It is one of his best.”

I didn’t answer, feeling ashamed for my lack of enthusiasm. Nor did I wish to explain how my second job—the paying one—took precedence over Don Kublensy’s gesticulating clichés. So I let it go and let her comment hang.

She blinked first. “A script gives you the right words to use for any occasion. If you don’t learn to how to use the right words at the right time, how will you know how to sell real estate?” She stopped, allowing me to absorb the enormity of her announcement. “Words matter, Tina. If you do not know what to say, you will always be tentative about prospecting, making listing presentations and helping solve buyer and seller concerns. You need to know what and how to tell them if and when there is a problem, what to say to convince them you are their expert and how to persuade them to trust you. You are their real estate expert for life.”

“Yea, I’ve been meaning to ask. About that ‘expert for life’ thing—”

Wendy cut me off. “Tina, everyone is frightened about scripts at first. But, they are what give you power. In essence they do the talking for you.” She took a breath and looked in my eyes as if she were about to share an intimate secret, “They are the right words. Always.”

I considered this for a moment. “So, scripts are like a sales pitch.”

Wendy recoiled. “Tina! Of course not. Scripts are meant to put you at ease. This way you are able to give your potential clients one-hundred percent of your attention without having to resort to saying things like, ‘I’m not sure’ and ‘I will get back to you.’ Scripts give you these answers.”

I bit my tongue to avoid pointing out sometimes, “I will get back to you,” seemed like the perfect thing to say when someone didn’t really know the answer.

Instead, I went with the mild, “Do you use scripts?”

Wendy flashed a smile, obviously thrilled I was finally seeing this her way. “I always use them. It is what has gotten me my success.” I nodded, relieved to have reinforcement these things worked.

When I unlocked the apartment in the afternoon, pausing long enough to make sure there weren’t any tell-tale signs of suspicious activity. I locked the door behind me, changed into jeans and threw my hair in a pony tail.

I opened the door from my studio to the main house as quietly as I could. It didn’t matter, the twins heard and were clutched on my legs before I had completely walked through the threshold.

“Hi Tina!” the one on my left leg called.

“Hey Big B. How are you today?” I gave a quick ruffle to their mops. “I have something for you when your mom says it is ok,” I said, holding up cookies I had swiped from the office break room.

Laura peered from the living room. “How’s it going?” She asked. Her demeanor was the usual pleasant-border-line-no-nonsense one, but I was taken aback by her appearance. I had never seen her look out of place. Laura looked worn and tired. I figured Frieda brought the kids over early and Laura hadn’t gotten enough sleep. I made the split-second decision to waive the other night’s mystery-man conversation to a later time. “How was orientation today?” she asked.

“Not too bad. I have homework though.” I said, handing her a cookie. “I feel like I am in tenth grade again.”

A bemused look spread from ear to ear. “Homework huh? I bet you didn’t think it would so tough. So, what are you supposed to do?”

“I am to rehearse my expired script.” She raised an eyebrow. I continued. “It seems, scripts are the answer to all of life’s conundrums,” I said.

She nodded knowingly, amusement in her eyes. “Conundrums, huh?”

“Yes, if I use a ready-made script, I can be able to tackle any situation that comes along.” I explained what Wendy had told me. With a script, I can ask a potential client to list their home in such a way they cannot refuse. I can get a buyer to buy without objection. It was the beauty of scripts, Wendy said.

“Try me.” Laura said, a mischievous smile spread across her face.

I put my hand up to my cheek, with my thumb towards my ear and my pinkie closer to my mouth as a pretend phone. “Ring, ring.”

Laura did a similar movement. “Hello?” she answered.

“Hi Ms. Jamison. This is Tina Cavanaugh with Metro Realty Professionals Real Estate Service.”

Laura looked up and scrunched up her lips. “That is a long name for any company. Can’t you shorten it?”

I pretended to look pissed off. “Just work with me here.”

I put my hand-phone back in place. “Hi Ms. Jamison. This is Tina Cavanaugh with Metro Realty Professionals Real Estate Service,” I repeated. “I noticed your listing at 122 Main Street expired recently. I was wondering if I could ask you about why it expired.”

Her hand-receiver dropped again. “Nobody lives at 123 Main Street,” She said knowingly.

“1-2-2 Main Street. Do you want to know how these scripts work or not?”

“All right. Ask me again.”

“I noticed your listing at 122 Main Street expired recently. I was wondering if I could ask you about why it expired.”

“Um sure. The agent I had before didn’t do anything to sell it. He never kept in touch. He didn’t market it and he never followed up.” I was impressed. Laura knew the right answers.

“Certainly an unresponsive agent can be a trying experience, Ms. Jamison. Let me ask you, do you plan on relisting it?”

“I hadn’t decided.”

“If I can show you ways to relist your property with great success, and, if I can show you this in a way to attract buyers, would you be interested in hearing about something like this?” I nodded in Laura’s direction, suggesting she should say yes.

“Well,” she started, “I was thinking of just trying to sell it myself.” Laura stuck out her tongue and gave me a finger wave.

I quickly recovered. “Actually, it is a noble move, Ms. Jamison. May I ask you, what advantage do you think this might gain you?”

“I think I can make more money that way.” Laura said.

“If I could show you ways to net you more money and help you sell your home quickly—without a lot of effort on your part, would it be of interest to you?”

Laura looked up, giving me a nod of approval. “Sure. How?”

“I have a proven method that will work for you. Even if you decide to sell it yourself, this method might be of value. I would be happy to discuss this with you in greater detail, Ms. Jamison. Would Tuesday afternoon or Wednesday evening next week work for you?” I said with a grin.

“Wow.” Laura said, releasing her hand-telephone. “I like how you nailed down the appointment,” she said with an air of awe. By the way, what is your “proven method?”

I flopped back on the couch and blew out a breath, “I don’t know yet. We haven’t covered my proven method in orientation.”

The knock at the door made me jump. Matt peered through the window. I got up, opened it and sank back onto the couch. “Anyone feel like a pizza?” Matt asked, placing the six pack he was carrying on the counter and scooting into the barstool next to me. He handed a bottle to me and took one for himself.

“Not for me thanks. I am working tonight.” Laura said, holding up a bottle of water. She looked at me, apologetically. “I forgot to tell you. Do you have plans?”

I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it. My social life is non-existent.”

Laura looked at Matt. “We should change that.” I blushed. Matt took a swig, ignoring her.

With the pizza and Laura gone, Matt and I were in the back yard, sitting on Laura’s big metal swing, watching the boys play. “So,” Matt asked. “Why does Laura think you need a social life?”

I blew out a breath, “Beats me.”

“Let me guess.” He said, “Some bad breakup and you are off the market.”

I laughed, “more or less.” I told him the short version of the Preston Wallace tale. Frankly, Preston and Shades Crest seemed like a lifetime ago. I wrapped it up, “That’s how I got here. And you?” I asked.

Matt sighed and sat back on the swing, looking out at the boys. “I got married while in the Marines.” He started.

“Marines? Wow.” I was impressed.

“Yea. I loved it. I would still be in it today if it hadn’t been for… well, my life took a turn. You know those vows, sickness and in health?” I nodded. “I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease three years ago. Marlene couldn’t handle it and left. It also ended my career in the military.” He looked at me. “I am in remission now.”

“Great.” I said and I meant it.

He looked straight ahead. “I am also in remission from relationships too.” He said with an apologetic chuckle. “The divorce was a big blow.”

“I can relate. About the remission from relationships, I mean,” I said.

Being with Matt was nice. I had forgotten how much I truly enjoyed the actual companionship of a man. Not just the physical part, but just hanging out. Not that Preston provided me with any mental stimulation (for that matter, any decent physical stimulation). But, knowing Matt was in no position to give anything made it much simpler.

Chapter 7: Wednesday

Wendy greeted me on Wednesday with an enthusiastic handshake and a brand-new white and red Metro Realty Pros name badge, as I walked into her office room with my manual under my arm. “How’d you like the video? Wasn’t it exciting?” she asked, oozing cheerfulness from every pore.

I nodded, trying hard not to give away my feelings of confusion and dread. She manically motioned me to sit. After I obliged she met my eye and said, “I think you are ready to delve into building your team.” She presented this news like she had just offered me a million dollars.

I nodded again, not sure what to make of it.

It turns out, what Wendy had in mind, I decided, was her way of getting me out of the office for the day. I wasn’t going to complain. I did not want another day of Wendy reading the Metro Realty Professionals manual to me. I could read my loose leaf notebook myself and be just as clueless on my own as I could with Wendy giving me inane responses.

My assignment was to go out and pound the pavement, shaking hands, passing out business cards (which she proudly presented me as she gave me this assignment). She handed me a printed list of every conceivable “team member” I was to find. It included a lender, escrow officer, pool maintenance service, air conditioning repair person, (“Very important!” Wendy cooed), handyman, pest inspector and a variety of other occupations. After Wendy’s responses to my questions yesterday, I was afraid to ask why I needed a dry cleaner on my team.

With my list in hand, I was to drive around in the Arizona August and find these folks, exchange business cards. Then, using the form letter found in my three-ring binder, I was to write each one a note telling them how delighted I was to meet them.

My scavenger hunt— (Wendy frowned when I called it that)— would begin as soon as Wendy scooted me out of the office and was to be wrapped up, thank you notes and all, by tomorrow at 9 a.m., where I would proudly bring my pre-written thank you notes and team member business cards to Wendy. What I didn’t ask, either from lack of courage or from sheer frustration, was how this was actually going to bring me a client, generate a commission and pay my bills.

“Any questions?” she asked as I stood up.

“Actually, I do. Did this work for you when you first got into the business?”

Wendy let back a belly laugh. “How do you think I got to be a multi-million dollar producer?”

As I walked out of her office, I realized she never answered me.

It was 9:30 when I walked out of Metro Realty Pro’s office. I had to be at Price Bargains in five and a half hours for my shift. I figured I had some time to work this out. I drove around for a half-hour, looking for my first destination.

Coffee was phase one. Phase two came to me as a wildly brilliantly idea while on search for phase one. I would merely jaunt to the library where I could spend 20 minutes Googling addresses for a variety of potential team mates. I would then stop by and pick up my future potential teammate’s business card before heading to my paying job.

As I was searching for a coffee shop, I phoned Laura. “How’s things?” I asked casually, shuddering at the memory of the footprint and cigarette butt. I could hear some squealing in the background and what sounded like Frieda and Laura’s step-father, Evan.

“Ok here. What are you doing?” she said.

I gave her a thirty-second earful. “That’s cheating.” She chuckled when I told her my grand plan for the day.

“Got any better ideas? It is already over 100 degrees and I can’t imagine any air conditioning guy worth his pay is sitting around waiting for me to just drop by.”

She agreed and then added, “I have a handyman. His card is at the hotel. I will bring home tonight.” I thanked her and clicked off. Mission accomplished. She sounded fine. No reason to bring up the midnight visitor.

After three strip-malls, my caffeine search was fruitless. No java. As I pulled into the next driveway, “fourth time’s a charm,” I muttered. Truer words had never been spoken.

My iced double latte hit the spot as I walked around the cluster of storefronts, window-shopping. It was a non-descript strip-center past its prime. The architecture was 1970s concrete and stone, with low eaves and no landscaping. The original retailers had long closed, moving to better and newer locations, leaving a smattering of independent shops to take up residence in their place.

I walked while sweating in the heat and enjoying the remainder of my cranberry scone. I passed a music store, veterinarian and a host of other small businesses. As I got to the end of the center, there was one last door with gold lettering on it. “JET,” it read. I sipped my drink, looking at the door.

There was a travel agent on my team list. A travel agency seemed like a good place to practice this team-thing. Travel agents were bubbly. They liked to talk. I could then honestly tell Wendy I had pounded the pavement. I blew out some air, threw out my empty cup and wiped the scone crumbs from my face. What the hell. Thinking I would rather be anywhere else, I walked into the office.

JET was a dingy one-room office with a lone desk in the middle, several over-stuffed filing cabinets behind it, with a variety of what looked to be volleyball trophies on top. In the far-right, was a rickety television stand housing a fax machine and an ancient Mr. Coffee. The walls held none of the expected posters of exotic locales, enticing the would-be traveler. Instead, they were industrial gray, in need of a good coat of paint. At the back of the office was a door presumably leading to storage and a bathroom.

The tall wiry late 20-something guy behind the desk didn’t look up from what he was typing, but nodded in my direction as a formal greeting. He had a mop of black hair in dire need of a cut, and was decked out in shorts and a loud Hawaiian shirt. I could see his bare feet resting on top of a pair of flip-flops under the desk. He looked like he would be much more comfortable on the beach. I glanced around for a travel brochure.

I was still processing what kind of person would possibly brew his own coffee with a gourmet coffee shop a stone’s throw away when the spoke. “Help you?” He asked, turning away from his computer.

“What kind of place is this?” I asked.

“A mortgage company.”

Jayson Ellery Tyson (known as Jet by everyone who knew him), was a loan broker who owned his own company, somewhat cleverly dubbed “Jet Mortgages—Not your fly-by-night company.” As he explained, he had gotten into the business a few years earlier as a way to supplement his income until his professional volleyball career took off. Now, volleyball career behind him (and quite successful, he boasted) he had taken some of his winnings and opened his own mortgage brokerage.

I looked around the modest office. “It isn’t fancy.” He said, reading my mind. “I just need a place to use the computer and fax documents to lenders. I am pretty much no frills.” He added sheepishly, “I meet my clients at the coffee shop.”

I could feel my forced smile widen. “That’s great! Because I just got my real estate license, and I am supposed to build a team, see? I could use you as part of my team. This would be great.” I was aware I was babbling. I fished in my purse for my card, forcing myself to shut up.

Jet stared at me for a bet. “Team?” He asked.

I explained to him what I was supposed to be doing, giving him the Metro Realty Pro sales methodology of team building (though I left out the solicitous part about him giving me referrals and mutually-beneficial whatever Wendy said). “I am in training today and my job is to find others who I can work with. You know, build my team,” I finished breathlessly, hoping he understood how this team concept worked.

Jet stared again. “Uh huh.” I handed him the business card I had finally retrieved. “Tina Cavanaugh…” he read from my card. “Your real estate expert for life?”

I froze in horror. Holy crap! I hadn’t read them before I threw a handful in my purse. Had Wendy added that to my card? My cheeks burned. He leaned back, hands clasped behind his back, eying me. “What do you want? And, why should you be my real estate expert for life?”

Flustered, I ignored his last question. I started my story, beginning from my quest for coffee, explaining how I had just been walking around looking to build my team and thought his office was a travel agency.

He nodded, “It happens a lot.” He said knowingly.

I blushed again. “But, it worked out well, because I was just wandering around, trying to figure out how I was going to build my team and collect these business cards.” I said, chirpily waved my paper I had also fished out of my purse.

Jet reached out and I handed him the paper. “Chiropractor... Florist... Masseuse…” He scanned my paper, “You know, I don’t see mortician on the list.” He said.

He motioned me to sit, pointing towards the lonely folding chair in the corner while he simultaneously began leafing through his rolodex. Within a minute he thrust a stack of business cards at me. “Here.”

I leafed through them. Real estate attorney, appraiser, pipe fitter were the top three. “Don’t you need these?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nah… I just went digital.” He said patting his computer. It is all stored here, with backups in my home office and the safe.

“Thanks.”

He waved a hand, dismissing me. “No big. So, what do you think of real estate so far?”

Of all the questions he could ask, he picked the most maddening. I went into an undignified rant. “I have no idea what I am doing. I am supposed to be meeting people who will comprise my team. Then, I am expecting these perfect strangers to refer me when their clients are selling or buying a house. Like some mold inspector I don’t even know is going to tell his clients, ‘hey sell your house! I have the agent for you.’ Then, I am supposed to be pestering the people I’ve only known for two months, asking them to somehow trust me. Me! The expert—”

Jet cut me off. “What makes you the expert?”

I looked at him for a beat. “I have no friggen clue. My sales manager just tells me I should act the part and the rest will come.” I expected him to laugh. Instead he just nodded, the same way someone nods at a funeral when Aunt Muriel dies.

I looked down, afraid to catch his eyes. I didn’t know where to go from here. Was he willing to be part of my team or not? Which brought up a more frightening thought. How indeed was I supposed to get people to agree to this team thing? After all, if Jet said no, another loan officer might say no too.

I took a chance. “So, um… Would you like to work together some time?” It sounded more like a bad pick up line than a business proposal.

Jet shrugged. “Sure, bring me a client and you got a deal.” Conversation closed, he stretched out his hand for me to shake. “Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything,” he said.

I left Jet’s office in a dreamlike stupor. I had my first teammate! I had a lender on my team—which I presumed was the key person I needed. And, I had at least 50 cards in my hand. I certainly could fake some thank you letters to these folks. I didn’t have to mail them, right?

My mind started wandering as I left Jet. I thought about Amy and who might be on her team. Amy (sadly) was currently my standard for real estate agent. I knew she would sooner drop dead in a no-named brand pair of shoes than work with someone so casual as Jet. Nor could I imagine any of the handful of top agents working with someone Daddy would, self-righteously refer to as a “bum.” I starting thinking about the people Mother and Daddy knew in the financial arena. They were always forty something professionals in tailored suits. They were the types you just knew read the Wall Street Journal for fun. They weren’t retired volleyball pros.

Jet was nice enough, although if I had met him on the street, a loan officer would not be the occupation that came to mind. It occurred to me, the person I wanted to entrust the kind of money necessary to buy a home, would be a bit more polished. The one thing I definitely got from Jet was he had a strong case of I-don’t-give-a-damn. He had told me he had no expenses to speak of, so he picked and choose his clients. It made me wonder about what would happen if I brought him someone who needed a loan. What if he didn’t like them and turned them down? Would he refuse to work with me? What then?

The cell phone ringing took me by surprise. “I just want to remind you, your payment is due Friday, Miss Cavanaugh,” came the hiss of Carl’s sleazy voice from the other end of the line. A chill went down my spine as I assured him his payment would be there Friday—on time. Just like every Friday. “I don’t worry. You do. And, have a great day.” He clicked off, his hiss still buzzing in my ears.

My shift at Price Bargains went quickly and best of all, it was payday. There had been a larger-than-expected bonus for some cases of lemonade I promoted two weeks earlier. The money was already spent. I planned on giving Carl a bit more, hoping to show him I was serious about paying him back sooner than later. Another portion would go towards my apartment. Laura had given me permission to decorate my studio as I wanted. In this case, I planned on painting the drab walls. Purple sounded nice.

Visualizing purple, I pulled into my driveway. The house was dark. Damn, I thought. I forgot to turn my light on. Because I worked the late shift, the boys were staying at Frieda’s.

The path to my apartment door wasn’t far, but tonight, eerily shadowed. I opened the car door, with one foot on the pavement, listening to the silence.

A dog barked. I jumped back, locked the doors and switched the on headlights. Cocooned in my driver’s seat, and now the headlights flooding the area, I had a great view of my door.

I admonished myself for being such a chicken shit. My self deprecation didn’t keep me from sitting in the car for another few moments staring at the side of the house. The driveway went up to the edge of the house. The side yard started where the driveway ended. My apartment door was in between. There was nothing there.

I sucked in some courage, disentangled myself from the seatbelt, ready to finally leave the safety of my car. Without the wash of headlights, I bolted to my door. Hastily inserting the key into the lock. It wasn’t until I got inside, door bolted behind me and the alarm off, that I realized I had been holding my breath.

Chapter 6: Tuesday

“Welcome to orientation!” Wendy Reas beamed. It was Tuesday, my first official day as a real estate agent with Metro Realty Professionals. “I am so excited you wanted to join us,” she clapped her hands together as she said, “us.”

Wendy reminded me of a first-year junior high teacher. Full of excitement and possibility but too naïve and inexperienced to realize there was a cruel world of preteens out there ready to eat her for lunch.

Wendy had met me in the lobby, after I had waited for fifteen minutes, looking at outdated magazines after giving up attempting small talk with Val. She strode over to me with long purposeful steps, taking command of our relationship from the moment we met. Her handshake firm and she confidently held my eye.

I had read about these basic sales techniques yesterday. After my interview, I had buzzed straight to the library looking up anything I could find on sales. I had a quick moment to glance at chapter one of a basic sales-how-to book, sitting cross-legged in the library aisle, before my Price Bargains shift. Watching Wendy, I half-wondered if she had read the same first chapter of the same sales skills book I had.

Despite her warm and bubbly demeanor, Wendy was all business. She started our training by giving me her impressive background—another top selling agent with plenty of awards and designations. Now, secure in her 20-year career, she proudly told me wanted to give back to the real estate community by providing guidance to new talent. I translated this to mean Wendy had struck a deal with Ira to stay in the office for a portion of the sale agent’s commissions in exchange for a cushy training job.

Wendy’s role at MRP was sales manager and cheer-leader. Her job essentially was to teach me how to sell the “Metro Realty Professionals Way.” After her pep-talk, Wendy walked me around the office, reintroducing me to Ira and Val. She then brought me to the back room where a handful of the sales agents congregated. Wendy fluttered around, as if she were mingling at a cocktail party, giving me ever agent’s sales resume. It was intimidating. Everyone there was a multi-million dollar producer. There were Accredited Residential Specialists, a Neighborhood Expert, a graduate of some prestigious real estate agent school and other distinctions that just made my head swim.

The back room, called the bullpen, was made up of several open desks, a work table, four computers, a photo copier and a fax machine. On the walls were motivational posters all related to success, achievement and persistence.

“Which desk will be mine?” I asked, looking for something to break up the silence as we walked back to her office.

Wendy cast me a side-long smile. “You can use any desk you want while you are here handling paperwork or doing research. But, the majority of the time, you really should be out in the field, handling client appointments. Because if you are in the office, it means you aren’t selling.” She said. “Of course, our headquarters is always open as a resource to you and you may meet clients in our conference room.”

After making it back to her office, Wendy explained the basics of being a real estate agent. I am my own boss. I set my own hours. And, more importantly, I find my own clients. As my own boss, I pay for my own supplies—business cards, access to the Multiple Listing Service, association dues, signs, sign posts and key boxes. And, once I find a seller I pay for the newspaper ads, and advertising. I listened, silently horrified. I wasn’t sure I could afford all these expenses.

Wendy read my mind. “But don’t worry,” she said with a dismissive hand cutting through the air, “It will be worth it when the commissions come in.” She purposely leaned across the desk. “The goal of our orientation is to give you the knowledge you need to find your own clients. Metro Realty Professionals has proven and successful methods to help you find buyers and sellers. It is easier than you think,” she said with an automatic hand clap and a wide smile. “Soon you will be on your way to helping everyone you meet take part in the American dream.”

And, with her motivational speech, Wendy presented me with a three-ring binder. I had been looking forward to this moment. Finally, after weeks of real estate school, there was someone out there to tell me what I was missing. Here is what I needed to get my new career started. Where was the person who would want to buy a home from me?

With reverence Wendy started, “Here is your bible.” She paused a moment while I took the plastic notebook. “It has all the tools you will need to help you get started.” I leafed through it and my chest fell. It filled with workbook pages. There were more motivational sayings printed on every page, including great clichés such as “No pain, no gain.” I dutifully opened to the page Wendy requested.

She said crisply, as if she were a bureaucrat giving me forms to fill out in triplicate, while pointing to the blank top half of the page, “Now then, let’s get started. You want to find people to buy and sell homes. The best place to start is with those you know. So, you will want to list your sphere of influence.”

About mid-way down the page it read, “Send a touch once a week for the first three months to your sphere of influence.”

“What is a touch?” I asked.

“A touch, simply means contacting your sphere. You can do this with a letter or a phone call.” Wendy’s smile wasn’t as bright this time. I got the impression I had missed an easy question.

I pursed my lips, I started tentatively, “What exactly does all this mean?”

“When we start this business, we need to tell those in our sphere—” She caught my dumb stare and flashed me a pitiful look. “Sphere of influence means those in your life you influence or who influence you. Simply put, they are your friends and family. You need to let these people know what you are doing so they can help you. They want to help you. They are your sales force.” She emphasized this point by touching the tips of her fingers together. “Your sphere wants you to succeed. But, they are unaware of what is expected of them. You need to tell them you need help. When they find out you have all of this real estate expertise, they can then refer members of their sphere to you.” With the words ringing in my ears, she smiled brightly, expecting the topic closed.

I turned the page. It said, “Members of your Team” and then more white space.

I glanced at Wendy with a raised eyebrow. “Team?”

Wendy looked at me this time with a half-patronizing smile. “Of course! No real estate agent can possibly be successful without a team.” She waited. I suspected this new bit of information was supposed to make me delve further. Instead, I waited too.

Finally she said, “Your team consists of all affiliate members, such as your title officer, loan officer, termite inspector, home inspector, pool inspector, roofer and the like. They work with you to develop mutually-pleasing lead generation ideas.” She had a definitive look to her smile, daring me to ask anything else.

I went for it anyway, “What do you mean by mutually-pleasing lead generation ideas?”

“Well, they can give you third-party endorsement letters, sponsor your advertising and refer their clients to you.”

I paused. Surly I missed something. “So,” I said, carefully selecting my words, “If I understand you correctly, I need to ask a termite inspector to only refer his clients to me.”

Wendy was obviously pleased I finally caught on. “You’ve got it,” she said clapping her hands again on “it.”

“Well, why would they do that?” I asked.

Wendy looked confused. “Well, why wouldn’t they? They are members of your team.”

One of us wasn’t getting this. I feared it was her. “No.” I said with more frustration in my voice than I expected to convey. Slowly, I began, “A termite inspector must get calls all the time from several agents. Why would they refer their would-be home owner clients to me?”

Wendy, who no longer had the same level of enthusiasm I had seen thirty minutes earlier, took a deep breath I suspected I wasn’t supposed to see. “Because,” she said slowly, “they are on your team. They know you are a top real estate professional. They want to give business to you because you will, in turn, give them back the business.”

“But I haven’t proven myself.” I said, exasperated and confused. “I don’t know these people. They don’t know me.”

Wendy shook her head in pity. “That’s the beauty of sales, Tina. They don’t have to know anything about you. They want to help you, because you help them. You send your clients to them, they send their clients to you.” She looked at me warily. “That does make sense right?”

No. “Right.” I said with a weak smile. Wendy beamed, positively thrilled I had finally caught on. “Where do I start?”

She gave another joyous, yet annoying clap, “This is where your sphere comes in. Let’s make a list right now.” She said grabbing a pen from her desk.

“That’s it?” Wendy asked moments later, all pretense of enthusiasm long drained from her voice. She looked at my list. I had initially put Laura, Kayla and Matt on there. With Wendy’s prodding, I added Ed and Carl. (“Think about people you only met once or twice where you might have had meaningful conversation. They would be ideal.” Though, she was hard pressed to explain how they were ideal, instead encouraging me not to ask anything else). And, with more prodding I added more names. Buddy, Bruce and Roy. (“How about the people you pass every day and say hello to? What about someone you met when you first got here?”). I drew the line at the prostitutes I talked with coming out of the heat at Taco Loco Express those first five days.

“I just moved here seven weeks ago.” I flashed her an apologetic smile.

Wendy waved her hand, dismissing my excuse. Her smile brightened again. Completely ignoring my statements, she said, “This next part is so easy. Now, you need to write these people a letter.” She opened my training manual to some page. Pointing with her well-manicured finger, she said, “Here you will find a sample letter you can use. Send everyone in your sphere a letter explaining your new career. Let them know how you can help them. Make sure to stress you are a real estate expert.”

“How am I an expert?”

She snorted, “Because you have a license.”

“But, having a license doesn’t make me an expert.” We were back to this again. “It isn’t true. I am not an expert.”

Wendy leaned across the desk, her hands firmly planted on the smooth cherry finish, “Tina, they aren’t the agent. You are. Therefore, in their eyes you are the expert.”

Resisting the urge to scream from Wendy’s stupid circular logic, I asked, “Are there any agents in the office who I might be able to follow around and maybe can offer me advice?”

Surely there had to be more realistic ideas out there than these. Surly there were big-time agents like Amy out there, only nicer, who might be willing to let me tag along. My thought was simply, if I could get away from Wendy and her “mentoring,” I could find out how real estate was really sold. I just didn’t see the point in asking people either I didn’t like, already owned homes or were four years old to please think of me when they were ready to buy their next home.

Wendy laughed a hearty belly laugh. When I didn’t seem to share in her joke, she wiped an eye. “Honey,” her tone had changed. She slightly shook her head, adding a touch of pity and then began as if she were sharing with me an old family secret everyone knew but preferred to keep buried anyway. “All other agents are your competition. This is a cut-throat business. They aren’t going to teach you.”

To emphasize this point she reached across the table, and squeezed my hand. She purred, “Other agents want your business and will do whatever it takes to get it.” Another pause. “You need to understand, this is the nature of sales. Every agent in here is your enemy. They are vying for the same clients you are.” She gave me her last piece of sage advice with a knowing smirk.

“Ugh.” I groaned at Laura, when she asked how it went during orientation. I had walked in the door, turned off my apartment alarm and kicked off my shoes before traipsing into the kitchen to say hello to Laura. It was 2:45 and I was babysitting at 3 p.m.

“That good?” Laura asked, handing me the glass of water I hadn’t asked for.

“I am to annoy everyone I know once a week for the next three months, asking them to bring me home buyers and sellers—sellers, it turns out, are actually better by the way. Instant inventory. Guaranteed a commission when it sells.” I said. “Then, I am to form a team consisting of—well I don’t exactly know—who will miraculously think of me when their clients have ‘real estate needs’.” I used my fingers to quote. “Oh,” I groaned and took a sip. “You and the boys are each getting a letter tomorrow from me.”

“Mmmm” Laura said. “There are hot dogs for dinner. I hope you don’t mind.” She wiped the counter, absentmindedly. I gathered she hadn’t heard a word I said.

“No trouble. Do you mind if we walk to the video store. I was thinking of renting something with Buzz Lightyear or a dinosaur in it.”

Laura stopped wiping and a look of concentration came over her. She pursed her lips, deep in thought. I was surprised. Normally when I asked, she readily agreed. I had walked Bruce and Buddy to the video store many times.

“Not today. Bruce is still getting over his cold. Maybe you should stay home.” She said with an air of finality. I shrugged. Bruce seemed like he had gotten over his cold a week ago. I could hear him sparring with his twin in the living room. “Be sure to lock the door too. And,” She added with an afterthought, “set the alarm. Ok?”

I nodded, slightly annoyed at her constant reminder about the alarm. I reminded myself of Laura’s many virtues. And, if being an over protective mother was something she wanted, why not? Besides, I had an alternative movie for me in store. Once the kids were settled, I planned to curl up in the family room with popcorn and watch the training video Wendy had given me, “Selling Success: The Metro Realty Pro Way! Part 1.”

“Selling Success: The ”was the most boring piece of drivel I had ever watched. I ate my popcorn (with the twins curled up at my feet, sleeping in their matching choo-choo train pajamas) taking notes (“sound excited about what you do in your sphere letter”).

Metro Realty Pro Way

! Part 1

I was jotting in my Metro Pro Realty bible Wendy had provided me, wondering, if enthusiasm is what made these folks such great sales people? Everyone I had met so far, from Amy to Wendy definitely was eager. But, I just didn’t see how it had anything to do with helping someone buy a home.

The video’s host, Don Kublensy, who dubbed himself my “life coach,” was a thirty-something, attractive, well dressed man who claimed to be a multi-million dollar producer. The main thing I noticed about him was his annoying habit of gesticulating with ever major point he made. Don reiterated everything Wendy told me almost word-for-word (which I thought was quite convenient of her). He smiled wide, explaining his credentials on the video as a top agent who had been in the business for several years and was generous enough to teach me his techniques, so I too, could be a success like him.

I must have dozed off. The last thing I remembered was Don prattling on about how he started by gathering clients through his sphere, with me thinking nobody says “sphere” to refer to people they know.

Now, hours later, the house was dark. Laura must have gotten home. The television was off and the boys were no longer at my feet.

I yawned as I rolled off the couch, thirsty, wondering about the time. Fumbling through the family room towards the kitchen, I tripped over something large with plastic wheels. Recovering from the near fall, I caught movement in Laura’s formal living room’s front window.

I froze mid-step. Adrenalin pumping, forcing myself to look again. The movement had been subtle, almost as if my mind had played tricks. But, I was certain.

I held my breath as I slipped around the kitchen corner for a better view. From across the room, I focused on the front window. Why hadn’t I closed the curtains? Why hadn’t Laura?

I was still. The city lights bounced off the cloudy sky. It gave the outside a surreal black and white look. The shadows of the trees moved lightly in the gentle wind. I stood there, taking it in. What was there?

Whatever it was vanished into the night. I knew it wasn’t a cat. Cats aren’t six feet tall and don’t wear ball caps. My senses were on fire. If he hadn’t moved, I might not have noticed him, just assuming it was one of the night’s shadows. How long had he been there? Why?

Inching through Laura’s formal living room, I moved, protected by the dark corner of her front door. I peeked slowly window towards the drive way. Laura’s truck in full view. My car’s hood sticking out behind the Chevy.

I waited. Watching the outside shadows. All was still. Nothing.

I tossed and turned that night, finally dozing off somewhere in the early hours. By morning, I was second guessing myself. I did not want to foster Laura’s paranoia. So, I said nothing over coffee. I decided as I had walked out the door on the way to the office it was my imagination playing tricks.

After one more hug to the twins, I turned around and stepped out. There it was. A cigarette butt and what I took to be a large dusty footprint on Laura’s normally pristine front porch.