House Punters

Nov 30,2020

I pulled up in front of a moss-green colonial that seemed to have shrunken down on itself, pulling its warped hindquarters in under the broken decking. The expanse of yard (so cleverly pictured in digital panorama on the realty site) was little more than weedy shrubs and a slick of overgrown grass that roped around the back. There was no place to maneuver in the foyer. A few steps immediately emptied into a boxy dining room of questionable dimensions. The only redeemable feature in the kitchen was a skylight that was being walled over. The laminate cupboard tilted off one hinge. In the basement, electrical wires coiled around a rusted boiler. Everything was disappointing, lackluster. Totally misrepresented. The moving men would be pulling up any minute.

"Here's the key to the front door. And the mailbox..." said the landlady.

I stood stupefied. We had just walked out of the home we had owned for three decades and headed north to Portland, Maine to claim our newfound freedom. But this was a trap, a sham and suddenly it was all too clear.

"So, you asked about storage. The garage is kinda full, but we could make room..."

She must have thought I was doped, or dazed. Or just incredibly rude. Too late to fix my reputation in her eyes, but I could right my own vision. I had to make an instant correction on what might turn out to be the rest of my life. I ran outside just as the dirty boys from Putnam movers slid up to the curb. Before they could disembark, I flagged them down and pleaded, "Please don't unload here. Can I ask you to go to another location? Do you have time to drive another 30 minutes?" They looked puzzled, then shrugged. Doesn't matter to us, they said. The youngest of the three with tangled knots in his hair looked at the house and the angry woman on the porch. I would leave too, he said. "OK, keep driving," I told them. Head west, and I'll get you an another address. They seemed entertained by this departure from normal protocol. It smacked of adventure and they had plenty of cigarettes to last until nighttime when they needed to be back in Rhode Island.

"I don't believe this," the woman said, as I got back in my car. "You signed a lease."

"I'll get back to you," I shouted before pulling out onto Washington Avenue. But I never did. By then, my life had taken a different turn altogether.