The Homeowners: Part III

The Indie Sanctuary of Our Dreams Slipped Away

(The Homeowners: Part I - read here!)

(The Homeowners: Part II - read here!)

I asked, “Do you guys want some water?”

This was the fourth time I had offered my parents a drink since they came through the door. 

My mother responded, “No, Thomas. Thank you, we’re good.”

“You know what,” my dad suddenly found his thirst, “I will have some water. Thank you.”

“You got it.” I dashed off to the kitchen and almost kicked myself for not offering ice. Did my dad want ice? Was he an iceman? I tried to picture him drinking water. Have I ever watched him drink water? My god. Does he not drink water? He’s getting older, he’s gotta stay hydrated.

I popped my head back into the living room, “Dad, real quick, do you want some ice? You know, in your water?” I felt the need to specify, just in case he thought I was offering him a loose handful of ice.

“Sure, Thomas. Ice would be good.” 

“Great. You got it.” 

I went back into the kitchen and got one of our good glasses. The ones that are only for company and touring dignitaries. The house we were renting had a refrigerator with both an ice and water dispenser. Neither Rachel nor I had ever rented a place that had such a profound luxury and we had grown quite accustomed to it. Going from a Brita filter jug in the fridge to a water dispenser felt like going from one leg and a skateboard to riding a motorcycle onto a private jet. I made my dad his new signature cocktail, water on ice, and rushed it back to him in the living room. 

“Here you go, sir.” I handed him the glass with a flourish. “A glass of ice water on ice for you.”

I took stock of the room. Rachel, my mother, my daughter, and my father were looking at me in the same way. A look that said, What the hell is the matter with you? With a dash of Are you ok?

When my parents visit, I never quite know how to behave. For the first eighteen years of my life, anywhere I lived was, well, it was theirs. There was a thin veneer of personal space and autonomy, but you know, they paid for everything. The bed, the sheets, the curtains, the dresser, the clothes in the dresser, you get the idea. If at any time they, for instance, wanted to do a shakedown and flip my cell, there was nothing I could do about it because, although it was “my” room, it was really their room. They never did that kind of thing though, I was the youngest of four, they were tired, and there were only so many times they could find the same lonely, unused condom before they lost interest. 

As an adult with my own family, when my parents visit our home, I feel like I’m putting on a performance of The Responsible Adult Man That Was Raised Well and Knows How to Host Guests in a Painstakingly Effortless Manner. I find myself repeatedly offering them beverages, tours of the basement, and speaking passionately, although unprompted, about the benefits of autopay for the water bill. There’s a desperation to let them know that I am no longer the child that once defecated into a bidet on a family vacation because I thought it was a fancy french toilet. I want them to know I can stand on my own two feet after properly using a bidet for its intended purpose - cleaning the anus. 

This kind of neurotic behavior would make sense if my parents were openly critical, the type of parents that walk into a home and say something like, “Is that really where you put the ceiling?” But they are not openly critical and try to be as supportive as possible. They would be mortified if they thought they said anything that made us feel as if where we lived was not good enough.

That being said, the opinions they express to each other on the drive home in the privacy of their Ford Explorer may have their less than complimentary moments, but that is their business. The drive home is a sacred time for couples to let their hair down and eviscerate any person, place, thing, or situation they’ve just come in contact with. 

My parents were visiting because they were accompanying Rachel and I to an open house. They had bought, sold, and moved at least five times in the last forty years and we wanted to mine their experience. We hoped they could be our consiglieres and provide some much needed guidance on the journey ahead. 

The purpose they were really serving was guiding Rachel and I away from a mentality of scarcity. Our fear of never finding a home could have easily led us to making poor choices. So if Rachel and I say something like, “Maybe no shower and only a cold water tub in the attic could be fun? Right? Build some character?” They could gently guide us in a better direction. 

After my dad finished his water on ice, we drove in a two car convoy to the first open house. The back seat of our Honda Civic has both a child’s seat and a dog’s seat, more or less, permanently installed. Unless you're a toddler or a dog under thirty pounds, we are unable to accommodate passengers. They followed us in their Explorer and I almost lost them several times, leading me to believe that my dad, to confirm he’s made a complete stop at every Stop sign, sings happy birthday to himself before driving through. 

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon but there wasn’t much hope in the air. I don’t think any of us believed we were going to see the house that day. 

We parked a bit ahead of them and I watched as they exited their car. My mother was dressed perfectly to attend an open house. Pressed jeans, a light jacket, big dark sunglasses, and I think there may have been a silk scarf. My mother has a lot in common with hip-hop artists and pop stars because you’ll never see her in the same outfit twice. 

My father, always the yin to her yang, was clad in Costco's Golden Boomer denim collection. He was also wearing a scally cap he had purchased on a trip to Ireland. The scally cap is not an easy thing to pull off outside of Europe but he makes it look easy, as if it’s a natural extension of the top of his head. 

I have a theory that men, as they age, begin to look more and more like a caricature of their dominant ethnicity. Pictures of my father in years passed, he looks every bit of the sharp-eyed interventional radiologist he once was. Was he of German descent? English? Polish? Who could tell? But now, he looks as if he should always be holding a glass of Guiness and a dog eared copy of Finnegans Wake at a union rally.

The open house was well attended. There was a group of people standing outside casually chatting and we could see a crowd inside. Open houses are like attending a very uncomfortable party with no food or drinks, where you don’t know anyone, and the hosts have mysteriously vanished, leading all party goers to silently roam from room to room. I found myself standing next to a man in his late-sixties with hair and eyebrows dyed jet black, he was wearing a leather bomber jacket, and copious amounts of cologne that did little to cover up his hungry-breath. We were alone in the primary bedroom milling around as if we were early to what was proving to be a very interesting sex party. 

We glanced at each other and I mumbled, “Room’s a good size, huh.” 

The house was an attached twin with no driveway, no bathroom on the first floor, and located on a busy main street. It shared the center wall with neighbors that still had not cleaned up from what appeared to be a St. Patrick’s Day bacchanal, and there were tiny Irish flags scattered all over their side of the property. The open house was drawing a crowd not just because people are desperate for homes, but also because the owner’s had an incredible knack for interior design. They were the type of people that could make the inside of a refrigerator box look like a cool place to live. The pictures posted on Zillow looked like they were generated by an AI given the prompt: Indie Chic. I got the feeling that more than a few people attending weren’t even interested in buying, they just wanted to see the house in person. 

I mean, Christ, they had a tree branch hanging from twine over the entry to the living room. Rachel and I, being susceptible to such things, wanted to be buried in this drivewayless twin on a busy main street. 

Although unplanned, the four of us split up as soon as we got through the front door. After I bid adieu to my bomber-jacket-sex-party friend, I found Rachel on the third floor. They had finished the attic into a whimsical office/guest room/painting studio. There was a canvas sitting on an easel with the burgeoning image of a sunrise. It’s like the owners were running a millennial psy-op. 

Rachel saw me and whispered, “I love it.” She was smiling, she was excited. To say she’s a woman of discerning taste would be like saying the Atlantic Ocean is only kinda big, but this house spoke to her. Seeing her as excited as she was made me love the house even more. At that moment, we both thought this could be the house. The price was a bit outside of what we could afford, but wasn’t it supposed to be? Then we could put in a lowball offer and meet somewhere in the middle? That’s what people did, right?

I asked, “What do you think?” I was smiling too, “Should we put in an offer?”

She responded, “I mean… yes? Maybe? I don’t know.” She grabbed my hand, “Let’s see what your parents think?”

We found my mother in the kitchen. She hadn’t even seen the second floor and had no intention of going up. She’d already seen everything she needed to see.

You know who could give a rat’s ass about Indie Chic? Anyone who was alive during the Eisenhower administration.

I leaned in and whispered, “Mom, what do you think? Huh? It’s nice, right?” 

My mother squinted her eyes and responded like a hardened detective standing over a grizzly crime scene, “This kitchen is held together with paint.” She walked over to the counter top and gave it a gentle rap with her knuckle, shook her head, and said to herself, “Plastic.” 

I said, “I thought they were formica.” 

She looked at me with disgust and said through gritted teeth, “Formica is plastic.” It was like I defecated in the bidet all over again.

The indie sanctuary of our dreams was slipping away. Had we been blinded by all the style? The thriving green plants strategically placed? Were they hiding something? The record player next to the wet bar? I mean, we’re both sober and record players, in our modern age, are for terminally annoying people with something to prove, but it made the dining room look so cool! Maybe we could be that cool if we lived here! I thought of my father. Maybe he loved the place! Still hopped up on his water and ice, maybe he’d have great things to say about it.

“Mom, where’s dad?”

As she made her way to the front door, she said over her shoulder, “He’s out back.”

Looking through the kitchen window, I saw a raised deck in the tiny yard built around a maple tree. It was adorable and looked like a treehouse. I also saw my father standing next to the deck with his hat in his hands like he was standing over a grave. 

Rachel and I went out the back door and she took the lead, “Emmett, what do you think of the house?”

He was lost in thought and said, “If you guys get this place, don’t let your daughter anywhere near this deck.” He put his hat on, “It’s a death trap.”

Rachel and I said nothing.

“Where’s your mother?” he asked.

I told him, “She went back to the car.” 

We met back at their Explorer. They understood Rachel and I were quite taken with the aesthetics, but with the kitchen “held together with paint”, the no bathroom on the first floor, the no driveway, the house being located on a busy main street, and the high price, they gave us the proverbial, That’s a no from me, dawg. But they were also quick to say, if we really liked it and wanted to put in an offer, we should go for it. In what was meant to make us feel better, they told us the first house they bought was also a dump they too could barely afford.

We all hugged goodbye and I told my parents that I loved them. I always say I love you when saying goodbye to family. For two reasons; I do, in fact, love them very much, but also because if this is the last time we see each other, I want my last words to be I love you. A beautiful sentiment, but what a stressful thing to put on every goodbye, right? I mean, good lord, what a morbid hedging of bets to have floating around your consciousness when a “See you later!” would suffice. 

After discussing it for the rest of the afternoon, Rachel and I decided not to put in our low ball offer, which must have been devastating for the sellers. Luckily for them, sixteen other offers were submitted that day, many of which were cash. The sellers eventually settled on a cash offer that was seventy thousand over the asking price. 

Walking through that open house, I could never be sure we’d end up buying it, but I at least felt like I was, you know, in the game. But compared to a cash offer of seventy thousand dollars over the asking price, I was in the game as much as an overweight child…with a face covered in nacho cheese…in the nosebleeds of Citi Field…clutching a miniature baseball bat…is on the active roster of the New York Mets. 

For what felt like the hundredth time, Rachel and I gave up. “It’s just not a good time to buy a house” became our mantra. Maybe in a few years, after the grid failed, and the rain stopped, and society swallowed itself, we could put in a request to our village overlord (who controls the clean drinking water) to find out if we could stack rocks for our own hovel. But for the foreseeable future, we’ll just be, God forbid, renters.

One evening weeks later, while watching a reality show about sexy urban singles that share a summer home in the Hamptons, one of my oldest friends who happened to live a few blocks away with her family, texted me saying she had a couple of friends that were selling their house nearby and she told them about us. They asked if we’d like to come see the house before they put it on the market. 

For most of life’s biggest events, seldom are you aware, in the moment, when they start to happen.

(To be continued in The Homeowners: Part IV)