The Trickster Diaries/Chapter 132
The first real estate agent to drop by was a trip—a slinky, unquestionably submissive young earth mother from Beverly Hills, a 30-ish version of Peggy Lipton from back in the Mod Squad era.
Even her biz card smelled like incense.
But, look, this is all about concession. Me conceding to continue to rent the house on the condition I concede to Monique my complete hospitality while she shows her equally as coke-eyed friends (two hipster couples from LA) MY home, which won’t be, for long, I concede, if you assholes decide to buy it.
Fortunately, the other Peggy Lipton double, Monique’s client, got stuck on one of my paintings—stuck in one of those coke rush moments where you think you’re channeling Meryl Streep but it’s coming off more like one of those infomercials where housewives swoon over cheap jewelry.
That kind of moment.
It’s embarrassing, if you’re not stoned too.
Same hopped up bit of theatre out in the studio, over another painting. The play flopped. They’d need to keep their (just a guess) software developer/fx editing/code writing day jobs. They weren’t going to buy anything. Not my art and never, ever, Suzy’s house.
Hank & Linda and I were safe, for the moment.
All the real estate agents, (their clients, as well), were similarly… odd, like strangers on a dream escalator, going down as you’re going up. And each time I’d mention my situation—because they’d always ask—each said they’d keep a special lookout for something suitable.
Cheri—whose perfume stink took three days to get out of the house—suggested I try Section 8. Already had. Already applied at five different complexes. All said the same thing: a one and a half to a three year wait—not before you get IN to one of their dumps, but before you’re interviewed, scanned, profiled under strict, HUD authorized and enforced protocol.
“Thanks, Cheri. Yes, nice meeting you, too.”
(Closes door, chokes)
All the same kind of odd until, suddenly, they weren’t.