Chapter 5 - The Open House Circus
Saturday afternoon arrived with all the grace of a circus parade.
Melissa had scheduled our first official open house for the Brookfield property between 1:00 PM and 3:00 PM. I decided to drive by just to make sure my family hadn't chained themselves to the front porch pillars or barricaded the doors from the inside.
When I pulled my SUV down the street, I realized I had underestimated their level of petty chaos.
There was a yellow police tape strung across the driveway.
No, wait—it wasn't police tape. It was bright yellow caution tape that Tessa had tied between two mailboxes, with a handwritten cardboard sign dangling from the middle that read: WARNING: TOXIC WASTE SITE / FRAUDULENT PROPERTY — DO NOT ENTER.
Parked directly in front of the driveway, blocking potential buyers from parking, was my father's ancient Buick sedan, with all four doors wide open and blaring classical opera music at maximum volume.
And sitting lawn chairs right on the front sidewalk, blocking the walkway, were my mother and Tessa, wearing oversized sunglasses and sipping margaritas out of plastic cups like two geriatric hooligans running an illegal blockade.
I killed my engine, parked two houses down, and walked up the sidewalk with my hands in my pockets.
"Afternoon, ladies," I said casually in chairs, stopping right in front of their lawn.
My mother lowered her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, glaring at me with pure, unadulterated venom. "You have a lot of nerve showing your face here, Ian. Look at this! You're turning our neighborhood into a circus!"
"You're the ones sitting on the sidewalk drinking tequila at 1:30 PM on a Saturday, Mom," I pointed out, gesturing to their plastic cups. "You look like extras in a low-budget indie film about trailer park eviction."
Tessa leaped out of her lawn chair, her face flushed red, pointing a manicured finger right at my chest. "This is illegal! We called the cops! They're coming right now to arrest you for harassment!"
"Tessa, calling 911 because your brother is selling his own house is a great way to get arrested for filing false police reports," a calm, professional voice chimed in.
Melissa stepped out from behind the porch pillar, holding a sleek digital tablet and looking like a CEO inspecting a construction site. She looked at my family with the kind of clinical, pitying detachment a zookeeper reserves for aggressive baboons.
"Mrs. Miller, Mr. Miller, Miss Miller," Melissa recited smoothly. "If you do not move your vehicle and remove this unauthorized barricade within the next three minutes, I am going to have the city towing company impound the Buick, and I will file an immediate restraining order for interference with a commercial real estate transaction."
My father popped his head out of the front door, shouting from the porch. "You can't do that! We have rights!"
"You have twenty-two days," Melissa corrected him without missing a beat. "And every time you make a scene like this, I subtract forty-eight hours from your move-out window. Currently, you're down to twenty days. Want to make it fifteen?"
Right on cue, the low rumble of an incoming luxury SUV echoes down the street. A wealthy-looking couple in their late forties stepped out, holding a folder, looking confused at the caution tape and the opera music blasting from the Buick.
Melissa's face lit up with a brilliant, professional smile. She turned away from my family as if they were nothing more than lawn furniture.
"Ah, welcome! Come right on in, folks! Ignore the local wildlife, the plumbing is newly renovated and the neighborhood is exceptionally quiet!" Melissa called out, greeting the prospective buyers with warm enthusiasm.
May you like
As the buyers stepped past my mother and Tessa—who were sputtering in outraged disbelief—I leaned down and whispered into my mother's ear.
"Tick-tock, Mom. Twenty days."
