Today I filled out a job application that included the prompt, "What is the funniest thing that has ever happened to you?" My bovine proctology not seeming appropriate for the venue, I wrote this instead.
7/8 UPDATE: the recipient lol'd.
I used to do a little bit of real estate. It's a line of work that demands you be creative in gaining access to a property from time to time. The risk you run is nearby homeowners thinking you're trying to break in. When it happens, the fact that they're right only makes it that much harder to explain yourself. And harder still when the neighbor's coming at you with a weapon.
It happened on a day I was out touring properties with a couple. I showed them about eight apartments, intentionally saving the one I knew they would love for last. (Terrible idea, by the way. No one said I was smooth at this.) When I finally got to the place, I had hyped it up even beyond where I wanted their expectations to be. I got out of the car and rushed to the door, wanting to get inside ahead of them. Putting the key into the lock, I tried to turn the knob. Nothing. Oh no. I turned again.
Few feelings are worse to a two-bit apartment broker than the dead resistance of a knob staying stuck. Checking the label of the key, checking the lock, I tried in vain and could not get in.
As the couple approached the door, I turned to them and tried to act normal. "Key's mislabeled. Just hang here for a second while I, uh, figure out a way to get us in." I walked away from them, puzzled, and scanned the building for different points of entry.
Walking around the side, I decided to try to break in the back door. In order to get to it, I had to cross the neighbor's yard. So I hopped the fence, paced across an unkempt lawn overrun with tall grass, and got to the door. I tried the key, got no result, and took out a credit card to start jimmying the door. (The apartment, which I had shown before, was uninhabited.) I was making progress when I heard a voice from way too close to me.
"Hey! What you doin'!"
Looking up, my eyes found the source about seven feet to my right. It was a window with old man's skinny head inside, visible only in silhouette. When we made eye contact, he started yelling. A lot.
I backed away from the door and started blubbering my excuse. I'm a real estate broker, I said. As I raised my voice to explain, he raised his. The yelling got incoherent.
Time to get out of here, I thought.
Racing back across the guy's lawn — the only way out — I jumped over the fence as he opened his own back door and started accusing me of spying and robbing and any other crimes he could think of, all flying out in knots of thickly accented rage. I imitated a calm person as I power-walked around the side of the house, the whole time listening to his screams following me from inside. When I reached the couple, I tried to keep cool.
"OK. So I'm having just a little bit of—"
BAM. The door flew open and out he came, yelling his head off. He was a skinny man, older, bespectacled, and furious. The difference was that now he had a machete, about 20 inches of dull garden steel, flailing wildly in front of his face. The couple, I'm guessing, was even more shocked. We each leapt instinctively toward the sidewalk.
The only recourse I could think of was to keep shouting back. I explained that I meant him no harm, that I was a broker and the key didn't work.... It was no use. (Actually, based on how I've seen other people react to real estate agents, it's possible he heard me and doubled down on the machete.) Still, I thought that if I approached him cautiously, he would trust me and let me speak.
Well, he didn't. It was my client who stopped me from inching towards the wildly brandishing blade. "Dude. Let's go." Incredibly, I was still reluctant to give up the sale, which in retrospect stands as a testament to how terrible a real estate salesman I was and how desperately I needed to close a deal.
My mind changed when I saw a big, musclebound man come to the second floor window. He asked what was going on, and both me and the machete-bearer competed to shout our explanations to him. Naturally, he listened to the other guy. The muscle man looked straight at me, furious, and wheeled away from the window to come downstairs. Yup, I agreed. Time to go.
The three of us lunged into the car and I turned the ignition as fast as I could, pealing away from the house like a home invader heading out on the lam. Which, I was.
After a few moments, we realized we had gotten away. The tension in the car cooled down. Nobody spoke. In my mirror, I glanced at the wife training a laser gaze out the window, breathing audibly.
"So as you can see," I sputtered, "this is gonna be a super safe neighborhood."
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