MOTHER’S DAY

It was a bright and blinding Sunday when I cased my first estate. Everything flamed as if the world was soon to be a cinder. I was hammered from a fifth not worthy of a chaser. Was any of this real or just the edge of a cliff where I was soon to take a swan dive? No, it was real, alright—that’s why they called it Real Estate. I swore that was the last bottle I’d lift from a rummy napping in the garbage. I was searching for a condo somewhere on the west side. I was near comatose and Centinela.  The street signs said I was in Mar Vista—a back water "burb" nestled between L.A. and Culver City. I parked the Buick up the block so I could get a good feel for what the wordsmiths at the office termed "curb appeal." It was being staged by a brokerage called "The Bizzy Blondes." With a name like that I expected a dame or two to greet me with cocktails. No such luck.

The viewing was being hosted by a flat foot from Keller Williams. He said he was from "Killer" Williams, that’s right he placed the dark emphasis on the ‘ill’ in Kill and I was sorry I’d left my piece holstered at the flea bag where I was flopping for the weekend—what would the maid think? I was too tired to care but it was Mother’s Day and you had to care even though the post office was closed and you didn’t have the money for the roses you had promised—the stinking feds had raised first class a day or two before—she was your mother and she’d understand or at least you hoped she would if understanding was still a word you could con into a semblance of meaning—that’s right, nobody’s home—mom was sleeping the big one out at Oak Valley Cemetery. Sorry mom, sonny boy will make it up to you on your birthday—yea, I know I’m looking forward to it too. Maybe by then I’ll have solved this caper and be able to front you for flowers that will never know a garden, for a flat that will never know a breeze. I resolved to watch my back as I wandered through the "2 bedrooms and 2 bath townhouse with a bonus loft"—asking price, 574,900 crispy George Washingtons.

The bonus loft was a laugh. As I suspected, the sellers had thrown it up with a hope, a prayer and without a permit. I didn’t want to fall through the floor so I headed for the stairs to check out the first floor bed rooms. They were both there, as promised—but a little crimped for the king size beds pressing up against the drywall that was holding up the ceiling. The paint was fresh and I wondered what sins those walls would whisper through the low sheen Sherman Williams that a slacker had applied without a primer. This place was giving me a head ache or maybe it was that off-colored egg I’d swallowed whole at breakfast. Whatever the case I wasn’t up for any baloney from some dick from a real estate office—I approached the "killer" from Keller. He eyed me warily. I told him to: "stay seated and to keep those chubby digits where I can see ‘em." He smiled, grimly and lit the remnant of a stained and shriveled Marlborough.

He said "Okay, Shamus, let’s cut to the chase, are you going to spring for the condo?"

I laughed and grabbed him by the wings of his badly slung bow tie: "Listen, fat boy—what kinda fool you take me for? A half a mil for this lousy shack? You should’ve carved a moon on the door handed me the Charmon. You’re as greedy as those bastards trying to float this bursting real estate balloon. Yea, sure—there’s plenty of rubes poised to a take a fall—but I ain’t one of ‘em! Now, no more shelly shalling—you sure as hell ain’t no Bizzy Blonde. I want the straight dope and I want it now!"

"Alright, alright—keep your shirt on. Like the card says, I’m with Keller Williams. I was just was sitting in for the bizziest of the blondes" You should see the gams on that gal—she’s a doll, alright, a real sweetheart. She can make the morning stand up and cheer before the first sip of your coffee. Say, you aren’t going hurt me mister, are you?"

The Marlborough man, some "killer" this cowboy, I thought. He folded like a nickel postcard too thin to sport a stamp. "Just tell it true, pal and you won’t even need a cheesy comb for the grease mop on your head."

He looked relieved—then he spilled his guts about the payola at the front office. He’d worked for Keller Williams for three years running. The split was fifty/fifty until you brought the big boys 29,000 large during first year of operations. After that you slipped the office lackeys a couple of c-notes each month for your desk, phone and pencil sharpener, then you got to keep the big mullah for the rest of the year—that’s if you survived the rest of the year. The sweat dripped from his forehead like a rusty showerhead in a cheap motel. I handed him my handkerchief. He dabbed there and about his puffy face and started to hand it back.

I said "Keep it, kid," and headed for the door.

"Don’t bump your head on the way out," he whispered as he locked the door behind me.

I smiled and hit the pavement to check out a nautical number offered by the gentry in the Marina.

It was a three bedroom, three bath little rigging listed at $2,750,000 and anchored two blocks from the beach. Three mil is a lot of bread to butter just to wiggle your toes at the shallow edge of an ocean—the Pacific—all that water going on forever—what good was it? The garden swayed from the sea breath blowing down the cul de sac. A white petal wafted and landed on my shoulder. My eyes glistened from a hint of salt carried on the breeze. I turned as a door opened behind me from a tool shed. An ancient Mayan with furrows as deep as any he had plowed approached a sprawl of bougainvilleas. He stopped as he spied me near the rose bush. His suspicion softened. He was an old man and knew the wisdom of the earth from the soil held within his fingers. I asked him where the gringos were who were selling the overpriced cabaña?

He said, "Manana, senor—Este dia de las madres. Nobody home. It’s Mother’s Day."