Unreal Estates

May 2002

My family and I have been doing some emergency home hunting this month. Our building was sold and we’ve been given 30 days to find another place to live. We've now spent the last four weeks on Mr. Renter’s Wild Ride because we're not credit-ready to buy a house yet. (The last time I applied for a loan, the bank manager came out of the back office and took all the loose pens off the desk.) It's been a tough trip so far -- there's such a demand for living space around here, the rats in the Dumpsters behind the local diner had to sit through a waiting list.

Here are some of the "highlights" of our recent house-hunts.

We found a $1100/month home that looked like the house at the end of "The Blair Witch Project," but not as nice. There was no ceiling left in the bedrooms -- that must cost extra. It also had a cracked cast-iron tub (maybe they had Marlon Brando over to do naked aerobics in it) and traps for at least six different types of critters, including a few I couldn't recognize. We got to see all of this during an "open house" where the front door was left open and the landlord was nowhere to be found. Maybe the house ate her.

Another older house we found was apparently built before hallways were invented. None of the rooms had doors, and we had to walk through several bedrooms to get to the bathroom. We'd probably need to go out through the living room window to get to the backyard shed, and climb through the chimney to get to the garage, but I wasn't brave enough to try it.

Sometimes the places are okay, it's the people who own them that are the problem. One landlord wanted to rent us her three-bedroom apartment until she heard we had kids. I'm still wondering, what else could two people need three bedrooms for? "Well, this one's our bedroom, this one's my home office, and this one is my shrine to Elvis. Watch out for those candles, I don't want to singe the sequined jumpsuit displays."

During one of our numerous "background checks" the owner of one home wanted more than our financial records. He also insisted on knowing when we go to bed, when we wake up in the morning, if we plan to have any more children, what kind of material I write (I should've said "Communist propaganda!"), how far I drive to work, when I come home at night, and all our credit card information. After all that, I wouldn't doubt if the fine print on his lease requires us to sign it in our own blood and to have satellite tracking chips installed in our heads.

Maybe we could just move to Antarctica and live in an igloo. Chop up some blocks of ice, and soon you've got a place to hang your hat -- and your boots, 14 layers of clothing, scarf, gloves, and earmuffs. There can't be much competition for real estate down there. You won't see some realtor with a team of sled dogs driving around buyers and saying, "Here's a cozy hand-carved home. It has at least eight feet of floor space, and the kids can actually stand upright inside it. It's only 145 miles from shopping and the local schools. And the neighbors, once they dig themselves out, are very nice. Why don't we sled back to the office and draw up the papers? The owners are going on an expedition to the Pole next week, so you'll want to grab this opportunity now in case they don't come back."

I guess all we can do is to keep looking. We still have a few more days before our deadline, so I'm not ready to live in my car just yet. (Besides, it's really hard when you try to take a shower lying on the windshield while you reach around the dashboard for the "washer" button.) I just have to keep the faith there's something out there for us that doesn't look like the place is auditioning for a horror film. Maybe tomorrow's appointment will work out. Sure, it's an old house in some town called Amityville, but I hear it's really nice.

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He has previously written online editorials to NJ-shout.com (RIP), Great Society.org, and Songsource.com, among others. He has also been featured in ShoreGuide and AbsoluteWrite.com.

Dan is a current member of the NetWits humorist's collective.

Since his early twenties, Dan's writings have also been prominently featured on the refrigerator in his parents' home. "Sure, they make no sense," Mrs. O'Leary comments, "but we're proud of him -- no matter what everyone else says."