THE MAYBE CHRONICLES
The house is Bradley Beach won’t rent. Not for a week, not for a month, certainly not for the entire summer like it has for the last 14 years. We show the house, people have cat allergies, dog allergies, duct allergies, are you planning on a new kitchen floor? No we are not, the economy is bad, real bad, but if you’d rent this house we’d throw in a spanking new Armstrong linoleum kitchen floor. No, ceramic tile is too expensive, even if you do rent the house, no way are you getting ceramic. And what’s wrong with Armstrong. It looks like ceramic for God’s sakes. No there is no outdoor shower. I don’t know why the wood floors are creaking there. My goodness!!!
And they leave, shake my hand, thank me. And the realtor who I swear is way too quiet says he thinks they liked it. Then why didn’t they take it I say?
We should sell the sucker. Yes, yes, I know, this is a terrible time to sell. Thirty houses in Bradley haven’t rented this summer the realtor tells me. I assume it’s the same with sales. Try all-year-round he tells me. So I list it winter rental, all-year-round rental, weekly, biweekly, the entire month of August as a summer rental. It’s just me and Craigslist, elusive as a dating service.
My husband and twelve-year-old son don’t have any friends in Bradley. I know, I know, but I’ll go boogie boarding with my son, bring a good book I tell my husband. I put my son in a sailing camp in Belmar. It’s for 10 to 16 year olds, maybe you’ll meet kids down there, I tell him. Hey, won’t that be great. I mean, we can’t rent the house, we might as well use it. We’re heading down there for two weeks, maybe three, if there’s no bloody mutiny. Me? Who cares about me. I’m busy stirring the empty pot.