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I had told myself we wouldn’t go over 250.
Having searched every cul-de-sac in Haysboro looking for one particular advertised open house, we were on our way to Quiznos for lunch, mission aborted. The last corner before our turn at Southland Drive had an open house sign, but not the one we wanted. Having driven over all Hell’s half suburban acre looking for something to look at, we made the turn and followed the signs down through the world’s deepest cul-de-sac.
Pulling into the driveway, we noticed there was house where the garage used to be.
“Bay window,” Arundel muttered dismissively.
“Let’s look.” I’m an optimist.
Stepping in to the confusing bi-directional foyer, we met the Polish-Canadian agent showing the place. Her handout proclaimed 278,000, and featured several Multiple Listings ServiceMLS-quality photographs. We might as well snoop anyway.
A brief examination of the overgrown yard, strange bi-level double garage, dusty rose carpet and antiquated appliances told us all we needed to know.
“I promised myself we wouldn’t go over 250,” I plainly informed the agent on our way out.
“Come up a bit and I’ll see what I can do.” The house had been on the market for two months. (In this market?) The overgrowth appeared to be the discount we needed.
Without exchanging a word, Arundel and I left to eat lunch. The decision had been made the moment we entered the house.
(Sometimes 250 is just something you tell yourself.)
We made the offer at 255 and proceeded to the Ship & Anchor to get drunk, and await the counteroffer.
Sunday morning, hungover and $258,000 poorer, we had our home.
Evan Spence
February 13, 2007
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