I'm a Deaf vagabond currently living on Vancouver Island. Bicycles dominate my life, but I also make time for climbing, hiking, camping, and cats. And if I have time left over after all that, I write about it.
According to Jordi, the last viewing of my place did not go well. The realtor and her client were in and out in about three minutes. They spoke Mandarin the entire time, and when they went upstairs, Jordi noticed that the client raised her voice. Then that was the end of the tour.
Jordi also believes the realtor might’ve mistaken him for my roommate. They don’t look alike beyond being similar-sized white guys with a beard. Either that, or bearded white guys naturally command more respect from realtors.
Since then, there have been no other showings, but the listed price hasn’t dropped either. The owner plans on finishing the stairs after the roomie and I vacate the unit. This is what it looks like now:
I mean, I guess that would be a start…. Is this what the realtor meant when she described the place as “a great starter home”? Because it’s unfinished?
The first showing took place on Monday. I made zero efforts to accommodate the real estate agent and the potential buyer: I went on the trainer. This meant the dining table had been moved into the living room, and I set up my laptop, sweat rag, and fan on it. Then in front of the table, I laid down a mat, set the trainer on that, and secured my bike to the trainer. Wearing just bib shorts and a sports bra, I dripped sweat all over the mat as I pedaled for three hours. I was aware that there was a showing scheduled during that time and BOLDLY DID NOT GIVE A FUCK.
In fact, I relished the idea of making things awkward.
There is another showing tomorrow while I’m at work, and the roomie is out of town. Jordi, however, lives next door and won’t be working. I recommended he spend an hour on the couch, stripped to the waist, and eating a block of cheese the size of a car battery. Basically, I hope he embraces his inner George Costanza.
But, yeah, I don’t trust these people. I realized a few days ago that the eggs that the realtor brought for me and my roommate were three weeks past the best-before date. Maybe I’ll keep them to give back to her 11 months from now, approximately how long it’ll take her to sell this dumpy place after multiple price reductions. She won’t know that the Feb 08 stamped on the carton refers to 2023, not 2024.
It seems like every time I crash at Zoée’s, there’s a splendid new addition to their place. The last time it was an antique index card cabinet. Before that, it was an old barn door that Zoée turned into a table. When asked where such gems were procured, their answer was *gag* “Facebook Marketplace!” *hurl*
Don’t give me a reason to get back on FacePlant.
But it’s also thanks to Facebook Marketplace that the roomie and I have a new home lined up for April 1st.
This ransom note-style message can be found inside the kitchen cabinet. The cabinet I use to store my food, to be exact. Although not my doing, I see it as a whimsical touch to the otherwise crummy unit.