When we first moved to Santa Clara, we used to walk around the surrounding neighborhoods and dream about the houses we might buy, pretending how we would fix them up to make them ours. Somehow we learned that on our favorite street, a little old lady homeowner had passed and a house would likely be on the market soon. We checked out our favorite block and by process of elimination figured out which one it was. And she was a beauty. Needed work, no doubt, but she had plenty of character. The house was huge, in a great neighborhood, on a large lot and had a pool. Everything we could ever want. We started walking by that house nearly every time we went out. Pretty soon we were calling it “our house” and making renovation plans. The house was not listed for sale and we had no idea what to do about making it ours. Then one day a car showed up in the driveway, and it stayed all weekend. We were a little nervous. Did someone beat us at making an offer? What was going on? That Sunday we went on our usual walk. We were about to bypass the street where “our house” was but at the last minute I told Jason, “Let’s walk by it. I have a feeling something is going to happen.”
So we walked up to “our house” and stood there ogling her fine lines and potential. Within a couple of minutes a man came out of the house and walked to the end of driveway. He was the owner of the mysterious car and was putting his suitcase in the trunk. I nudged Jason. “Say something.”
“Nice house,” he says to the mystery man.
Oh great. Now he thinks we’re idiots.“You think so,” mystery man replies. “You should buy it.”
Hey, it worked.
We both just about lost it right there. But we kept our cool, eventually getting his contact information to get more information about the house. He confirmed that his mother had recently passed and that he and his siblings would be putting the house up for sale. He lived out of state and was just here for a visit but he would put us in touch with his siblings. The following week, Jason got in touch with the family and we set up an appointment to tour the house several days later. Man, were we excited. We were fantasizing about the rooms and what we would do with all of the space.
Finally the day arrived and we showed up at the front door of “our house” with excitement and anticipation. An older woman with unkept graying hair answered the door and said she was the daughter of the former owner and was living in the home. For now. There was a younger man with her, either her brother or son, I’m not sure. They seemed equally excited to see us, even a little nervous.
We entered the house. It was old and needed lots of cosmetic help as we had thought. But no worries, we’d been through that before. They led us into the kitchen first. It wasn’t the 50’s style avocado green metal cabinets that scared me but the dishes and garbage piled up in the sink and on every available surface.
Did they forget we were coming over? The kitchen would require a complete makeover, but no matter. These people clearly hadn't heard about “staging” a home. That meant most people wouldn’t be able to see beyond the mess, giving us an opportunity to bid within our price range.
On to the upstairs bedrooms. There were four or five in all. Each one was a complete mess, like a teenager’s bedroom. Clothes strewn about. Wreaking of cigarettes. Beds unmade, often without a frame or bedspring. Just a mattress on the floor. Who in the hell was living in all of these rooms?
Then back downstairs to see the living room and dining room. I’m not exaggerating when I say the living room was packed wall-to-wall with furniture, accented with cobwebs. The older woman was gushing about how she got it free on-line and was saving it to sell.
Oh yay. We were dealing with messy, cheapskate, horders. The older woman was also telling us stories of her childhood growing up in the house while the younger guy followed us around silently and smiling dumbly. We got the impression that their Dad was not a very nice fellow. In her stories he was very strict and demanding and likely abusive. It was starting to feel like the beginning of horror movie.
By the time we got the tour of the backyard and the pool I was blocking out the conversation to avoid further emotional damage. I glimpsed at the pool.
Was that a hand peaking out from the several inches of leaves and dirt on the top of the pool? I imagined these people bonking us on the back of the head and waking up hog-tied in the basement with the quiet younger guy demanding that Jason squeal like a pig.
I’m pretty sure I sprinted back to the car. We peeled out of there tout de suite. That place had some bad mumbo jumbo. Baaaaaaaaad Mumbo Jumbo.
Needless to say we immediately ceased calling it “our house.” We still walk by that house but we never stop. We just let the shiver run up our spine as we hurry past.
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