I've Been in Your Bedroom

DECIDING

My father is a generous man—every year I get money for my birthday, no strings. Today I am looking at a check for four hundred twenty dollars. I turned forty-two today. Ten bucks a year, it's been going on a long time.

Except that this time it's not exactly happy birthday, have a good time. His note suggests that it's about time I did something with my life and to use the money as a start.

I can't figure out how he knows I'm at loose ends and up for grabs. He's three thousand miles away. He doesn't see the gray hairs.

I suppose I should mention that I am recently divorced, and that my settlement consisted of a lump of cash instead of alimony, twenty-five thousand dollars to be exact, and the house that we bought two years ago in hopes of rejuvenating our marriage. No go.

The worst of it, however, was that we financed the daylights out of this new house so that my ex could invest the cash we got from the sale of the old house. Invest for our old age, he said. He bought himself a new car and pretty much lost the rest of it, so here I sit with some very high mortgage payments and no income.

I'm already two months into the twenty-five thousand. And, for the record, I have two teenagers born thirteen months apart, a boy about to finish up at a local junior college and a girl who is a senior in high school. Their father does not contribute to their financial well-being as they have both turned eighteen. And they both live with me.

I stare at my birthday check, trying to figure out what I can do with the money and have something constructive to report. I end up in real estate school. It's a good place for me—all I know are kitchens and sump pumps anyway.

Real estate school is like prep school. You do what they tell you and you are prepped—in this case prepped to pass the state real estate exam. The school promises me that I'll pass. They guarantee their classes. What that means is if I don't pass, they'll let me come back time after time to repeat them. Without charge.

The instruction is ongoing. Financing, construction, law, tax implications, things like that. Eight classes, taught over and over, recycled week after week, day and night.

When you successfully complete (their words) the study program, you get to take a battery (their word) of tests. When you are scoring in the eighties, it's time for the big one.

The classes are pretty straightforward, but the people in them give me fits. I realize I don't get out much anymore. People who can hardly speak English, retired people (mostly men, mostly military), young upstarts, fresh and brazen. These people have never had to remove ugly waxy buildup from their kitchen floors. They will not succeed in real estate.

I study hard, having little else to do these days. I whirl through the eight classes, and am moved on to the practice tests.

These practice tests are really something—zillions of multiple choice questions with each choice about three inches long. Many, many single spaced sentences with the only difference being one little word, like not or often or rarely or else none of the above. And often the D choice is that both A and C are correct. I wonder how those people who can hardly speak English are managing. U.S. citizenship is not a licensing requirement.

I get to the math questions. The four choices have the same seven digit numbers in them, the only difference being that the decimal points are in different places, like A)872.963, B)8.72963, C)8729.63, and D)87.2963. A lot of them are just common sense, though, like deciding which figure would be a reasonable monthly house payment, which one might be a reasonable cost of house insurance.

Finally I am pronounced ready. I am sent to a forlorn and forsaken area of a nearby city on a Saturday morning. I have to be there by eight o'clock. At least there's no traffic. I check the locks on my car as I drive around. There are no numbers on these buildings. They look like abandoned warehouses.

I see an expensive car turn into a side street. I follow it, and sure enough, home run. We park, and I thank the driver for leading me to the site. She informs me that the test is a major bitch and I shouldn't expect to pass, that she's taken it twice already and if she doesn't pass this time, dammit, she's going to get another job.

Seems reasonable. But I am undaunted. I feel well-prepped by my four-hundred twenty-five dollar education.

Four hours later I stagger out to my car. I only prepped in one-hour time slots. I am really out of shape. I stretch, groan and smile at the sun as I head for the parking lot. My car is still there, happy day.

I think I did all right. I think I got my seventy percent. Now I have to wait six weeks for my postcard. If I fail, it will tell me my score, but if I pass, it will only tell me that I passed.

The postcard arrives in ten days. I have passed. I feel smug and joyous. Now I can seek employment as a real state salesman. Salesperson, maybe. We got liberated, women are now persons, men are still men.

JOB HUNTING

I find I can start job hunting, that the real estate brokers will talk to me once I have taken the test, never mind that I don't know if I have passed or failed. Oh, you’ve already passed it, good, like they're surprised or something.

But I don't have my license yet. And I'll have to be fingerprinted. Yes, I'll be on file at our state capital, hoping I don't get mistakenly cross-referenced by some rookie cop looking for a hooker.

I trot over to the local police station and ask them to fingerprint me. They send me to the civic center, explaining that I don't want my prints on their form, now, do I?

I mail in my prints along with a copy of my postcard and a personal check. This will take forever.

My postcard and I head out on the interview trail. I feel confident, in charge of me. I sound good. Even my hair pleases me. And it is Monday—what a way to start off the week.

First stop is a small non-franchise, no branches, a nice little place near my house. I can bike there! I can come home for lunch! They don't want me. I'm new, inexperienced, no client base, untrained, and—get this, they have a waiting list of agents who want to work there!

But all is not lost. I get advice. Try one of the big franchises. They have good training programs, and I'll surely be needing one.

No, that was prep for the exam. Now I need prep for real life.

I thank Mrs. Powerhouse for her time and move on. I head for one of the big franchises, also nearby. I don't want to work there. I don't want to be one of seventy agents under one manager, but I think I need to practice my being-interviewed skills. It's a good place to try some techniques I read about. I think it was in Cosmopolitan.

I walk in without an appointment and ask to see the office manager. I am asked if I can wait a sec, he's on the phone. I peek over the counter to the secretary's telephone. It looks like the instrument panel of a 757. The top station light is on, then it goes off. I pull back.

She beeps him. Somebody to see you, she chirps. She doesn't ask what I want or what my business is, and I was prepared for those questions. Anyway, he doesn't seem to care. He bops out of his office, comes over to me and introduces himself. Hi, he says. I'm Ken. Ken Harrison.

He invites me into his private office, a ten by ten glass cubicle, gets me seated and politely asks me what I want. He actually says, Now what can I do for you? I want to work for you, I state firmly and confidently. He wants to know if I've taken the test yet. Taken and passed, I state, also firmly and confidently. I show him my postcard.

He wants to know when I'm available, like soon? It seems he's under a little pressure to keep those empty desks filled. I suggest the start of next week.

He tells me that I am very lucky that there is a training program for new agents starting The Very Next Week, and that I won't have to wait around for it to recycle. And, I am allowed to attend before I get my license.

We agree that I'll do a lot of hanging around for the rest of this week, that I'll definitely be at the Thursday office meeting, and that I will be able to attend the training session starting next week.

So I am hired. I think this manager is overworked and harried. I sort of like him. I like his crooked necktie, his rolled-up shirtsleeves. And he found time for me. I assume he always will.

He shows me my desk. My desk! It is in the back, he apologizes, saying the front desks are for the big producers, but I like it back here. I can see everything and they can't see me.

The desks are set in pairs, facing one another, with a two-sided bulletin board straddling across the tops. My side has pin gouges and fade marks. He sees me looking at it and assures me that none of that stuff will show after I bring in my own things.

He tells me I can't hang anything on the side wall that isn't in a frame, the agents having voted on that after he had the place repainted. I look around and see calendars on nails and flyers on pushpins all over the place. He tells me I can start outfitting my desk right away.

Then he takes me to the front desk, where the office secretary is whacking the paper punch with every ounce of her strength. He introduces me to her. She smiles, she seems nice, and mentions that we've already met. She has long squared-off red fingernails.

He tells her to get me a key. She hands me a key, #67. He says to try the door, make sure it works. It works. I put it on my key ring. I am nonchalant. She offers me another key, the key to my desk. I wonder briefly why they think I'll need it, but onto the key ring it goes.

The manager, my manager now, Mr. Harrison-call-me-Ken, explains that I have to take every precaution if I am holding uncashed checks. Oh wow! I hope I don't look too flustered, but I haven't felt this good in a very long time.

Since the postcard came, actually.

Now he must take his leave of me, he says. Other fish to fry. He reminds me that I can come and go as I please, but suggests I hang around to get to know everybody and get a feel for what life in his office is like. And Squarenails will answer any questions about the office—how to replace cartridges in the printers, stuff like that.

But I, too, have other fish to fry and also take my leave. His parting words are See you Thursday. My fish fry consists of shopping. I haven't a thing to wear.

But first I head for a huge discount office supply store on the other end of town. I need to outfit my desk. I need to buy in bulk.

I am really very happy. Forget all that stuff I said about franchises—I have a job! I am also stuck in traffic. It is poking along, poking along, red light, another red light, then a green but only two cars get through. I start thinking—never a good idea in heavy traffic, but I am uneasy.

This man who hired me, my manager Ken, gave me a key to the office without checking on me, without making a copy of my postcard, without putting me off a few days to verify the references he never asked for. Yes, I am uneasy with that.

I'm very honest and reliable, of course, but what about all those other people he gave keys to? Well, the office seems to be in one piece. The desks are all cluttered with calculators, plastic coated paperclips, earrings, things easily swiped, and there are computers, printers, scanners, fax and copy machines all over the place. I guess it's secure.

I can relax. My manager is just a good judge of character. I am in good hands. I arrive at the office supply store and park right by the entry. Karma's working and those paper clips are calling out my name. And I am here without a list. I'll just get one of everything.

I fill my cart, tossing in pretty much anything that looks useful. I check out and head back to the office.

I have two huge plastic bags filled with a stapler, staples, paper clips (metal), note paper, highlight pens, a date stamp, a copy stamp, empty file folders, a two-hole punch, tape, a letter opener, a telephone log, scissors, 3x5 cards, a box to put them in.

You get the idea. My excursion into the world of office supplies has just cost me $417.89. I head back to the office. I start unpacking.

I try to unwrap my new scissors so I can cut some of this miserable packaging open, but the scissors are so wrapped up and theft-proof themselves that I am now trying to stab the package open with my car key.

No deal. An older man is watching my struggle, smiling at me. He approaches. He has a Swiss army knife. My kind of guy. He slashes away at everything I put in front of him. He says his name is Harry.

I'm guessing he's one of the retired military because he's helpful and so good with the knife, and also probably not a big producer because his desk is in the back near mine.

OFFICE MEETING

It's Thursday and I'm early. Early you're anxious, on time you're anal retentive, late you have trouble facing things. I learned when I was a teenager that if you were shy and got to the party first, even though you had to fold napkins or something, there was a certain power in welcoming the others, like you already knew what was up and they didn't. So I am early, and a little anxious.

Other people start showing up, some of them actually smile at me. A young woman comes over to my desk, welcomes me and asks which office I was transferred from. I am blank for a split second, then smile brightly and say that I am new to the business. Oh. She walks off, tossing me a good luck over her silk shoulder.

The meeting is called. I edge up to the front. Right off the bat Ken introduces me. I have this stupid grin on my face and wave my little Queen Elizabeth wave because everyone is looking around to see who I am. They spot me, some smile, some wave back, others just look away.

There are a few company announcements, like the insurance has gone up, we're getting a new copy machine and somebody had a heart attack so we're collecting money for flowers. Also, the carpeting will be shampooed on Saturday and we must place our wastebaskets and chairs on our desk tops when we leave on Friday.

Then he asks if anyone would like to pitch a new listing. Pitch. I think that's a movie word having something to do with getting an idea sold. Or maybe baseball. Okay, pitch.

We learn all about this palatial residence in the hills with full-circle views and two swimming pools, one for the help, and are invited to attend the brokers' open house today between eleven and one. This agent also says he has food. Food—what a great idea. I'll be there.

No one else has a new listing to pitch, so we go around the room, everybody moaning and groaning about old listings that no one is even showing any more. Every now and then someone mentions a buyer looking for this or that and someone else chimes in, Why don't you show them my listing?

When it comes around to me, I am invited to tell a little about myself. I hate this. I don't know doodle about any of them and I'm supposed to bare my all? I tell them I have a background in retailing, clothing, believe it or not. I look down at my dress and laugh a little. I think I am being funny. These people are absolutely humorless, except for Harry. He thinks I'm cute. Oh, dear.

My manager, I keep forgetting to think of him as Ken, tells me in front of everybody that I am expected to tour with him the first few times, until I get the hang of it. I hope he goes to the place with the two pools and the food. I am ravenous and it's not even ten o'clock.

The meeting ends. I grab my purse and go to Ken's office. He sends me back to my desk, saying we don't have to leave for another twenty minutes. Oh.

MY FIRST TOUR

We're on our way. Two other agents are in the car with us. I wonder if they're new, probably on probation like me, although probation is something I haven't been told about, but it's a possibility. I introduce myself, thinking they've probably forgotten my name already. Right.

We go to one house after another, actually knock off (manager talk) seventeen properties in two hours, including the one with the two swimming pools. I collect seventeen flyers. Ken has cautioned me to refer to the tour as brokers' opens, not open houses, as the public is not invited.

There is food (munchies) served at most of these places. And white wine. Ken is slurping it up at every stop.

He tells me in between gulps not to serve red wine at brokers' opens because it's impossible to get the stains out of the Berber and some agents just won't stay in the kitchen while they imbibe. He is actually still vertical, and seems to be in complete control of himself, but I wonder.

At the last stop he claps his hands and says, All right, ladies, let's go, back to the barn, come on. At the car, I get into the back seat, basic coward that I am. I offer the front seat to one of the other agents, saying I don't want to be hogging the comfort zone up there. I fasten my seat belt.

He gets us back to the office without incident, but when he pulls into his parking space, he drives right up over the curb, expletive deleted, and slams the car into reverse. It plops back down on the driveway, all three passenger doors flying open in unison as we leap out. Ken follows us into the office.

My mailbox is filled with flyers. I will save and file these flyers to match them up with my buyers' needs. I dump them into my in-basket with the ones I collected on tour today.

I glance at the cubicle. Ken, tipped back in his chair, is talking on the phone. He has loosened his tie and flung his jacket over the back of a guest chair. I wonder if there's any chance he'll push back too far and flip over, considering his condition.

I don't know why, but I am exhausted, so I go home and sleep until five-thirty.

The next day I go in late, rearrange my desk, sort through the flyers in my in-basket, and leave early. Monday the training will start and I need my weekend.

I AM TRAINED

The first training class is at nine o'clock. I am early, of course.

Miss Gushy, the training director, grasps both my hands in hers, she is sooo sincere, and asks me to help her put things out. The donut box is huge, pink and flat like a sheet cake is in there. I open it and use a napkin to pick up the donuts and arrange them on the platter.

She giggles and tells me I don't have to be that fussy because no one else has arrived yet. I get the girls–in-conspiracy look and wonder if I'm going to have to prick my finger to celebrate