Bankrupt On Selling

“I sell houses. That’s what I do,” he said. “I couldn’t sell a ketchup popsicle to a woman in white gloves, and I couldn’t sell water to a whale. I don’t have some preternatural ability to convince people to do things they don’t want to do. Believe me, I haven’t had sex in weeks. But you better believe I can convince your grandmother that she needs a raised ranch in the growing community of Asheville, North Carolina.” As he spoke he grew increasingly confident in what he was saying, as if every word were a small reassurance that were adding up.

“I can make her want that house, because it is the culmination of all of her childhood fantasies, the realization of the space she was sure would someday fall in to her lap, but for one reason or another never did. I can sew the seeds of doubt. A germ of the idea that her life will never feel complete unless she rises every morning to drink coffee in this breakfast nook with a picture window. Because it won’t be complete. I can do this because I’ve written a story of her life that sounds just a little bit better than the universe she is currently residing in. A story that feels good. That fits like a brand new pair of socks.”

As he spoke, his eyes only occasionally met the young man he’d lured into a conversation down the bar.

“I can make people believe life will never be complete without this house. Because everyone has a void, an empty space they want to fill, and I can paint a picture where a breakfast nook fits in to that hole like a puzzle piece. Their universe complete all thanks to a window with a poorly upholstered seat cushion under it. If only the void were that easy to fill.” He sighed, confidence waning a little “ but it’s nice to believe that it’s that easy, even if only for a few weeks or months in a new home. I don’t sell people houses, I sell people the story of a better life. The houses sell themselves.”