More Secrets of a Spiritual Guru: Love & More Lies

by Tamara Dorris

  Last night I went to bed early, being out of wine and all, and never checked to see if Tac replied to my text. He hadn’t responded the 17 times I checked after I sent it, but maybe he was working. After all, I did go to bed at nine. Pulling my broken back up as carefully as I can, I wobble into the kitchen with the grace of a hemorrhoid-hardened-truck driver and dig around for some over-the-counter painkillers to help me until my inevitable surgery. I sit down with some coffee and check my cell.

  No text from Tac. Text from my mom. For some reason, I knew it was going to be one of those days.

  “How are you?” Mom wants to know. It looks like she sent her text an hour ago. Why in the world is she up so early?

  “I’m good. Why you up?”

  “I had an overnight guest!”

  It is at this point I want to suffocate myself.

  She’s telling me this like I’m her girlfriend instead of her daughter, who also happens to be completely disgusted at the idea of her playing doctor with the podiatrist.

  “Gross Mom! I broke my back.”

  Now it is not my intention to ruin my mom’s post-romp fun but she seriously needs to snap out of it and realize there are more important things in life, like my stiff back and cheating non-boyfriend.

  After a while and a very hot shower, I am able to bend over enough to almost put my shoes on, so I head to the office. I’m pretty sure I am showing Tina some houses today and picking up the offer that she and Odd Todd should have ready for me. I also want to check in with Becky to see if she’s come to any further conclusions about our boss being in love with her and naturally I want to see how Tac acts about ignoring the text I sent him ELEVEN HOURS ago. Like he couldn’t respond by now.

  At the office, Becky is on the phone and doesn’t seem to be as distraught as yesterday. I also notice that Broker Bert is not here. Maybe he went to some kind of don’t-fall-in-love-with-your-receptionist-rehab. He sure could use it. I give her a nod and whisk by like the busy real estate professional I am. I hardly acknowledge Tac, who hardly notices my non-acknowledgment.

  I call Tina for details and then log into MLS to see what kind of houses are out there to show her. I decide I’ll intentionally avoid the ones that aren’t vacant. You see, the cool thing about house-hunting is when the houses are vacant, the agent doesn’t have to call anyone and deal with making an appointment or worry about having the seller being home and following us around the house throwing in annoying side-bars. It’s just so distracting and can make the buyer feel very uncomfortable. So I skip the houses that require an appointment. Besides, they didn’t look that great anyway. I find three houses that are in the area she already lives in, but that are in her price range. Now that she’ll only be using her own income and not Todd’s, she will have to settle for a smaller home, but she said she is just fine with that.

  As I pull up to the curb, admiring my for-sale sign standing like a proud warrior in her yard, I see Tina come out the front door. She is pretty, in a no-makeup kind of way. Brownish hair pulled back in a ponytail, and very petite. I can see why Odd Todd likes her. I decide I’ll try and find out what the deal with her and him is while we’re out house hunting.

  “So this first one is just a little over your price range, but we can always offer lower,” I tell her, leaving out the part that I picked it over the one next door because it’s vacant.

  “Okay...and what about the one next door?” she asks, stepping out of the car.

  I pretend not to hear her. These buyers are getting so smart.

  “And here we go,” I say, opening the lockbox.

  Inside, the house is only mediocre. I instantly feel guilty and wonder if the one next door looks any better.

  “I wonder why that one next door didn’t come up in my search?” I am looking out the living room window at the sale sign I just ignored her asking about.

  “Yeah, I was wondering about that one, too.”

  “Well, let me just call the agent on the sign.”

  I whip out my cell phone like the prepared real estate professional I am while Tina walks around the rest of the house. She comes back a few minutes later with obvious distaste on her face.

  “Good news!” I say, “The agent said the house next door just came on the market and it has a lockbox. Want to look?” I ask her this and am secretly glad I don’t have to deal with the sellers being home. Why agents make me call for appointments is beyond me.

  On the way to the other house I casually say, “So how long have you known Todd?” I figure that’s a safe question, right? Not like, how long have you been married, or how long has he been odd, but just how long have you known him.

  “Too long,” she tells me.

  Oh my.

  “Sorry, it’s just that I can’t wait for this house deal to be done so I can start over. I’ve been with him since I was sixteen. That’s eleven years and I’m so done.”

  Wow!

  “Well, I’m sorry to pry...” I say, not really being sorry at all.

  “Oh, it’s fine. He’s just still so suffocating.”

  “Suffocating?”

  “Yes, like he texts me all the time. I swear I’ve had ten texts from him already today.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. Who would do that?

  Instead of going back to the office after I drop Tina off, I start to head home. My broken back is acting up again, and really, showing her that extra house that wasn’t on the list has made me hungry. I remember I am out of wine, which it’s too early for anyway, but once I get home, I won’t want to go back out so I may as well stop and get some groceries. I tend to eat better when I have healthy food in the house.

  I struggle getting my two bags in. My back hurts and the wine is heavy. I only planned on getting three bottles, but my grocery store has an amazing special going on where I save ten percent if I get six bottles. Ten Percent! That’s like a free box of butter-flavored low-fat microwave popcorn. A single girl like me just has to be conscientious about money-saving opportunities like that.

  It’s too early for wine and the pre-packaged salad I bought, so I head into my office to see what other houses I can show Tina. She didn’t like any of the ones we saw today. I think it’s probably always harder when someone downsizes, because all the other houses look, well, smaller, hence the term “downsize.” I am so committed to finding her a house that I am even prepared to make appointments if I have to.

  On my work email I see a new message with the subject line: “My House.” Of course I find this interesting, because I sell houses and everything, so I open it up and find the most delightful message:

  “Hello, I’m thinking of selling my house and Todd said you did a good job. Can I make an appointment? Thank you, Brad Ryan.”

  I smile. Listings are awesome and even if it did come as a referral by Odd Todd from a guy with two first names, I don’t care. I immediately email this Brad Ryan person back and set something up for tomorrow afternoon, before the somewhat-dreaded, supposed double date with Tac.

  Tac finally responds to my text (from yesterday evening). It was almost like he was waiting to make sure I wouldn’t be back in the office today. His text is simple, unlike him:

  “Sure, 5pm is fine.”

  It’s finally Friday and I’m glad to be busy so that I don’t obsess too much about how this evening’s “double-date” will go. Double as in, Tac has two dates at the same time, both with me. I push Tac out of my mind thinking about how excited I am over my new listing. I decide the least I can do is send a thank-you text to Todd. While I would really appreciate the professionalism of an email, the guy doesn’t use email, so I send him a simple text.

  A few minute later I get this back:

  “You bet! You want to have a drink some time?”

  Ew.

  I have no idea what this guy’s deal is, and moreover, I wonder if Tina has any idea that he’s a bit of a sleaze. I mean, hitting on the real estate agent who’s also representing his wife, and just showed her houses
. Jeez, I hope she divorces him. I do what I did with his last text message and completely ignore it. I refuse to play his game and am praying that Brad Ryan isn’t anywhere near as creepy as Odd Todd. In an effort to shift my mind to better things, I enjoy my morning coffee by finishing up my second law of attraction book. I forgot to put my new face cream on last night, so I put some on this morning and want to make sure it’s nice and set-in before I shower. Maybe I’ll wear a produce bag over my face so it doesn’t get wet? This cream is pricey and I want to give it a fair shot before I cancel my monthly subscription.

  According to the book I’m reading, visualization is very important too. Apparently ‘seeing’ something in my mind helps somehow. Maybe it gives better instructions to the universe or something? All I know for sure is that Tony Robbins is a big fan of goal-setting, so I decide I will visualize my goals with pictures now. I toss Herman off the kitchen table and prepare to visualize. I first picture a new car. It’s white, maybe a cute little sedan that says I’ve got class, but enough room to carry open-house signs. Then I picture myself ten pounds lighter, in yoga, doing the splits. This picture makes me smile, because really, what could be more exciting than being ten pounds lighter and doing the splits? Herman jumps back up on the table and I wonder if I’m being too ambitious in my goals. Finally, I picture myself with awards covering my cubicle walls. The book I am reading specifically says we should celebrate when other people succeed, and that when we wish bad things on someone else we are really wishing bad things upon ourselves. This idea terrifies me.

  So instead of the picture I had of Tac wearing a bad suit and being bald, I see him clapping over my awards. Well, it’s my visualization, and I certainly don’t see anything negative in having Tac be happy for me. In fact, he’s smiling. That’s how happy he is to see me sell more houses than him.

  I feel very inspired after my session of visualizing. I already have some great ideas for this week’s blog post about the law of attraction.

  I feel alone at the office today. I am literally the only one here besides Napping Stan who I am not at all sure is really napping and not dead. I set my purse under my desk and then go shake him.

  “Stan...are you okay?”

  “What the hell?”

  Stan is clearly alive, so I leave him alone and back away slowly. Hopefully he will go back to sleep. Stan has been an agent since I was in fifth grade and I think that he has the same two listings that he’s had since I’ve worked here. I consider teaching him how to visualize, but then he starts snoring so I go back to my desk to pull up comps for my new listing, Ryan Brad, Brad Ryan, whatever.

  I’m very pleased to see that Mr. Two-First-Names owns a pretty nice house. I wonder how he’s associated with Odd Todd? Todd does not strike me as someone who would have any friends, or at least, friends who own homes that were paid off in 2010. At any rate, I do my comps...all the blah, blah, blah effort I’m supposed to come up with, and then pick a sky-in-the-pie price of $285,000. It’s not quite, Hi-I’m-a-luxury-home, but certainly above the riffraff fray that seems to have a lower price range. I am seriously hoping that Mr. Two-Names is not a freak-a-zoid like Todd. Speaking of, it just so happens I am showing Tina a house in Fair Oaks before I go to Brad Ryan’s place.

  “I think this one looks cute,” I tell Tina, who today is sporting a cute pea coat and black leggings.

  “I liked the photo you sent,” she confirms, shutting the car door and walking quickly toward the house.

  The seller is home (Damn) so I am all prepared with a smile and a business card as I walk Tina toward the front door.

  “So, do you know a guy named Ryan Brad?” I ask casually.

  “You mean Brad Ryan?” She stops in her steps.

  “Yes, I guess.”

  “Todd’s done work for him. How do you know him?” Tina asks, as if she’s trying to do some impossible math problem. I want to tell her, calm down, Mr. Goodwill Hunting, it was just a question.

  “I guess Todd referred him...he wants to sell his house.”

  I stop and wait to see what she will say. I am hoping strongly it will not involve questions like, has my husband hit on you, do you think he’s a freak of nature, and has he ever sent you weird text messages.

  Fortunately she only nods, and the seller/homeowner opens the door before I even knock. Sometimes I am lucky that way.

  Tina seems to like this house a lot, and if I didn’t know better, I’d almost say the homeowner likes her too. It can be funny that way in real estate. We work so hard to keep buyers and sellers apart (who knows why) and then it ends up being the seller who helps close the deal. The next thing we know, she’s planning the damn house-warming party. Anyway, Tina and seller Margo are best friends now, and if I’m not mistaken, they are having lunch next week.

  I step up to the doorway of Mr. Brad Ryan’s house with all the caution that anybody would. I have my listing contract, the quick comps I pulled, and the knowledge that he employed a weirdo known as ‘Odd Todd’ (to my horrible inner critic).

  “Hi, hold on,” says this deep voice behind a half-opened door and an awfully annoying loud bark.

  I hate big dogs. Suddenly my mind races to open houses, showings and all things that make having a big dog at a listing problematic.

  Ugh.

  Then the dark brown weathered half of a double-door swings open and someone I’m sure is a stand-in for Sam Elliot in some movie appears. He’s just short of breathtaking and not quite as tall, which is even more awkward, as he can see me gawking all the more closely.

  “Hello,” I start, trying to remember why I am here.

  “Thanks for comin’.”

  Does he talk with a twang? I suddenly feel dizzy.

  “Oh, my pleasure. I’m glad you called.”

  I kick myself, remembering he emailed.

  I walk inside the modestly furnished Fair Oaks home. Sam Elliot leads me to the kitchen and invites me to sit on a sturdy oak bar stool.

  “So, how long have you lived here?” I honestly have nothing to say to this man, but am wondering his age, his sun sign and why in the world he is single.

  He smiles at me, or at the dog looking at us through the sliding glass door, and then smoothes his hair back in an almost Hollywood-scripted manner.

  “About eight years now.”

  “Any reason you’re selling?” I ask, more for my own personal reasons, and hope I’m presenting it in a purely professional manner.

  “Dee-vorce.”

  “It seems to be going around,” I tell him, before realizing what I said.

  Brad Ryan says he’s ready to list the house and asks me what I think he should sell it for. I am thrilled at several things right now, but least is the fact that this is not a short sale. Two non-short sale listings in a row must mean I’m really doing something right. I make a mental note to add non-short sale listings to my visualization session tomorrow.

  I can’t quite figure this guy out, though. He seems very reserved, private-like. Yet he’s friendly enough and handsome. I mean, if you’re into the Sam Elliot type. I make a cute comment about him having two first names, but he doesn’t even take his eyes of the contracts he’s looking at. He just keeps signing his two first names. Sometimes I wonder if people ignore me or if I’m just not speaking loudly enough.

  “So a couple of other things I need to know,” I say, stacking the contracts up like the order they go in has some kind of meaning. It doesn’t.

  “Shoot.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Shoot, what is it you need to know?”

  Shoot?

  Suddenly it occurs to me that Brad Ryan must be one of those guys that drives a pick-up truck and listens to country western music, drinks too much beer and ropes cattle for fun. No wonder he’s single.

  “Showing instructions,” I say, trying to keep the multiple conversations I’m having with myself (and him) in check.

  “Oh, well, I’ll copy a key for you.”

  “So a lockbox
is okay? I can have people call first if you like.”

  “Nope, that’s fine. I’m gone from sun up ‘til dark.”

  Of course you are, Cowboy Sam.

  I decide not to ask him what he’s doing from sun up ‘til dark because I’m afraid if he says roping cattle I will literally choke on my own laugher. We shake hands and I try to feel for calluses, but he looks at me a little strangely, so I smile and take my hand back.

  I’m still in no condition to go to yoga so I decide I will go back to the office to get this listing in MLS. A good agent does that, you know, rushes back to the office in order to get the house on the market and yard sign ordered so that her seller has maximum and immediate exposure. Mostly though, I just want to see if Tac’s there.

  He is not.

  Stan is awake now, playing Solitaire on his computer and looking well rested, I might add. I sniff around Tac’s desk a little, just to see if there’s any evidence of him being there since I left, but I see none.

  “What’s up?” It’s Becky, surprising me from behind.

  “Oh, hi! Where’d you come from?”

  “Mail room.” She seems unconcerned or unaware that I was studying Tac’s desk, so I mosey over to my own desk. And speaking of moseying, I say to Becky,

  “Got a new listing from Cowboy Brad.”

  “Who?”

  “This guy who I guess is a friend of my text-stalking-seller, Todd.”

  “Creepy.”

  “I know, but this guy is older than Todd, and seems pretty nice... kind of a hick though.”

  “Like how?”

  “Well, he’s got one of those beer-drinking accents, you know.”

  “You mean Southern? Alabama?”

  “How the heck do I know where he got it? But yeah, one of those states.”