him: ...so...whaddaya think...
me: I think it's pretty. I think it's really, really pretty.
me: And. I think it's the perfect example of one of these 1940s Craftsman-type Bungalowish -- oh hell, I don't know what I'm talking about, you know, but I know what I like-type houses with all these hardwood floors here, redone, nice....but nothing here is too redone, y'know. Spacious rooms, big tall ceilings, ooo-hoo with fans that will stay on until next year, all french double-doory and blah blah, glass doorknobs, most of the original glass in the windows because it's cool and wavy lookin', you can see there....front door beveled and etched and stuff, with stained-glass windows all around the place, like up there, see, and, no cracks in the ceiling, upstairs or down, and you saw all three bathrooms, right, with that one giant bathtub that looked like it may not have too much lead in it, and I checked: actual closet space if you can believe that, and, looking all around, the fixtures are great, crystal chandelier over there is nice, looks damn near original, all pretty much perfect, structurally sound, kitchen's awesome, not too moderned up, all the original cabinets with glass, and no trace of chewed up baseboards or sticky drawers --
him: Ha ha, you said "sticky drawers."
me: What are you, 5 years old?...basement's not terrifying...at all.
me: Ha ha, I said "sticky drawers."
me: And...I'm fairly convinced that I could actually get that somewhat typical Midtown smell of deep fried mothballs outta here with a little Orange-Glo, maybe a bit more new sheetrock....
him: Those are plaster walls.
me: Plaster walls. More expensive likely, yeah, but. Whatever. And I'm fairly certain that all the wiring has been redone even though they kept the old button switches, see? Pipes are all good, I was told. Third time I've been here. I'm just telling you what I know. You know, the guy who buffed this place up, realtor said, is a carpenter.
me: Yes. By trade.
him: Good price, too.
me: Great price. Yep.
him: It's The Ghetto Shack, isn't it.
me: I named it "The Voodoo House" myself. But, hold on. If you look out of every other window in this house and none of the front ones facing directly across the street, you'll never see what I'm guessing started off as a crocodile painted in purple and blue on the door just behind the bottle tree that really isn't a bottle tree at all but more of an evidence-of-industry, a timeline-of-excessive-boozing. Why would anyone sane paint a snake directly onto a tree? I'm asking you. I thought I saw the humor for a second, but now I'm just asking: how is anyone even able to paint an upside-down chicken on a screen porch door? Or, is that a naked woman? And that's either a pile of rusty, kicked-in paint cans or a slumped dead body behind that stack of tires. Either way, obviously, according to a certain yellow-and-blue vibe picked up by the witch doctor across the street, the land surrounding just this corner of the block is an angered burial ground of fallen warriors past that surely must have been razed and built upon, desecrated. No problem: get a real priest in here and have the place holy-watered, sanctified, goofus-dusted. No problem, but...
Look at it. It looks like John Wayne Gacy, Jr., stepped out onto the front porch and exploded.
him: You wanna go get a beer?
me: No. I want two. And then, I want to move to Oregon. Or definitely Europe.