The Showing

The Realtor walked into the house off Delaware Avenue and took a deep breath.

What was that smell?

It was past dusk, the latest he'd been in the remodeled shotgun shack behind the amusement park. The only thing, at this hour, that should have been different from previous visits was the primary source of light. Rather than sunlight pouring in through the front windows, the evening lights from the rides on the boardwalk, and the musical accompaniment of the carousel and happy screams, lit up and enlivened the house.

That light and the sounds, coupled with the lingering smell of the ocean and sunscreen, suggested summer fun. This was why he chose this hour to show his clients the house. He had a feeling the house backing to the boardwalk and Funland would win them over.

And God knows, he needed the win.

But when he stepped inside, he knew right away something was off. The smell. It was faint, but it was there.

That this couple, transplants to the Delaware shore, would be the kind to embrace the location of the house was a kind of luck he only dreamed possible when he took the listing six months ago. In his mind, and in the minds of the dozen other realtors who'd rejected the listing, it was unsellable. For all the joy the carousel music brought, and the memories of summer the ocean breeze and the smell of sunscreen evoked, living this close to the boardwalk was a nightmare. You couldn't get in and out of your home in the summer for the number of cars, most with Pennsylvania license plates and seemingly abandoned, parked at a hundred different angles. Then there were the vacationers themselves, pale invaders from the inner lands who ignored common decency and believed the money it took them all year to save up, or the thousands in debt they'd accumulated to get here, entitled them to act like buffoons for whom the rules of common decency did not apply.

The offseason was better, but not by much. Guess where the kids from town and the surrounding county frolicked, fought, fucked, and drank? That's right. Your backyard.

The only truly peaceful time was when the temperature dropped below twenty degrees, or the snow was above your calves.

Rehoboth Beach was a wonderful place to live and to visit but not if your house was within three blocks of the boardwalk. And this house was within one.

The Realtor had hoped, prayed really, for months that someone in desperate need and with limited finances would show up and that the owner, a realist impatiently waiting for a first offer, even a bad one, would part with it at a greatly reduced price. What he'd got instead was a couple fully qualified and ready to spend.

All he had to do was close the deal before they figured out the truth.

This was no way to run a real estate business, The Realtor knew, but he was desperate for, and in dire need of, the commission.

The Gilligans, as luck would have it, showed up at the office on a Tuesday afternoon, fresh from Iowa and ready to part with a hefty inheritance. Not only did they have cash, but landlocked as they'd always been, found the house, which they'd driven by, wonderful. They loved the lights of Funland, how it lit up the night, the sounds of metal grinding against metal, and the joyful noises the riders made. The first time he spoke to them they'd said the lights and the sounds were reminders of summer carnivals growing up out among the quiet and lonely farms.

Plus, Mrs. Gilligan had said, it was only open three months out of the year. How bad could it get?

The question had been rhetorical, so The Realtor had felt no contractual obligation to answer truthfully.

He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and almost gagged.

"Calm down," he said, aloud. "You've been through this before." As long as the smell was found and addressed, and the Gilligans were back at the hotel by midnight, all would be OK. He was sure of it.