The ink on my brand new Real Estate license was barely dry when I set out on my very first listing appointment. Since I was a newbie, I brought JZ, a Broker from my office, with me to make sure there was no oversight on my part.
The sellers were an adorable elderly couple—let’s call them Dottie and Frank—who were full of pep and personality, but were a little challenged when it came to deftly navigating steps, stairs and rough terrain.
JZ and I chatted with Dottie about the house for a bit, then took a tour of the interior, while Frank parked himself in front of the telly. Eventually, Dottie led us outside.
Near the garage, there was an awkward convergence of uneven concrete, driveway slab, and a narrow sidewalk leading to the back yard. As we approached, Dottie misjudged her step, tripped on the uneven pavement, and went down hard, face-first, into the cement slab.
It happened so fast, her arms didn’t have time to react and her forehead broke her fall.
I leapt to the ground, turned her over, and recoiled as a bloody geyser gushed from a gaping wound above her left eye. Tarantino-levels of viscous red goo surged from her skull and pooled on the ground beneath her head.
It was definitely the wrong day to wear my white jeans.
I resisted the urge to lose my lunch, while Dottie proceeded to calmly tell me where the towels were located in the kitchen.
I leapt to the ground, turned her over, and recoiled as a bloody geyser gushed from a gaping wound above her left eye.
I dashed through the house, grabbed a handful of paper towels from a dispenser near the sink, and shouted at Frank over a television that was blaring the latest shenanigans from Donald Trump’s political circus.
The paper towels proved ineffectual, and were dyed crimson by the time Frank had hobbled out to the back patio. I urged Frank to bring down a real towel, and he disappeared back into the house.
The dishtowel was only a slightly better tool for absorbing Dottie’s vital fluids, and it quickly morphed from off-white to scarlet red. Meanwhile, JZ had pulled her car around, and called ahead to the ER to let them know we were coming.
The whole time, Dottie was chatting away: lucid, brave, and sharp as a tack. She even pulled out her celly, and called a friend to let her know she might need a ride home from the hospital later.
We loaded Dottie into the car, raced to the ER, and relinquished her to three medical professionals who were far more equipped to handle such an ordeal.
“Oh, those darn head wounds,” said a spunky, and extremely-pregnant, nurse after peeking at Dottie’s forehead. “They just bleed like the dickens.”
JZ and I went back to the office, but my enthusiasm had waned a tad. JZ, on the other hand, was her typical turbo-charged self. Then again, she has raised five boys of her own. I suppose to a mother, if you’ve seen one epic head wound, you’ve seen ‘em all.
Towards the end of the day, we swung by Dottie’s house to check in on her. She had a headful of stitches, a fistful of meds, and a big ol’ smile on her face. Thank goodness she was okay.
As for the listing, well, let’s just say we put that conversation on hold until Dottie is all healed up. Judging by the strength and resilience she exhibited that day, I’m sure that’ll be sooner than we think.
So, who’s YOUR Realtor?