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Rain slams against the windshield, making the wipers as busy as a lone mosquito in a nudist camp. Seeing the road is pretty much impossible. Poor Onan has his head forward straining to be close to the windshield but the steering wheel stops him cold. He can’t get close enough to clearly see the road. Safety is a crapshoot right now.

The traffic is awful on this parkway. Onan pulls in front of the long awaited darling, dusty green home “Oh, this is adorable, but where is the garage and driveway?” Aha, this is just the one I’ve waited to see.

Avoiding looking at me, Onan says. “It doesn’t have a garage. There is only street parking with no alley access, but there is plenty of storage in the basement.” He points out a positive feature, grasping at straws.

“We certainly are a soggy team.” He draws attention away from the missing garage with an attempt at humor.

Huge raindrops pound down around us as we run for cover to the front porch. We shake off enough excess water to fill a kiddy pool. I look at the front yard and neighboring area. There is an empty house across the street covered in stylized graffiti, and gang art. OMG. And the highway is congested with corporate vans, trucks and cars. What a noisy nightmare. We go inside.

“Oh, this is darling. The road is a problem and the neighborhood is questionable. It smells very musty and moist in here. The wood floors look new, that’s a good redeeming quality, don’t you think?”

“Yes, and it may have been vacant for a while. Houses take on an odor when they are empty for any time at all. They painted the inside, and made impressive updates.”

“ The kitchen is a dream.” I turn on the faucet testing for water pressure and hear banging noises from the pipes. Water gurgles and burps out in gushes, covering the sink in brown, rusty colored filth. It reminds me of Flint Michigan. Then I look at the window over the sink, with a view of the busy street in front. Just below the sill is a puncture. I inspect it carefully. ‘Onan, this looks like a bullet hole. It goes clear through to the outside.” I point like an idiot then put my pen into the hole and follow its path behind me. Against the wall is a cavity, same size as under the sill. Ugh. I play detective and look for the bullet, finding nothing.

“Yeah, It could be.” He keeps a blank expression. I knew she’d hate this neighborhood. She wanted to see this house even if it sat on the edge of an airstrip directly under the flight pattern. Blast my luck.

“Lets check out the rest of the house. They certainly staged it beautifully.”

“They sure did, and I like the subtle colors. It makes the rooms feel large and airy.”

“You’re right.” I walk into the guest bath. The floor is spongy. I look up. The ceiling has large water stains and is dripping, making a puddle on the floor. “This is not a good sign. It’s pure luck we came when it’s pouring outside because it could have been missed during dry sunny weather.”

“That’s a lot of water.” Crap. This place is a waste of my time to show.

Onan looks resigned to failure, hanging his head down and drooping his shoulders again.

I check out the bedrooms and find more sagging wet ceilings. “Well, here’s more proof this house needs to be re-roofed and checked for dry rot and mold. K-ching, repairs are adding up fast. OK, Onan, I waited a long time to see this house and I’m going to look at every single square inch of it.”

We go down into the basement. “Wow, this vintage look could be a scene in an old movie.” It’s unfinished, original concrete with small windows. The giant outdated furnace dominates the space and I have to bend down to avoid banging my head on the oversized ducts that feed the heat to the upstairs. “Is this old monsterous the furnace being used to heat this house? It’s as old as the discovery of fire.”

“They put base board heating in a few years back. I don’t know why they didn’t remove this monolith.” Onan is looking the place over, too.

A washer and dryer with a huge concrete sink are against one wall. The air has a strong musty odor. Upon closer inspection I see termites almost hidden in a crevice on the west side of the room. Water is seeping through the cracks in the concrete foundation. Out the back door are stairs to the yard and the landing is muddy. I choose to go through it, anyway. I wore the right shoes for all this muddy muck. The backyard is large and fenced in different styles, two are vertical slats. On the south side is chain link, old and tired. Two pit bulls standing side by side are in a threatening stance, noses against the cyclone barrier, they are growling and their eyes are focused right at me. I see their large canine teeth. They are foaming at their mouths. If the fence weren’t there, I’d pee my pants. I’d be history. I carefully look at the rest of the yard without walking far away from the security of the basement door, in case I have to make a run for it from those two beasts. I feel cold sweat from fear add to the rain seeping through my clothes. I hate pit bulls.

There are fruit trees and flowering bushes bordering the entire yard. As I take this in, the ground shakes and I hear the haunting call of a train horn echo through the pounding rain “No way in hell. OK Onan, now it’s gone from crazy to full-blown insanity." I can see the tracks right through the gaps of the old picket fence. OMG. And there it is. A giant freight train emerges and its engine noise assaults my senses. The flange squeal permeates the air and the ground continues to quiver while the cry of the train horn deafens my hearing. I twirl around and glare at Onan.

“I didn’t know about the train. It wasn’t in any paperwork I had read and I haven’t had time to preview it. The listing agent sent the multiples a flyer on this house. It stated that this isn’t considered a safe neighborhood with the highway at the front door. Oh, and it mentioned a school one block up. The kids will be noisy but this train beats all. “

“WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU, ONAN.” That damn train is so loud my teeth are rattling and my ears are ringing. He has been talking away while the long train rumbles on and on, silencing his voice.

It’s still raining. I’m soaked. My hair is dripping and clinging to my head with droplets falling down across my face. I feel like I’m standing under a waterfall.

He quits talking just in time for me to hear the hoots and hollers of children amassing on the sidewalk. I yell at him, “I WOULDN’T HAVE MISSED A SCHOOL BEING CLOSE WITH ALL THAT RACKET. SCHOOL MUST BE OUT FOR THE DAY.” The tail end of the train finally passes the back yard rails. The quivering ground tames, and I hear the haunting call of the engine fade away.

Poor Onan looks like a soggy rag. He is a little late in being forthcoming about the undesirable aspects of this property. Well, so much for honesty in advertising. The picture and description were lovely.

We walk through the house to make sure all the doors are locked and I can check it out one absolutely last time. As we stand on the front porch, Onan locks the door, turns and his foot goes through a rotten board on the porch. Shock value is at a premium here.

As we step off the porch, one last drop of rain plops onto the cement walkway. The storm is over. Some omen, I imagine.

I wonder who they think would buy this place? Some desperate, frantic, deaf, near-sighted buyer, blind to the enormous problems, sure to rush in and sign an ‘as is’ contract? Oh, yeah, that’s going to happen.

Well, it won’t be me.

To be continued

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