A Mile in My Flip-Flops Read Online Free PDF Page B

but maybe it seemed like paradise back in it’s day, which I’m guessing was about fifty years ago. It’s a tract-home subdivision with what I’d estimate to be about a hundredranch-style homes. Some houses look fairly well maintained with landscaped yards. But many are not. And when I get to Lilac Lane, the street where “my” house is located, I am decidedly unimpressed. My guess is that most of the houses along here are rentals. And all are lacking in curb appeal. But when I get to the house with the For Sale sign in front, I can find only one thing that’s right about it: it’s the saddest looking house on the street.
    “The best investment opportunity” Betty told me last weekend, “is to buy the worst house in a good neighborhood.”
    Well, I’m not so sure about the neighborhood, but this is clearly the worst house in the entire subdivision. I park my car on the street and just sit there looking at this pathetic house. I’m not even sure I want to go inside. The paint is peeling. A screen door is hanging on it’s hinges. The front picture window is cracked. The yard is brown, and what once might’ve been flower beds are overgrown with weeds. But then I realize that these are all fixable things. And, really, not terribly expensive either. Good grief, what am I thinking? This is perfect!
    “Come on,” I say to myself. “This is just what you’re looking for.”
    Feeling confident, I go up the cracked cement walkway and onto the porch, where I unlock the front door and give it a push. But I notice the house isn’t empty. There are things inside. So without entering, I cautiously call out, “Anybody home?” Then I stick my head inside and am nearly knocked over by the smell. I don’t know if it’s from pets or a decaying corpse in the bathtub, but this place totally reeks. I blink and step away from the door, gasping for fresh air and wondering if foul air could seriously harm someone. Iremember stories of archaeologists who dropped dead when they breathed the toxic air inside the pyramids. Could this be anything like that?
    I stand on the front steps and stare at the neglected yard. The house may be perfect for my project, but it’s nothing like what I had hoped for. I’d imagined a charming bungalow in need of some TLC. Or maybe even a neglected beach house. Something with some personality. This is a boring old ranch house that smells like an outhouse. Or worse. No way can I go inside there, even to just look around. And to work in a place like that? I’d have to be insane. Only a complete idiot would take on a nasty place like this. I’m convinced it’s probably a health hazard. Not only does the place reek, but there’s all that junk I saw on the mud-colored carpeting. For all I know someone might still be living here. Maybe it’s an ax murderer with dozens of dead bodies rotting away beneath the floorboards.
    I go back to my car but then realize I didn’t lock the front door. In fact I didn’t even close it. Not that anyone with any sense would dare to go inside. Suddenly I feel mad. What kind of a Realtor sends a poor, unsuspecting home buyer to a place like this? I dig the business card from my purse and dial the listing Realtor’s number. Her smiling photo gives the impression that she might be a decent person, but I imagine devil horns poking out of her sleek brunette hair. When Judy answers, I tell her who I am and immediately launch into a quick but candid description of the house of horrors she’s trying to sell.
    “Betty told me you wanted a fixer-upper,” she finally says in an obvious tone, like the giant litter box I’m staring at is an answer to prayer.
    “Have you even
seen
it?”
    “Of course. I wouldn’t list something unseen. And yes, it’s in bad shape. But Betty said you wanted a house to flip—you can’t deny that this one has lots of room for improvement—and the price is quite a bit below what other homes have recently sold for in that same