Sales

FICTION

by K. A. Polzin

        We keep all the lawns mowed and the hedges trimmed. It’s important that the houses look lived-in, so buyers driving through the development don’t have second thoughts and do a turnaround. 
         It was my idea to sprinkle a few cars in the driveways, complete the picture. I have connections at the local Enterprise and we have an arrangement—free parking for them, great optics for us. Win-win. 
         Our curb appeal is off the charts. But the truth is we haven’t sold a single house yet. It’s a well-known fact: buyers don’t want to be first. I’m sure that once we get a few sales, once some real people move in with their actual cars, once buyers see more activity, sales will take off. 
         The other day I took a drive over to Village Homes, just to see it at full occupancy, as a morale booster. I thought about all my commissions there. Then I came back here raring to sell.
         I suggested we hire some families to pose as tenants, you know, for fifty bucks and lunch, have them turn their kids loose on the streets—play tag or ride bikes or whatever, anything to make the place look neighborhoody. Right now, when you drive through, it feels like the houses were finished right before some kind of apocalypse, like everyone in the world is dead and all that remains are these brand-new unoccupied houses.
         They said no to hiring families—something about it being illegal or unethical, I forget which. I don’t get it. It’s not like we’d be tricking anyone. We’d only be showing them the future, how things will look one day, when the place is inhabited. It’s just like staging a room with furniture, only we’d be using humans.
         Some of the lawns are getting re-sodded already. Sales have been that slow. The recent flooding sure didn’t help. But try finding a place that isn’t susceptible to some kind of natural disaster. It’s impossible! I used to tell that to buyers, but I found it didn’t help make the sale. People don’t want the truth, they want their hand held, they want me to show them that this is the perfect place, that they will feel at home here, that in their new house, they will become what they always imagined they would.
         And the truth is: they will, at first. When everything is new to them. All possibility. After a while, though, every place starts to feel the same, doesn’t it? You notice the wear patterns in the carpet. A familiar odor sets in. The place loses its brand-newness. It doesn’t inspire. Then you’re back to square one. 
         Of course I don’t say this. We all need our fantasies. Like the people who come here, walk through the different models, eat the cookies I put out—but it’s just for fun, they have no intention of buying. I spot them right away, but I smile, give them the show sheet, and ask if they have questions. I never let on.