Swing and a Miss

The grass was still wet, lush, his footprints staying behind where he left each of them. This was the place he loved since his boyhood, the place of joy of fun, the place of achievement – real achievement. Daniel remembered his father coaching him, the games and the trophies won. Life was all so simple then. He breathed in the fresh morning air and sighed as he considered the day ahead.

The day’s work came next. Daniel headed to his desk and on his way, Jordan nodded from his own, already on the phone. Mikayla didn’t bother to look up. Daniel noticed the desk phone in his periphery the way one regards a television remote after hours of compulsive late-night watching.

The phone was that way with Daniel. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like the feelings it provoked, although it was the basis of his work. The phone. Calling. He opened a drawer and removed his planner. Nothing written into the neat little square that was his day. He sighed before again regarding the phone on the corner of his desk. Removing the receiver, he dialed. Voicemail. Script. Done. Dial. Another voicemail. Script. Done. He stood and walked to the coffee pot, aware of his false sense of achievement. He couldn’t fool himself about it anymore. The numbers didn’t lie, and because they didn’t lie, he could no longer lie. Not to himself. Not to his wife. Not to anyone. The coffee tasted bitter. He added the powdered creamer and it clumped together on the surface before the reused metal spoon dove in and gave it a stir, a powdery clump lifting over the edge of the tired old company mug with a miniature stream of drip tagging along behind. More gently. He lifted the mug leaving a ring behind, the spoon clattering down into the metal sink.

He’d sold himself out. This work wasn’t what he was supposed to do. That he knew. But he felt trapped in it, in how good it could be. When the market was up it was easy. Now it was beyond difficult. The treachery and falsehood so easily embodied by his colleagues were what gave the industry such a bad name. Selling. Closing. Manipulating people into making enormous purchase decisions that they didn’t necessarily want to make, then justifying the resultant vague feelings of guilt and even shame because you got the job done – and that’s what was best for the client. Bullshit. It was bullshit and he knew it. Whether anyone else did or not wasn’t obvious. It was a giddy, secretive, little ha-ha when things went well, and an allusion was made to the crookery involved. What truly are the best interests of the client? Well, his broker would tell him it was selling the house. And that’s even if it meant disclosing the bottom line of their client to get the deal done, or not telling the whole truth about the things they knew because they were only the opinion of the professional contractor, and not necessarily material fact. There were so many contrivances, so many forms and fashions of deception and manipulation it was literally like learning another language. Sales.

The phone rang. Snapped from his morbid reflection, his arm reached without his telling it to and the receiver was to his ear. The words falling out of his mouth were not his own. He’d devolved into a robotic shell of the man he once was, and Daniel was painfully aware of it.

“… Yes, Hello. We’re considering buying a home and selling our own and wanted to speak with someone about it. An old friend of ours, Douglas Marshall, said that you took good care of him and to give you a call as well.”

Doug Marshall. Daniel took the listing and Jordan brought the buyer the next day. Closed the deal inside of two weeks. Only issue was Jordan worked both sides of the transaction—all Daniel got was a finder’s fee. When they couldn’t find Doug a house to buy, he got stuck in a rental—temporarily. Sweet old man didn’t think anything of it, but what he had really wanted more than to sell his house was to get a small cottage on the lake. But now Daniel was getting the credit for a good job he not only didn’t do but had to mislead the seller to even get. Did such a good job at selling that the guy is rotting away in his little two-bedroom apartment thinking he got a deal, telling friends he’s a good agent.

“Yes. Doug Marshall. Good man. You’re in luck! And you may already be aware of this, but it’s an incredible time to be selling a home. Conversely, it’s a little difficult to buy right now because of all the competition,” he mumbled. “BUT… that’s no matter because I’m sure we’ll be able to find you something. What exactly are you looking to purchase?”

“Well, we really just know that we’d like to downsize. This home has been such a pleasure – though a lot of work over the years – but not only have our children all grown and moved out, but even their children are growing now, and…” her voice softened and slowed as though she were talking to herself, “well, they just don’t come around as much as they used to when they were younger. Everybody’s too busy to spend time with us. But you don’t need to know all that,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “We just don’t need all the space anymore. It’s a rather large house. Salem Ave. Are you familiar with the neighborhood?”

“I am. Of course.” He felt his heart rate escalate. Salem Avenue was one of the older streets in town, comprised of large historic homes once occupied by the executives of the several brick mills down along the river. “I’m sorry, what’s your name, ma’am?”

“Jodie. Jodie Clancey. It’s myself and my husband Jonathan.”

“Thank you, Jodie. And what’s the address of your home?”

“Oh sure. It’s 537 Salem Ave. Here in Charleston.”

“Of course. Thank you.” If this was as good as he assumed, it would be a big payday for Daniel, and likely still another closing on their purchase. He could put his feet up a little after the Clanceys. He could relax. Get back on the field with James and not feel so stressed all the time. While the buyer pool was enormous, listings were few and far between. And with no listings, even in an active market, Daniel was having a difficult time closing any deals. Further aggravating the situation was everyone he knew asserting he must be doing really well, and that real estate is real busy, eh? Good time to be in real estate! Without listings, Daniel was starving at the dinner table, staring at a plate full of food.

“Now, we are interviewing other agents, but I do hold Douglas’s recommendation in a very high regard. So, I do want to put you somewhat at ease. I think it’s likely that we’ll work with you, Daniel. But our daughters insist that we interview at least three agents. Just to make you aware.”

His heart skipped one of those elevated beats. His throat clogged and he had to clear it. Of course they’d interview other agents. But still. His odds were good. He just couldn’t fuck this one up. “Oh… of course. Thank you for that, uh,” he glanced at his scratch pad for her name, “Jodie. Thanks. When would you like me to come by to view the home? Then we can discuss pricing and what the firm offers to sellers.”

“Well, having said that it can be difficult to buy right now, shouldn’t we determine where we’re going before we discuss the house?”

“Well, Jodie,” Daniel smiled, “if we’re going to be interviewing agents for the listing then the house is a priority, correct? It’s also important in determining what you can afford for your purchase based on the value of the house, assuming you need to sell in order to buy. But, yes, sure… we can have a quick look and see what’s available. Here, let me pull it up now on my computer.”

“Shouldn’t Jonathan and I just come down to your office?”

“No need,” he said almost under his breath, distracted with the computer search. “We can do it here and now. What’s the price range that you and Jonathan are thinking of spending in? Four hundred to, say, six hundred?”

She started loud enough for him to notice. “Sir, we’re looking to downsize, not upgrade.”

He reflected a moment before responding. She must have no idea the value of her home. On Salem Ave., it could easily be worth north of a million. He needed to get over there. He at least needed to research the address. “Hmm. Maybe you’re right, Jodie. What’s a good time for you to come in. Are you free now?”

“Well, that’s a little short notice, but I suppose that means you’re enthusiastic… Uh, I’ll just check with Jonathan. Let me place the phone down.”

“Sure, sure.” He heard the noise from her placing a landline, probably a goddamn rotary phone, down on the mahogany bar while she went to fetch Jonathan. He pulled the tax data for property up glancing over at Jordan and Mikayla and inwardly laughing a maniacal laugh at the golden egg he had hiding under his rump. Finally. Finally, Daniel gets a break. He closed the computer screen and started doing the math on his notepad. Even at nine hundred at even a five percent list fee and even off one side if he takes even three percent, and then seventy-five percent of that, that’s… let’s see… oh yeah. That’s a happy day right there. Plus the purchase side after. That’s another two percent at least off of say four hundred…

“Daniel?”

“Yes. Hi. Josie. Are you and Jonathan able to come in today?”

“Daniel, I’m terribly sorry… but we’re not. Jonathan said he’s not feeling so well and wanted to wait a little while.”

“Okay. That’s fine. Want to make a plan for tomorrow? Or Friday?”

“Mm. Why don’t I give you a call again once he’s feeling better? Okay? Is this the best number to reach you?”

His mouth hung open slightly as he tried to think of the right thing to say. “Why don’t I stop by at a time convenient for you? I could even bring something by for Jonathan if you needed. Maybe some Tylenol or some Dayquil? How does that sound?” Daniel heard a sharpness in Jodie’s exhale, and it pissed him off, imagining this old bitch’s sniffling face thinking she’s better than him with her goddamn heritage home on Salem Ave.

“Daniel, I’ll give you a call when we’re ready to speak with you.”

“Okay. Sure. Give me a call when you’re ready, Josie. Thank you.”

“Good-bye.”

He clacked the receiver down, sat far back in the chair, and looked at the ceiling—something done in moments of success and failure alike. Which of these it was was not yet evident, though his intuition suggested the latter. He bit his bottom lip with his top teeth. The blood in his thighs felt like it was boiling inside of his legs, causing them to swell. A shiver bounced throughout his torso and he tightened his abdomen, shooting up and forward and snapping the laptop back open. He had nothing. All he had was a list of phone numbers. Leads. Yeah, right. People who own property where they don’t live and someone else does. People who don’t answer their phones when they see a New Hampshire number because they know it’s another asshole trying to get something out of them. People who have better things to do than talk to Daniel.

Fuck it. He was tired. He got up and walked toward the hall that led toward the door.

“Cashing out early today, Dano? It’s only ten-thirty, man. Don’t tell me you’re going to lunch already!” Jordan. Fucking Jordan. The one who didn’t have to try. The one who had it all handed to him. Teacher’s fucking pet.

“I have to run a few errands,” returned Daniel with a feigned smile that was convincing enough.

“Coffee’s for closers, Danny Baby. Don’t give up before the miracle happens!”

Daniel’s same smile answered, however a smile answers something like that, and he turned and continued to walk away. The mental assassination of his colleague was momentarily interrupted by the ringing of a phone he thought was his, and, on turning, realized that it was just Jordan’s phone ringing again.

He drove back to the field. Still nobody there. The silver bleachers were dry, morning dew having made way for the heat of the sun. What remained of it was a thickness in the summer air that prompted Daniel to loosen his tie and unbutton the top button of his shirt. They’d call back. He always made a big deal about things like this, and they usually worked out fine. Let things take care of themselves. He couldn’t stand that story, not anymore. He knew it wasn’t true. He needed to fix this, but he couldn’t. He had to wait. He had to sit in it, and he hated sitting in it.

The soon-to-be midday sun got too hot for Daniel, and he moved from the silver bleacher, returned to his twelve years young Chrysler, and drove back to the office. The office building didn’t have the same glow it used to for him. Sitting there, cooking in the sun, its white vinyl siding covering up the truth of a hundred-and fifty-year-old building. A facade, a veneer. A protective coating pretending to be protective and efficient but really existing merely to be a carbon copy of the original true thing. A cheaper watered-down version of the truth. It needed a pressure wash. Like a cloud of dirt took a break here on its pass through town. He opened the door and stepped from the car again. It would be lunch soon. Couple more cold calls and he could go. Might make this an early day.

The new air conditioner didn’t reach the back room where his desk was, but he was greeted by cold air in the front where the brokers and the customers could be found. He put on his pretend smile and meandered back, aimless and reluctant. He arrived at his desk, took his chair out and placed himself there. With blurred vision he noticed the enemy of his day there at the corner of the desk again. He took a deep breath in—and grabbed the receiver. Dial tone numbingly filling his right ear, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder as he brought up the list of leads again. Mikayla came back in with a coffee.

“Hey, Danny Boy.” Their fun name for Daniel in the backroom of the office. “Talk to Jordan?”

“No. Just got back. He must have left before—”

“Just got a big one and ran out the door, yeah.”

“Oh boy,” said Daniel. “Jordan got another big one. Whoopdie doo. Teacher’s pet gets all the good leads.”

“Yeah,” she returned with a slight look of incredulity. “Salem Ave. Nice house. He showed me the tax card before he went. Got any buyers for a big one?”

He sighed, but not slightly, not relaxingly, not passively. His sigh was disgusted, angry, enraged. His jaw clenched and his molars ground down against each other. He grabbed his wallet from the desk and shuffled past Mikayla. “What?” she asked. “What’s the matter with you, Daniel?”

He turned around. “Fuck you. Okay?” he said.

Her face lurched backward. “Fuck you. Dick!”

He’d already continued toward the door, and from the door toward the car. Chrysler. Twelve years young. “Mother fucker!” he shouted, and he punched the top of the steering wheel. “Always! ALWAYS!”

*

The day cooled down, but Daniel didn’t. He went home and slept in his work clothes on the leather sofa he’d bought when things were better. Things were better. James got home from school. Cutest James. Nine years old and without a touch of proper blame. Without even a touch of anything the matter. Smart. Intellectual. Bright as a sunny day.

“Hey Dad! We still playing ball today?”

Daniel sighed. “Sure, buddy. We can play some ball.” Not able to make a living. But I can go to the ball field and play with my son. Until they take the cars away. Then the house. “Sure, sure, James. Grab the stuff?” His son had read some of the subtext of his father’s attitude, but at nine he couldn’t begin to empathize with the great majority of it. He only could sense, ever so vaguely, that something was awry. He brushed the silly sense away in hopes of a glorious game of ball with Dad.

The day was stale. The hot sun was inching down slowly toward the tree line. The grass was dry. The field was crowded. The diamond was taken. They moved to a remote part of the outfield. Apropos, thought Daniel.

“Catch?” asked the boy with a hesitant smile.

Daniel sighed. “You need to work on hitting. Let’s start there. Maybe we can just throw the ball around after you’ve practiced working on your weaknesses. Have to sharpen the saw before you cut down the tree, James.”

The boy nodded, obediently, his eyes drawn down and appearing thoughtful. A swing and a miss. Another swing and a miss. Daniel closed the gap between them somewhat. Swing and a miss. Swing and a miss. “James. Buddy. Keep your eye on the ball. Trust that feeling, the uh, the impulse. When you feel it, just swing. But when you swing, don’t look away. Just crack that ball. Okay?”

“Okay, Dad,” said James, nodding his head, again, thoughtfully. Obediently. Swing and a miss. Swing and a… barely any contact. A mere foul tip.

“James! Just make a connection with it. Okay? You don’t need to cream the thing! Just” he tensed up quickly shaking head, frustrated, “fucking hit it!” he said a little too severely. And immediately continued with, “I’m sorry… Just hit the ball, buddy. That’s all. Okay?

James’s lips had tightened along with his face.

Swing and a miss. “Goddamnit, James! I’m sorry,” Daniel said. “Maybe this isn’t a good day for ball. Dad’s pretty tense today.”

“It’s okay, Dad. I really want to play with you.”

Daniel nodded his head. “Hang on a sec, buddy.” Daniel checked his cell but there were no notifications. He lobbed the baseball to his son again, straight down the middle, nice and slow.

Swing and a miss. “Aw, come on, James. Just hit the ball, buddy. Listen, if you want to be good at the sport you can’t just play catch all the time. Okay?”

The other fathers had been watching. They’d been watching and they could tell Daniel wasn’t a success. They could tell that his kid was a runner up, too.

“Okay, James. Let’s go, buddy. You got it this time, right?”

James nodded his head, but his face had grown red. His eyes had welled. But Daniel couldn’t see.