Alligators in the Trees

by Cynthia Hamilton

  “You’ve got to hear this,” she said, thrusting the phone at Roxanne.

  “Are you looking for the job opportunity of a lifetime? Are you fearless, uninhibited, and motivated? Do you have moxie? Do you look great in a swimsuit?” the recorded message said. “If the answers to these questions are yes, you may be the perfect candidate for a host or hostess position at Pink’s House of Bods.” Roxanne snorted and handed Andrea’s phone back to her.

  “Figures,” she said, resuming her perusal of the paper.

  “Ah…here’s a good one—‘$1,000 Sign-On Bonus,’ she said, baiting Roxanne, who was interested enough to lower her newspaper. ‘Want to make a difference?? Become a school bus driver! No experience necessary!’ Ha ha,” Andrea laughed.

  “Oh, yeah—that’s right up my alley.”

  “They’re looking for waitresses at Skip’s Hawaiian Paradise.”

  “You’re really not being any help at all,” Roxanne said.

  “Well, maybe if you tell me exactly what kind of job you’re looking for…”

  “I don’t know,” Roxanne admitted, tossing her paper aside in disgust.

  “Hey, why don’t you go to Beauty College and come work for me.”

  “You must be joking.”

  “No, I’m not,” Andrea said, slightly offended. “What’s wrong with cutting hair for a living?” she asked defensively.

  “There’s nothing wrong with it, if you don’t mind touching other people’s hair, which I would not want to do.”

  “You make it sound dirty or something.”

  “I don’t want to get that close to anyone. I’m sort of like not a people person. Don’t you understand—my whole problem is I’ve had it with humanity. In fact, you could say that I’ve lost my humanity. That’s what working too closely with the public will do to you.”

  “Well, it hasn’t done that to me,” Andrea said, her mood suddenly becoming somber.

  “You’re different than I am. Most people are, I guess. I just…I just need a change.”

  “I can see that,” Andrea said, pouting. It surprised Roxanne she was taking her admission so personally.

  “Look, thanks for your job offer and your undying support,” Roxanne said, reaching for Andrea’s discarded paper. She too had difficulty finding the want ads due to the copious quantity of real estate advertisements. She scanned the faces, idly curious if the agent who was in her line that day was pictured.

  Halfway down the page, the same photo shown on Lois Bronsen’s business card leapt out at her, with the italicized caption reading, “Top 5 Percentile in the Country.” Roxanne stared at the ad in disbelief. That bimbo? she thought to herself. That woman’s dumber than dirt.

  “Maybe I should sell real estate,” she mused out loud. Andrea’s cackle of surprise was not the kind of response she was looking for.

  “That was a joke, right?” Roxanne’s glowering expression said otherwise. “You’re serious.” Andrea mulled this extraordinary idea over for a minute. “I’m sorry, but I cannot see you selling real estate,” she said flatly, washing the thought away with a hearty slug of wine.

  “Why not?” Though Roxanne had made the remark half in jest, her pride required her to challenge Andrea’s out-of-hand dismissal.

  “I had a woman in my line today—a realtor—who was so dimwitted, she couldn’t figure out how to slide her card through the keypad. And here she is, ‘Top 5 Percentile in the Country.’ If an ignoramus like her can pull down a couple hundred grand a year, why couldn’t I?”

  “Because you’re not an ignoramus?” Andrea offered.

  “They can’t all be stupid,” Roxanne grumbled, surveying the page for proof of intelligence. Problem was, there was no way to determine from a thumb-size photo whether a person was intelligent or not. “They’re professionals. Selling real estate is a profession,” she insisted.

  “Are you trying to convince yourself or me?”

  “What do you have against realtors?” Roxanne demanded.

  “You must’ve had a horrible day. Why are you being so defensive? You’re the one who called that woman an ignoramus. What’s your problem? Be a realtor—what do I care?” Andrea said, reaching for her ringing cell phone. She and Roxanne exchanged petulant glances before Andrea diverted her attention to the incoming call.

  “Hi, honey—what’s going on?” she purred into the phone, further darkening Roxanne’s mood. Rub my nose in the fact that you’ve got a honey and I don’t, she thought sourly, hating herself for feeling so out of sorts.

  “Jim wants to know if we want to join him at Pete’s,” Andrea said, handing over her phone. The scene played out in Roxanne’s mind, the way it had a dozen times before: hanging out in the dingy pool hall, drinking beers and fending off lowlifes, while Andrea and Jim groped each other in the corner.

  “I think I’ll pass. I’m obviously not very good company tonight,” she said, digging in her purse for her wallet.

  “Jim, hang on a sec, okay? We don’t have to go over there—we can go somewhere else and I’ll catch up with Jim later,” Andrea said.

  ‘No, you go ahead. I’m really bushed,” Roxanne said, tossing a twenty on the table.

  “Let me call you back,” Andrea said to Jim. “Why don’t we go grab a bite to eat, then see what you feel like doing,” she suggested.

  “No, you go be with your honey. We’ll talk to tomorrow,” Roxanne said, reaching over to give her friend a quick hug.

  “Are you sure? You don’t really seem yourself tonight.”

  “I wish I weren’t,” Roxanne said with sarcastic smirk. “I’m all right—don’t give me that look.”

  “You’ll call me tomorrow?” Andrea asked.

  “It’s the only thing on my agenda,” Roxanne quipped lightly, before forging her way out through the ficus jungle.

  Three

  Roxanne switched on the living room lights, immediately regretting her decision to come back home so early. She wasn’t ready to face the long hours till bedtime alone with her nagging doubts and self-recriminations. She wished Conner were home, then she was glad he wasn’t. She wouldn’t want him to see her in such a black mood. But maybe if he were there, she’d suck it in and try to act cheerful for his sake. Oh, what does it matter, she asked herself morosely, as she stared at the refrigerator shelves with unseeing eyes.

  “What am I doing here?” she asked out loud, willing herself to focus on the task at hand. Not finding anything of interest food-wise, she settled for a lite beer, twisting the cap off as she headed back into the living room.

  Well, at least I get to sleep in the bed again tonight, she tried to console herself, as she clicked on the television and ran through the channels. She was just about to turn it off when something caught her attention two stations back. She clicked the down button twice and caught the last few seconds of a commercial by a local real estate agency.

  She studied the smiling faces of the agents and their satisfied clients intently, as if she’d never seen such an advertisement before. The commercial ended and a game show came back on. She switched off the TV and stared at the blank screen.

  What would be wrong with trying to sell real estate? Why couldn’t I do it? she asked herself, remembering Andrea’s look of astonishment at the mention of such a thing. She looked around at her one-bedroom condo, with its cheap finishes and paper-thin walls, the garage sale furniture and the worn carpet. Did she really have to spend the rest of her days working at ValuWise and coming home to this? Did she really want to sleep on the sofa bed every other week until Conner left home?

  One of the reasons she hadn’t sought out any romantic involvements was because of her cramped, shabby quarters. The thought of having to confine her available nights to the weeks when Conner was with his father turned her off to the idea of dating altogether. Besides, this place was depressing. It was enough to scare off any guy, no matter how interested.

  She wouldn’t blame Conner if he came back to her one day and told her he wanted to
live at his dad’s house permanently, perish the thought. Hell, she’d live there if she could. Five bedrooms, four baths, entertainment room, pool, gorgeous kitchen. Leave it to Derek to become successful after they divorced. If she had only known his latent entrepreneurial instincts were going to kick in, she would’ve stuck it out another couple of years. Instead, she was living paycheck to paycheck, never scraping together enough to get ahead.

  As she sat there, she was seized by a bold aspiration. She went into the bedroom and started up Conner’s computer. As she waited for it to boot, she mentally went through the paces: search real estate schools; find out how much they cost and how long it would take to do the course; find out about the test and other requirements. She was going to at least see if there was any reason she shouldn’t become a real estate agent.

  Searching for schools was easy; trying to tell the good from the not-so-good was a different story. She scanned the listings on the first page before going back to the top and clicking on the most reasonable-sounding outfit. After searching through the whole site, she still couldn’t find out what the program cost. She exited that site and perused the others on offer.

  Several made price the main issue. $175; that seemed justifiable. One site boasted a passing rate of more than four out of five. More than four out of five—what was that, nine out of ten? Nineteen out of twenty? Couldn’t they just say that? Every other word she read made her feel like she was treading in shark-infested waters. Another course was offered for $99, full money-back guarantee. That seemed to be a big selling point with most of the sites. Another for $79. Too cheap, she thought. She clicked on the $99 site.

  “Take the test after six to eight weeks of study…streaming online classes…pass the test or your money back guaranteed…” she read out loud. The next column, the $129 course, also included DVD’s. The third program they offered included all of the above, plus books and study guide. The gold package, a mere $199, included the Principles Course, which was mandatory in order to get your license. How sneaky, she thought: $99 would guarantee that you passed the test, but only the $199 package would get you licensed. She backed out of the site and clicked on another.

  After half an hour of comparing sales pitches, she started having serious misgivings about the integrity and reliability of such enterprises. Were they all just a hustle, like weight-loss schemes? Or could she reasonably expect to obtain a real estate license after forking over the dough and studying their courses?

  And for that matter, what were the chances she could pass the test, money back guarantee or not? Maybe I’m too stupid, she worried until she recalled that Lois Bronsen had obviously passed the test. If she could do it, there was hope for anyone.

  She was trying to figure out which site seemed the most bona fide, when she happened to glance at the top of page. Her wavering optimism took another hit when she realized her search had come back with over a million matches. She stared at the number in disbelief. 1,680,000—could that be right? Well, it did seem like every other person sold real estate. She let out a low whistle and reevaluated her chances once again.

  Well, there are a lot of people in California, she rationalized. To make her argument, she tried another search, this time bringing up California census figures. An estimated 36,457,495 people lived in her crowded state as of 2007. At the same time, there were over 13 million residences. Okay, that’s a lot of homes. Now, if I could find out how many real estate agents there are…

  Another search lead her to a discovery she wasn’t prepared for: as of June 2008, there were 500,053 real estate licensees in the state of California. As if that statistic wasn’t mind-boggling enough, the article went on to explain that an average of 155 new licenses were issued every day, 365 days a year. 44,000 new licensees a year.

  Roxanne flinched as though she had been slapped. She read the information again to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. She hit the red X to close the internet, and shut down, case closed. As she watched the screen go black, she marveled at her stupidity.

  What was I thinking, she berated herself. At that moment, becoming a real estate agent seemed about as viable a career move as becoming the next porno queen.

  Four

  Roxanne silently threatened her unreliable vehicle before turning the key in the ignition one last time. Nothing. She swore unrestrainedly as she dredged her cell phone out of her purse. Six thirty-nine; the staff meeting was starting in six minutes. She hated to do it, but she had no choice. She put in a distress call to her unfaltering friend.

  “Hello?” Andrea croaked, her voice thick with sleep.

  “Andie, it’s me. I know it’s early, but I need help.”

  “What’s wrong?” Andrea asked, propping herself into a half-upright position. She was alarmed; Roxanne seldom used her nickname. Jim rolled over and kissed her on the elbow before getting out of bed. Whatever the call was about, he was certain there would be no before-work nookie in the cards today.

  “It’s my car. It won’t start again.” Andrea gave Jim a frustrated glance over her shoulder, as she kicked off the sheet and swung her feet to the floor.

  “That piece of crap? When are you going to get yourself a decent vehicle?” she groused. Roxanne pursed her lips, knowing she had to expect a certain amount of grief for the rude awakening.

  “It’s on the top of my ‘Lottery Winnings to Do List,’” she replied, trying to keep the acid out of her tone.

  “Where is she?” Jim asked, pulling on his pants.

  “Where are you?”

  “At home, in my parking slot. We’ve got a staff meeting that starts at quarter to seven.”

  “She’s at home,” Andrea said, hand over the receiver. “She has a meeting at ValuWise at quarter to seven.”

  “Well, she won’t make that, but I can give her a lift,” Jim said, buttoning his work shirt.

  “Really?”

  “Sure,” Jim said, reaching for his shoes under the bed.

  “You are an angel,” Andrea said, blowing him a kiss. “Jim’s going to come and get you,” she reported to her stranded compadre. Though it was not exactly the solution she had been hoping for, Roxanne offered her sincere thanks.

  “You know where she lives, right?” Andrea called out to Jim, who was pouring himself a to-go cup of coffee. He nodded. “Just look for that maroon bucket-of-bolts she calls a car. You can’t miss it—it’s the ugliest car in town,” she added for Roxanne’s benefit.

  “Think you need a new starter,” Jim announced, lowering the hood and gently slamming it closed. Roxanne groaned, as much for the added tardiness Jim’s chivalrous time-wasting gesture was creating as for the expense of a new starter.

  “What do you think a new one will cost me,” she asked, as she eagerly hoisted herself into the passenger side of Jim’s diesel truck.

  “Not that much—hundred and fifty, maybe. But it’s the labor that gets expensive.”

  Roxanne let out a defeated sigh. She had a momentary flash of driving her car through the front of ValuWise, freeing herself of both car and job in one fluid stroke.

  “But I’ve got a buddy, owns a garage, probably give you a deal,” Jim was saying. Roxanne didn’t care for the expression on his face or the tone of his voice.

  “I think I need to look for another car,” Roxanne said dismissively, turning her attention out the window.

  “Well, you still might be in luck,” Jim continued, undeterred. “I’ve got another buddy who deals in cars—what you call ‘pre-owned’ automobiles. He might be able to help you out,” he said, his Good Samaritanship making him beam with pleasure.

  “You sure have a lot of buddies,” Roxanne said dryly. This remark made Jim smile broadly.

  “What can I say?” he demurred with a modest shrug. Roxanne hazarded another glance at her watch, not caring if Jim took the inference. “I’ll have you there in a jiffy,” he said, nonplussed by her heavy hint. “Missed you at Pete’s the other night,” he added casually.

  “Yeah, well�
�can’t say there’s a whole lot for me to do there, seeing as how I can’t shoot pool worth a damn.”

  “I could teach you,” Jim offered. Roxanne smirked and turned away for a second.

  “Besides, it’s not like you’d really notice if I were there or not,” she said.

  “Are you jealous?” Jim cooed arrogantly. The insinuation was enough to make Roxanne queasy.

  “Hardly,” she replied, wondering if she was going to have to bail before they reached her place of employment. Jim began whistling a nameless tune as he turned the corner, throwing a sly glance at Roxanne.

  “Jim, it was beyond gallant of you to come and get me, but let’s get this out in the open before anyone starts getting the wrong idea. I don’t have a secret crush on you, the main reason being you’re dating my best friend. So, for Andrea’s sake, let’s just keep our relationship on the straight and narrow, okay?”

  “Andrea doesn’t have to know,” Jim suggested with a revolting leer.

  “Are you kidding me?” Roxanne scowled. “Do you really think I’d stoop so low as to cheat on a friend like that?” she spat, her indignation flaring.

  “Relax,” Jim said condescendingly, as he pulled up in front of ValuWise, “I’m just having you on. Where’s your sense of humor? Must’ve left it in that shit bucket you call a car,” he said out of sheer meanness.

  “Thanks for the ride. You’re a real prince,” Roxanne said, wriggling down from his macho crew cab.

  “De nada,” Jim said, sending her off with one last smarmy grin.

  “What’s this?” Roxanne whispered to Daniel, slipping into the vacant chair next to him as inconspicuously as possible.

  “A type of score card,” Daniel whispered back. “I’ll explain later,” he said, furtively eyeing his boss.

  “Ms. Platt, so glad you could squeeze us into your busy schedule,” Stan Kemplehoff intoned loudly, his surly wit eliciting a couple chuckles from his pet stooges.