Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 02 - Time Is of the Essence

by Catharine Bramkamp

  “Thanks.”

  “Working hard?” Grandma brought over more coffee.

  “Usually an offer is considered pretty quickly. They should have gotten it today, or yesterday afternoon.” I punched in the lengthy codes to access my voice mail. I thought of Debbie, all energy and looking forward to a new improved hot tub at her next destination. Didn’t she say her husband was returning from a conference last night? Maybe they were the kind of couple who had to sign things together. That could be it. I hoped the Christophers were on top of it.

  No messages I really needed on my voice mail. I dialed the Christopher number just to be sure. Of course I got a machine.

  “Okay,” I placed my phone down and focused on my hostess. “You need better wine. Anything else while I’m at the store?”

  Grandma keeps tiny irregular pieces of paper by the phone, most of them are envelopes, like the PG & E bill that rarely breaks two digits. Ever since Grandpa and John Schaeffer installed prototype solar panels on the garage roof, the electricity bills have plummeted. No permits slowed that project down, in 1977 no one knew what the solar panels thing was all about and besides, you cannot see the panels from the street, which is a good thing. They are quite ugly.

  “You are a spoiled brat,” Grandma said affectionately. “I don’t know where you get your taste for wine.”

  I grinned. “Beats other choices.” I wrote down wine on the back of the Comcast envelope.

  “Maybe,” Grandma conceded, “but sometimes those other choices can come in handy when you need some cash.”

  “Do you need cash Grandma?” I asked. The very thought startled me. Grandma and Grandpa were counter cultural to be sure, Beatniks, Hippies, and a few other names I’ve heard my mother employ when she was particularly put out about her blighted childhood spent trapped in Claim Jump. But my grandparents never lacked for anything, more to the point, I never lacked for anything when I was with them.

  “Oh lord girl, no. I was just thinking of the old days. I still have those buildings downtown. I have this preposterous stock with the odd name. You remember those nice young men from Stanford? Came up to visit your grandfather right before he died?”

  I shrugged. So many kids. As my grandparent’s aged, I noticed that their definition of “kid” broadened with each passing year. Prue entertained a lot of students from Stanford, probably because Grandpa was an alumni. Grandma and Grandpa collected odd people the way other grandparents collect Hummel figurines. And believe me, the former is better. At least she doesn’t have to store her collectables in crowded breakfronts, like those of her friends Pat and Mike. And if I don’t want to, I don’t have to inherit the friends. I may want to.

  “Well, they didn’t have any cash and they weren’t very handy around the house, so they gave us some shares of their new business as a thank you for letting them stay here for the summer.”

  “How many shares?” I asked.

  “Oh a hundred. At the time,” she was purposefully vague.

  I nodded. I named the two most obvious “funny name” choices and she offered up that the last time she bothered to look, her 100 shares had split into about ten thousand shares in the latter funny named business.

  “Well, we have your future secured don’t we?” I thought briefly about letting my mother know she did not have to worry about Prue, then changed my mind. Let mom worry, it will give her a strong subject to fret over during bridge. And every once in a while Prue likes to threaten to move in with mom. That’s good for about a month of solid panic and daily phone calls to, me.

  “Oh, and don’t forget I get a $1,000 a month from your grandfather’s social security.”

  “Good, I’ll use that to buy the wine.”

  There are two sections to Claim Jump. The sections are evenly divided by a seven mile long four-lane freeway connecting an odd grouping of retail buildings in one valley with Claim Jump, about five miles away. This freeway should not be confused with the two, sometimes three, lane highway that is highway 49. This freeway is by itself, the Golden Trail. Cal Trans had money in the early 1970s and this was the result. I have no comment.

  The east side of the freeway contains all the original buildings from 1859 and a few newer buildings that look like they were built after the 1861 fire but are actually brand new. Think Disney land’s Main Street with far more bars.

  Over on the west side of the freeway –there is an over pass so you can walk over to the west side, but no one ever does- is what I always called the practical side of town.

  I drove my own car down the hill, sped by the cute town and hit the overpass to head over to my version of nirvana – the predictable franchise. Here is the Safeway, the only movie theater in town, and all the undesirable franchise stores that everyone protests will ruin the town, but where else can a person by her groceries?

  I secured a latte at Starbucks complete with a shot of hazelnut but only a single shot of espresso, from a nice girl with a Mohawk. I left a five-dollar tip because I would be back tomorrow and headed next door to Safeway.

  I recognized Sean Harris, looking wrinkled and grizzled, as he passed me. I didn’t hail him because I remembered that to do so was to commit yourself to an hour long discussion about the garbage on the side of the road, or the recycling container colors. Sean is one of those mostly harmless people who should be in a mental institute but was “released” in the seventies when Regan closed down all the mental hospitals. I’ve known Sean and his garbage all my life. And I gave him a wide berth.

  I parked in the center of the parking lot and walked to the store clutching my latte. The sun was already hot and I lifted my face, in defiance to every beauty lecture I’ve ever sat through courtesy of Jan, my Mary Kay Consultant. But I didn’t care, feel that sun! And it’s only nine o’clock. No morning summer fog, no overcast. I love late summer up here.

  Here’s what the council in Claim Jump did right. They incorporated every area that held one of those nasty, terrible and revenue generating stores so they could capture the money. Then they spent the money on improving the east side of town, building a veritable tourist Mecca. Clever yes? I remember hearing Grandma and Grandpa talk about the process. I was spending most of my summers with them at the time. Apparently all it took was five elections and three city managers for the City residents to finally accomplish their vision.

  Main Street looked good, no one argues with that, and no one remembers how dysfunctional the council was at the time. Just as well. Who was it that helped out with the city goals? An S name. I’d have to ask Grandma.

  But I was not shopping for treasures and souvenirs, I was shopping for pasta, lettuce and avocados as green as Prue’s phone. That is why I ventured to the west side.

  The current Safeway used to be a co-op when grandma and grandpa and many of their friends were experimenting with what my mother dismissively categorized as the “Hippie Stage”. It was a stage that lasted for quite a long time, long after the Bay Area residents moved from recycling into gas guzzling cars, inefficiently large homes and ozone depleting hair styles (and now back again). Claim Jump became a haven for those unable to move forward with important trends. This is how long the hippie stage lasted in Claim Jump; I remember it. And of course, it’s all back in fashion again, so now I suppose we can say that the residents of Claim Jump are now ahead of the trend. See? If you just hold on long enough, your lifestyle will make a come back. Have patience.

  The co-op was taken over by Safeway within my living memory. For some it was a blessing, for some it was a disaster. Some picketed. Some shopped the bargains.

  Prue remembers the large groups of protesters with signs protesting chain stores, formula based businesses, successful franchises. Keep our town pure, small, that kind of protest. They marched every Saturday morning for a month.

  “Of course,” Prue explained. “They were all drinking from tiny Starbucks cups because Starbucks had set up a wagon right in the parking lot and was handing out free samples. No one dared point it
out, but the photos pretty much summed it up. The Safeway went through.”

  “Where are the protesters now?”

  Her face clouded. “Most went up north to live on the Ridge.” She shook her head, as if the migration of former hippies was personal. “Sometimes that’s not such a great idea.”

  “What could happen up there? Besides the meth labs blowing up and starting a forest fire.”

  She glared at me. “We don’t discuss that.” She said, a little too primly, considering her own history. But I shut up. It wasn’t my town to mock. I grew up in Novato.

  Nothing happens in Novato.

  I’d tell you what the ridge looks like but I was never, ever permitted to go up there so I can’t describe it, but I can guess that the area is covered by scraggly dry pine trees, thick Manzanita bushes and more than enough un-inspected shanty houses - some recent, some from the gold rush, both indistinguishable from one another - to make up a rather disreputable village.

  It’s not a tourist spot.

  I chose a red trimmed grocery cart and pushed it into the cool of the store. I was so warm already that I almost appreciated the air conditioning, already running first thing in the morning. It was bit cool for my taste.

  I cruised up and down both aisles of wine and picked the least offensive brands from Sonoma and Australia and two bottles from Claim Jump and environs. I also found some Starbucks whole beans, fresh milk and a box of Oreo cookies – my grandfather’s favorite. Once, after my brothers locked me in the greenhouse and left me there to die of heat stroke, Grandpa not only rescued me, he insisted that recovery from such a trauma could be achieved with little more than Oreos and milk for breakfast. We spent a good half hour alone, just the two of us in the kitchen. We were up so early the morning, it was still dark, the dawn just dimming the stars. We both dipped our cookies into the milk and ate with a smack of our lips. That breakfast lasted forever.

  I carefully slid the package into the baby seat. I didn’t want them accidentally crushed.

  I tossed in three pints of Ben & Jerry’s. Cooper Milk didn’t deliver all the way up here, so I did not feel guilty about not buying the product produced by Carrie’s boy friend.

  I pushed the cart to the produce section. Grandma wanted some organic apples, lettuce and one avocado. I hovered happily over the tomatoes, organic, Roma, vine ripened, the same kind of choices as at home. Musak played over the loud speakers and I could actually feel my shoulders move down past my ears. It had been a stressful summer.

  “Allison?”

  I whirled around, and in one of those slow motion moments where the heroine says “noooo” and leaps on the ticking grenade, or futilely attempts to stop the bad guy, I turned and simultaneously knew I should have worn five pounds more make-up or at the very least, brushed my hair. I was not dressed. I was not wearing heels. It was too late.

  “Yes?” I said brightly, still not knowing who hailed me or why.

  “Danny, Danny Timmons.” The man held out his hand. His bald forehead gleamed in the store florescent lights. He wore a ragged tee shirt with faded Harrah’s Reno logo on the front. Both the logo and the lettering strained against his prominent stomach. Resting on his skinny hips was the river uniform of shorts stained with red dirt. Worn sandals made his ensemble complete.

  His outfit reminded me why I myself did not bother to brush my hair or shave my legs before I jumped into my car to drive down here. Everyone in Claim Jump dresses in the River Collection. It’s a throw back to the hippie days, and a current protest to conspicuous consumption, and for me – one of the reasons the place is so damn relaxing. I don’t have to worry about fashion at all.

  I was worried right now, however. I could have used the protective armor of a good black Armani suit. Higher heels. Pantyhose. Oh hell.

  “We dated in high school,” he reminded me helpfully. “Well, during one summer.” He amended, at least honestly, “you were still in high school.”

  “Oh of course,” I lied brightly. Damn, and the odds were good that I had slept with him too.

  “So,” I said to gain some time. Complete strangers, those I can handle, instant rapport and all that. But old lovers? Danny, Danny, Dan. I searched my memory which should have been working pretty well with all the caffeine floating through my system.

  Claim Jump has become such a tourist destination that I rarely think about running into my past. I know who I know, and because of how I’m dressed, no one approaches me. This encounter was completely unexpected. I do not like the unexpected. At all.

  “So,” I repeated lamely, still working my brain, willing my memory to boot up. “How are you?”

  He shuffled and took a not-so-surreptitious glance at my main asset. That’s one thing – where ever I go, there are my breasts. Even covered with an old soft tee and ensconced in a comfortable bra, they make their impression.

  “Oh, I’m fine.” He hesitated, and in that space I glanced over his shoulder, and beheld a vision in turquoise. And believe it or not, the vision was here to save me.

  “Allison!” The vision chirped in falsetto that made three people standing by the bananas glance over. “Allison Little! It is still Little isn’t it? Haven’t married. Oh my, how marvelous to see you!”

  The young man danced around Danny, skirted Danny’s cart and enveloped me in a turquoise hug and hit me on the back with his bag of organic broccoli.

  “Peter.” I said happily, anything to dilute Danny, who was looking at me like a man ready to renew acquaintances. All parts of it. Ah, sometimes my youth does catch up with me.

  “Are you living here now?” Peter pushed away from me and regarded me with a critical eye.

  “No, she only visits.” Danny offered, he gave me a look to confirm his gloomy assessment.

  “I’m staying at Prue’s.” I nodded at Danny to confirm his unspoken question.

  “Oh, I love that place.” Peter enthused. Even if I didn’t immediately remember Danny, I certainly would never forget Peter. When he was two, I remember how he loved to dress in the tutus from the ballet instructor’s class. No one said anything. The consensus was that Peter was just expressing himself and from the looks of it, still was. Peter had grown into a tall, dark and handsome man. Carrie would have sighed and commented on what a waste it was. But Peter seemed like a pretty happy guy.

  “Lots of people loved that place.” Danny may have been temporarily blinded by the blaze and Technicolor of Peter, but he stood his ground. I do have to admire him for that kind of tenacity – he was doomed to fail, but at least he was trying. He even stood a bit taller and tried to suck in his bulging stomach.

  “Yes, but I loved it the most! My parents talk about that place all the time. It was the place to be in the seventies.” Peter pointed out.

  “So I’ve heard.” Danny said.

  My mother never stopped complaining about that part of her life. The chaos, the noise the artists, she called them, using her fingers a semaphores. And my grandmother in the middle, fixing breakfast for her guests, listening to their stories, taking work in-kind or product in exchange for allowing the disenfranchised to crash in her large gracious home.

  When I was about four, one of Grandmother’s artists-in-residence ran a dance studio. She gave lessons to me in exchange for her rent, or part of it. Maybe all of it. I was not a natural dancer. Even at four years old, it was clear I did not possess the figure built for a future Sugar Plum Fairy, more along the lines of a future sumo wrestling champion. Peter was more graceful than me. The dance instructor was Miss Rochelle. Her long hair was always coming undone from the neat ballet bun. It looked as if she continually dragged her hands through her hair in frustration.

  “My mother took dance lessons from Miss Rochelle.” Peter affirmed. “I was allowed to dance with them. She said I was very talented and put me In the Nutcracker. I was a snowflake.”

  “I bet you were.” Danny said.

  But Danny was interrupted by another man before he could continue. This was tur
ning into quite the party in produce.

  “Oh Allison, this is Jimmy.” Danny introduced us.

  “Hi, Allison Little, Realtor.” I shook Jimmy’s hand, it was strong and calloused, and his face, pleasant and round, was tanned. His neck was bright red, a red neck. But I was willing to attribute the red to outdoor work rather than an indication of his politics. I’m willing to give people the benefit of a doubt. For a minute or two.

  Jimmy was in better shape than Danny. He looked like he worked outdoors and the sun damage made him look to be forty, even though he could have been much younger. I couldn’t tell.

  “Jimmy, nice to meet you,” I said. “You work with Danny?”

  “Yes, you and Danny friends?” He responded.

  My phone rang, buzzed actually. I ignored it.

  “We dated one summer in high school.” I was guessing, but I needed to define the relationship on my terms, even though I didn’t remember what those terms were. I glanced at Danny again.

  Oh crap. The memory slapped me like a bag of ice. The years had not been kind to Danny Timmons. As a young man, and I mean sixteen years young, he was buffed and strong. I remember he worked up the hill on Red Dog road as a lumber jack. At the time, he looked very good for his age. Very, very good. And I was very, very shallow for my age. For me, performance and good looks were about all I really wanted for my summer flings, and Danny fit the bill. But I could see that he was no longer engaged in denuding the forest. His arms were still muscular but the rest of him looked ill-used. He looked like a guy who spent entire Saturdays watching monster truck rallies on TV, accompanied by one too many beers. I wondered what he did with himself, or what had he done to himself.

  “Come out to the river with us.” Jimmy invited.

  The river. One of the reasons I was here, an afternoon at the river could relax anyone, guaranteed.

  I looked to the other men, accepting their company depended what they wanted to do at the river. Sometimes it’s all about getting high and subsequently sunburned. Sometimes it’s about getting drunk and sunburned. Sometimes it’s an afternoon of getting drunk, having sex, getting high and getting sunburned in some very embarrassing places.