Real Estate
Real Estate
by Michael Patrick Vitale
Lately, I take long walks in the morning, and I listen to things. I listen to audio books, or to an interview on a podcast, or to a music album. Sometimes I just listen to the birds. Other times, it’s the wind, being expressed through the rustling of leaves in trees, or the trash rolling up the gutter on a city street. And, as I listen, I let my mind wander and meander like the sinuous twists and turns of flowing tributaries and streams, ironically in contrast, along an otherwise seemingly monotonous oval through my neighborhood; it’s a great big jittery handed zero I make every morning on my etch-a-sketch-GPS running app, spanning approximately three and a half miles.
I was listening to an audio book this morning, trying to take my mind off of a very brief incident last night, after completing my work at a resort. However, the chatter in my head was making it difficult to concentrate.
I perform music for people at special events and gatherings. For the most part, I enjoy my work. On the other hand, I am sure I could punch holes through the thin veneer of this general assessment on occasion, if not out of complete frustration, then for a brief glimpse of the human element residing beneath the surface of what we use to make things look natural and attractive on the outside.
I certainly felt like punching a wall, as I was driving away from the resort last night in the dusk, quickly transitioning into darkness. I am fairly certain that was the desired outcome by these four folks sitting at a table, drinking their wine and prattling on and on about things in their life. And while my interaction with these individuals started innocently enough, it quickly perverted into some queer exchange of forced politeness, criticism, entitlement, and irony—all that I would have gladly avoided. They wound me up, like a little play toy. I am in fact, not a play toy. I am quite capable of fencing with words. However, when doing repeat work for a place that pays me well and treats me well, there is a particular deport or decorum necessary for me to maintain with the establishment’s patrons, no matter their attitude and demeanor. This made for a wonderful winding-key provided conveniently on my back, I imagine.
I mulled this notion over in the moment. I left my foil sheathed, as they drunkenly pulled out a figurative magnifying glass under some misguided pretense to better expose the faults and selfishness of my behavior. Perhaps they felt like shiny armored knights and moral arbiters of truth and justice gathered around an itsy bitsy round table. Or were they four school children, in a park on a bright and particularly hot summer’s day, hovering over what they felt to be an ant, with that same magnifying glass, and plenty of time to kill—amongst other things?
Just before the storm—before any of this that I just summarized, I was a slightly verbose, yet ultimately simple math equation: one tired musician with a long drive ahead of him, plus an empty stomach, plus excessive avian fecal matter on his hands after winding cables and distributing equipment to car, plus time sensitive social plans when he arrives home from his two hour car drive, equals: a guy with somewhere to be. First order of business was a bathroom sink. Second order of business was to pick up my check from the business office. The shortest path to this office was a course and heading that led to a brief fly-by of the round table and its knights. As I approached, I did not see knights or swords or armor: I simply saw four people.
I passed by the table laden with wine glasses, a wine chiller, wine bottles, and its occupants in a two by two divide, two male and two female. They were nestled between the greek columns that decorated the lavish outdoor patio of the wine estate. The two female were faced towards me as I passed, one of them asking if I could take a picture of them, as I approached. She thrust her phone out anticipating for me to take it. I looked at my right hand.
My mind was very much preoccupied with the notion of getting home to eat, which was a two hour drive for me. I was famished. I just completed packing my car, and in the process, had acquired a copious amount of bird shit on my hands while winding the speaker cables. It’s not the birds’ fault. They were just doing what they do where they always do. I was the moron who decided to place his shit where they shit. I take a brief glimpse of the phone in her outstretched hand and say, “You know, I really need to be going.” I quickly resume my efforts to get to the bathroom, wash my hands, and pick up my check. From behind me, I hear one of the male guests at that same table proclaim to the female, “Why did you ask him to take a picture?”
Earlier on, as I was breaking down my equipment, winding cables, and unwittingly smearing white and black excrement evenly through my fingers palms as if it were hand lotion, I overheard this same gentleman talking about real estate in Long Beach. I used to live there, so I suppose it attracted partial interest and I leaned into what was being said, ever so slightly:
“I sold that house in Long Beach,” he said.
To which one of the females replied, “The one with the pool?”
He must be a realtor, I thought.
Real estate. I’m on my walk again. My morning walk. The walk I was telling you about earlier. I’m no longer walking by a table, or talking to patrons at a resort, nestled between rolling hills and a cool breeze. It’s the next morning. I’ve walked about three miles. I’m passing by this old decrepit husk of a building that I am sure has a story. I pass by it every day, on my morning walk. I spent several years running by it, as I exercised—chasing after endorphins, chemicals that were already in my body to begin with; go figure.
I really didn’t start to think about this old abandoned building, until I started walking past it. It could have been a bar, I thought. Maybe it was a small restaurant. No, I most certainly think it was a bar, judging by its lack of windows—perhaps its aura and conceptual design, as well.
It is mostly constructed from those old concrete blocks that almost seem to conspire towards the grand creation of a nondescript building. It was as if the architect or draftsman who designed it, were trying to create something that would confuse a slow moving passerby, approximately fifty to seventy years after it was built. I’m sure nothing could be further from the truth, no matter how hard I just laughed. However, with its old-faded-semi-olive-green paint job, iron rod covered windows, and heavily bolted and boarded front entrance: it most certainly was not competing for a beauty pageant.
The longer side of the building contained an awkward rectangle of mismatching green, over the top of the original faded olive green. A cause and effect that probably began with a sudden desire by an individual to graffiti an urgent transmission, and ended with the building owner’s frustration to match the original paint color.
It has an L-shaped parking lot that wraps around two sides of its worn rectangular confines. There is an entrance from the parking lot that is missing its door. One might assume that this would be an invitation to explore the buildings greater interior, if not for the large black sliding gate surrounding the perimeter of the parking lot, calmly saying, stay the fuck out. The short front side of this rectangle, of which I have described to you previously, faces towards a major thoroughfare. The longer, windowless-concrete-block side of the structure, follows a residential street, that quickly dead-ends up a hill, into a house or an apartment. It maintains its stance on this corner: one of many buildings lining a semi-steep incline, on a winding road.
In the five years I have lived in this neighborhood, this building has stood here, in its exact same condition. Unused. To the best of my recollection, there has never been a realtor sign in front of it. It is a skeleton of what it once was. Perhaps I feel a sort of kinship to it. Then again, perhaps not. It has taken five years to even really begin to notice its energy, or to even abstract some sort of meaning to it, beyond its physical attributes.
Were I man of more wealth, I might hunt the person down who owns it, and try to relieve the individual of this burden, so that it may be reborn and useful and beautiful again. I also recognize that I make my own tail wag from time to time with bouts of whimsy. At the moment, this creation of concrete and wood and iron and steel just seems to be taking up space. I wish for this building to be full of purpose. Oh, how beautiful and fulfilling it is to couple a purpose with the occupation of space. I would gladly officiate that wedding, regardless of whether it be animate or inanimate.
Space, by its very definition, can be so much. It is almost ironic to think of all the possibilities of space, in and of itself: just as a word with definitions. It can be a vast expanse: impossible to grasp in its complexity and size and distance and substance. It can be a small space or a large space, within the confines of our perceptions of a three dimensional reality; however it can also exist in two dimensions, as you might see between each of these written words before you—and the subsequent sentences, and paragraphs, and indentations from the perimeters. It can be a commodity, such as property, with the intention of providing it a purpose—whether that be physical or otherwise. It can be a measure of distance between objects, such as people, or an interval of time. It can be an area provided to an advertiser in a newspaper or magazine. It can also be a place in my thoughts.
And perhaps that is what I see in this building. Perhaps that is what I feel, residually, from last night. My thoughts are involuntarily occupied by the occurrence of these four individuals. Yes, I realize I am in control of my own faculties. However, there are phenomenon, in which we can not control the thought. It is analogous to a ghost. A ghost that haunts in a house. It can be akin to the concept of the movie Inception. Don’t think of pink elephants. Don’t think of them dancing. Those dancing pink elephants in your head. Watch them prance and prance and prance; those gorgeous and happy pink elephants. The thoughts are like real estate. Real estate occupying space in your thoughts.
I observe the thoughts, consciously. Taoism talks of observing them entering, and watching them leave—as if they are people taking a brisk stroll through my consciousness. However, sometimes, they are a carousel in a freaky carnival of the mind. Speaking for myself—these thoughts do not last forever. And while I feel it would be unwise to boil the reasons for revisiting them down to some sort of strange alchemy of understanding; it seems that might be the very reason I continue to think on something for a spell: perhaps I just want to understand, even if it is just on my own subjective level. It might even be in an effort towards empathy as well.
I am no longer on a walk. I am writing this with my pants down, on the toilet. I am getting rid of waste: a waste of space—or probably more accurately, making room for something else that may equally serve me in a manner that is helpful. I am making lemonade. Poopie lemonade. I am making myself laugh, which is always a gift. I like to laugh. I love when other people can laugh.
Perhaps those other people were laughing amongst themselves after I left. Perhaps they were not laughing. Perhaps they were genuinely upset by the fact that I would not take a picture of them when they asked. Perhaps the person who asked for the snap shot, would have wanted bird shit all over her phone when I took the picture, and handed it back to her—had I agreed. Most of the time, I do take pictures of people when they ask. In fact, I think this was the first time I have ever opted out, when asked.
While I have no certainty in regards to the hypotheticals I have listed, I can say that they complained to the manager about me, who in turn, transmitted such claim to their supervisor, who in turn, reached out to me. The names have been changed to conceal the identities of those involved:
TO: Mrs. Buttersworth
FROM: Bruce Springsteen
SUBJECT: Guests
DATE:
Hey Mrs. Buttersworth, just wanted to follow up on something.
Was there any issue or concerns with some of the guests from last night?
Thanks.
Sent from my iPhone
To which I replied:
TO: Bruce Springsteen
FROM: Mrs. Buttersworth
SUBJECT: Guests:RE
DATE:
Hey Bruce,
Yeah, I had an issue with the table that most near to me as I was going to wash bird feces from hands and to pick up the check from the office.
One of the girls at the table asked me if it would be possible for me to take a picture of them, as I was walking by their table.
I politely said, “Uh you know, I really need to be going,” as I was anxious to wash bird poop from my hands, and to get home to eat. It was actually an act of kindness in some regards—to not get poop all over their [sic] phone.
I was also anxious to get home to eat as I am on a ketogenic diet, and just find that it is easier to bring meals with me or to eat at home. One of the members of the table (male) (they totaled 4) [sic], asked her “why are you asking him to take a picture?”, as I walked off. I was not impolite, but I did have places to be and a long drive home.
On my way back out towards the car, they confronted me in a manor that I increasingly found offensive, overly-critical, passive-aggressive, impolite, entitled, and above all else, laced with irony.
I did not engage them. They engaged me as I walked by.
One of the women said, “Would it really have been that big of a deal if you just would have taken my picture?”
I said, “As much as I would like to, I have a long drive ahead of me, close to two hours.”
I turn to go to my car.
She says, “It would have taken you two minutes to take a picture of us. You know, I thought you were really good. I tipped you earlier. But whatever, can’t be bothered to take a simple picture. I was going to check out your music later, but now, I don’t think I’ll bother.
I stopped and turned around and said, “With all due respect there is absolutely nothing wrong with telling someone no, when they ask for something.”
At this point, the other female at the table said, “Yeah, you’re kind of a jerk.”
To which I replied, “You’re drunk.” (Which all four of them were). I was not.
At this point, one of the males jumped in (conversationally, not literally—his arms were crossed and he seemed uncomfortable in his body language), also complaining, that he tipped me as well and he can’t believe how I am so this or that (can’t quite remember what he was getting at).
I was flustered at this point, and felt quite belittled. I did however, not say anything further to them. I caught myself. I walked up to them. Stopped. At which point, one of the guys said, “Yeah, whatever. Bye bye.” I started to speak again, and he cut me off and said, “Bye bye, we’re done here. Seriously, bye bye. You’ve got places to be, remember. Bye bye.”
One of the females started saying polite inflammatory things such as “Good luck with your music career” and things of that nature, with the intended purpose of getting a rise out of me? It’s hard to say. It most certainly did not come across as a gesture of kindness. It came across as ironic in her use VIA tone.
I was speechless, and quite upset by this.
I got in my car, and left, in the calmest manner possible. I actually tried calling the resort a few times while on my way home, but couldn’t reach anyone to discuss this. I’m actually quite happy you reached out to me in regards to this.
I am driving to a gig. Please feel free to call me if you would like additional details or need anything. I will be driving until my 6pm load in.
Thank you for reaching out. Deeply and truly.
Warm Regards,
Mrs. Buttersworth
323-867-5309
Sent in 1's and 0's from my iTin can telephone attached to a piece of string
To which he then replied:
TO: Mrs. Buttersworth
FROM: Bruce Springsteen
SUBJECT: Guests:RE:RE
DATE:
Mrs. Buttersworth, thanks for your response.
Always interesting to see how there are such different perceptions from a single encounter.
Funny thing is, there's really no variance in your sense of the facts and their sense of the facts... just difference in perception as to what is fair to expect from another person.
I'm sorry you had to experience the situation in the way that you did.
Please don't give it any further thought I just wanted to understand better what happened.
I don't know if anything like this has happened to you before but it is definitely something we go through on a fairly regular basis. I think some folks feel that if they've tipped someone it gives them some entitlement.
We look forward to seeing you next week.
Bruce Springsteen
Perception. Yes. There is a reason that Bruce Springsteen is the boss. An incomplete picture, perhaps? How often do we operate without a complete picture? How often do we project the shadow of our persona on others around us?
What started with an innocent request for me to take a picture, turned into something else entirely. It was just a little question. All I had to say in return was that I had bird shit all over my hands, but I did not. The absence of that statement in the moment was not calculated or premeditated. I was tired and I was hungry; I had plans with a friend and I wished to be home. Yet this became a recipe for some witch’s brew—a concoction—a doorway for dark behavior; it was the catalyst to a string of events. And as the sun was setting, and as I climbed into my modest and overstuffed sedan full of sound equipment and instruments, I added a slightly heavier version of myself to this grouping of stuff. I too had baggage: a vessel now full of enmity and antagonism, as those feelings were poured half-hazardously on my person.
I observed myself, for the first fifteen minutes of my two hour drive home, in the darkness of night, saying mean things. Saying witty things. Saying clever-passive-aggressive-double entendres to my dashboard: a stand-in for an imaginary group of people. It was the transmission of their collective projections onto me, that left me wet with their feelings. I just needed to dry off a bit. I felt silly after fifteen minutes. So, I spent the rest of the ride home oscillating between deep rumination and wanting to be home to eat a healthy meal, and spend some time with my friend. However, there was now a space in my thoughts that they collectively occupied. Real estate. I did not sell it to them. It was as if, they just sat down, uninvited. However, it was not that. It was a greasy residue. A smear on a counter-top. It was rubbish disguised in a cheap mustache and horn-rimmed glasses, as something useful. It could be useful to them, the recollection, if they do not label the psycho analysis theories, of some, as psycho-babble. But for me it was a brief occurrence that just became chatter. My brain was full of chatter:
Have I ever been those four people around a tiny round table? I'm not perfect. I know for certain I've pissed people off. I'm not so certain that I have ever actively participated in something of that nature before. Why do you even care? Why do you allow yourself to be wound-up by someone else? It's my emotions. That's what the problem is. Emotions. I can feel perfectly in balance, and then someone can come along and disrupt... actually, it wouldn't even have been an issue if I just would have said I have bird shit on my hands. So is it my fault? Maybe so. I was doing the best I could, given the circumstances. Etc..
The freaky carousel of thoughts goes round and round, in perpetuity, until one might ask themself: are these thoughts useful? Well, are they? Additionally, there are those who would have the audacity to say that they do not suffer from time to time with the burden of such thoughts. You can dress yourself up in whatever persona you find pleasing. It is the gatekeeper to your own ego. I offer this warning, if such is the case. It is the same advice as what Kurt Vonnegut gave at the beginning of his book Mother Night: “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”
I’m sure this would all make more sense to you dear reader if the details, if the emails, if the transmission were not predominately redacted information. So I un-redacted it—but then again, you’ve already seen that. As far as you were concerned, before my mentioning such, it was never amended in the first place.
Perhaps I am now graffiti on a wall. Perhaps I am the wall. Perhaps I used to be the mismatched green paint used to cover the graffiti. If buildings wore shoes, I might try to put myself in them. If one were to ask my opinion, I do not think I am any of those things. I am also not the building. I observe the building, and then I keep on walking. It is real estate, regardless of whether it has purpose, or just takes up space. It might have a pool. Someone could push me into the pool. Someone could try to sell real estate to me. I don’t have to buy it though.
