Here is the latest of my short-short stories that are composites of real-life events with psychological or practical implications.

The year was 1991. Although Alex rarely made salesperson of the month, he was always at least middle-of-the-pack. But as he passed 60, his sales dwindled, and at age 70, had a heart attack and retired. The office threw him the requisite party, complete with reminiscence and roasting.
And Alex retreated to a life of long breakfasts, photography, and doctor’s appointments. But sad at his uselessness, Alex asked his former boss if he could sit at a desk weekday mornings, when most of the agents were out prospecting or not working.

Alex showed up every morning at 9. He’d do crossword puzzles while listening to talk radio or Broadway show tunes—For his birthday, his daughter had given him a senior-friendly cell phone that she loaded with his favorite songs.

One morning, while listening to Bali Hai and immersed in the local newspaper's crossword, ("The New York Times ones make you know these weird words no one needs to know,") he was startled by a tap on his shoulder. It was a beautiful 25-year-old. “Hi, my name is Rebecca. Are you a real-estate agent?” His license was still active and so he nodded.
“I’m looking to buy a house but I don’t know if I can afford what I want. It can be small but I grew up in an apartment that looked onto a gas station and so I’d love a view.”
With the wisdom and lack of hunger that sometimes comes with age, Alex asked, “Wouldn’t you be more compatible with an agent who's closer to your age?” Rebecca replied, “I’ve never met a salesperson who tries to talk me out of buying from him, especially a big-ticket item. You're honest, so I'd like to hire you.”
That energized even the tired Alex. And he summoned every atom of energy to try to find a home that would work for her. Of course, they combed the Multiple Listings website and other online sources. Of course, he drove her to many possibilities but none worked. So then, every day, Alex spent hours, by himself, driving every block of the parts of Oakland with a view, and every time he saw a small home in bad condition (the only ones that would be affordable,) he left a hand-written note in the mailbox asking if the owner might be interested in selling.
Alex left over 100 notes, got three responses, and one was acceptable—not great—the rooms were small, only one room had a view and, as an older house, the window was small—but it was affordable—barely. To make the deal close, Alex called on lots of his old lending officers until he twisted the arm of one to not only give her a loan but at a good rate. But then the pest control report came in—$110,000!  But he showed it to one of the fix-it guys he’d long used. The guy said, “Those pest control companies! I can do it for 30 grand.” And so when Rebecca threw a party for her new house, Alex was the guest of honor.

But on October 19, 1991, the Oakland, California Fire Department failed to fully put out a grass fire and 2,843 single-family homes and 437 apartments and condos were destroyed---including Rebecca’s.

Alex stood next to Rebecca, surveying what was left: the foundation, fireplace, and rubble. He said, “You’ll rebuild.” She replied, “No, we will.”
Three years later, thanks to the insurance, Rebecca had the home of her dreams including—from three rooms—big, beautiful views.


I have lived in the Oakland hills since 1976, three blocks from the fire area. Before the fire, most of the homes were modest. The rebuilt ones are mostly mini-mansions, some not-so mini. Rather hypocritical: Nearly everyone in the Bay Area claims to be an environmentalist, yet when they got a chance to stick to the insurance companies, they built environmental monstrosities. Don King wrote, “Hypocrisy is the mother of all evil.”