Mistaken Identity

There’s a little problem happening in my life right now. It's a bit of mistaken identity. Just in case any of you were wondering, let me clear this up. I do not, nor have I ever, owned or lived in a house on Edgemont Avenue. Not here. Not there. Not anywhere. Additionally, I do not want to sell a house I do not own on Edgemont Avenue.

Phew. I feel better just having said that.

And one more thing. Never in my life has my name ever been “John.” I’ve been called many other things, like Ella and Evla and Beulah and once, when a barista couldn’t read the handwriting on my Starbucks cup she yelled out, “Mike.” In that case, I did pick up the cup because it was my peppermint mocha. Still, even at a Starbucks in all the years I’ve ordered that drink, I have never been called “John” or given anyone reason to do so.

But for more than a year, word on the street is if you call or text my cell phone number, you can call me John and ask if I’d be interested in selling my home on Edgemont.

Hear me.  I don’t even know where Edgemont Avenue is located. Also, I don't know who John is.

I’ve been polite most of the time, texting back that I don’t own that house. When that didn’t stop the calls, I blocked the incoming numbers after I responded. I’ve blocked them without responding. I’ve explained that my name is not John. When I was texted today (for at least the thirtieth time,) I told the texter that he had the wrong number. He wrote back that he probably did, but did I know anyone who might live on Edgemont who wants to sell their home, because he really wants to live there.

“Seriously?!!!” I wrote back. And then blocked the number. Again.

A few weeks ago, after a phone call with someone else who wants me to sell them my non-existent home, I was laughing with my son-in-law, Dan, and the grandkids about it. Their advice was to pretend that I am the owner the next time someone calls, and string them along.

“Tell them about the rattlesnakes under the bathroom sink!” eight-year-old Will suggested.

“And the crocodile in the swimming pool,” his ten-year-old sister added.

So, when the next wannabe tenant abused my phone number the following week, what was I supposed to do? I told him my son-in-law is my realtor and handed the phone to Dan. He looked at me askance—yes, that’s a word—askance, but when I told him someone was interested in the house on Edgemont, the fun began. He put it on speaker phone, and we all listened in, trying to choke back the giggles.

“Yes, we might be interested in parting with it,” Dan began, mischief playing in his eyes. “How many bedrooms does it have? Seven, the last I counted. But we’re still trying to finish up three more in the basement. Yes, it has a basement, and a sub-basement, too, but the sub-basement has a serious plumbing leak and is full of water at the moment.”

The caller seemed fine with that and asked if there were any other problems that needed immediate attention.

“There are a few, now that you mention it,” Dan went on. “We tried to get the mold problem in the kitchen under control, but with all the bats in the attic nesting in the rafters above the ceiling, it’s been hard to get much done.”

The caller’s voice wavered a fraction, but he continued the pursuit.

“No, I wouldn’t say we’ve had it inspected recently,” Dan volunteered. “We don’t even know what happened to the last inspector. He was there one minute and the next thing we knew, there was a splash in the murky backyard pool, and we never saw him again.”

That one did us all in. The kids and I exploded with laughter and Dan hung up. And blocked the caller, just in case he finally figured it out and tried to call back with unflattering comments about our lousy salesmanship.

I don’t know how to stop these pseudo-realtors from dialing and texting my phone number. No matter how many numbers I block, it seems each one spawns five more. It’s like a bad fungus has invaded my phone.

Tonight, telling my son about it, I decided to look up the mysterious property on Edgemont, just in case I actually do own it and stand to make a million if I can find it in my heart to part with it. I can’t remember the house number, and no one bothers to mention it to me anymore, but how many houses on Edgemont could there possibly be that are for sale?

Eighty-one.

Holy Guacamole. I had no idea I was so filthy rich. I also had no idea which one to look at, since they’re spread out all over the entire north and west side of the Phoenix Metro area. I thought Dan had looked one up once and found it listed for sale in Scottsdale, so tonight I clicked on the link for a Scottsdale variety while my son, Lee, and I were talking.

“You gotta see this,” I told him. “I’m gonna send you the link so you can show Jessica. I’m pretty sure she’s gonna call it creepy.”

The rooms in the house were designed in a cold, modern style with lots of sharp edges and marble and, strangely, purple and red backlighting filled nearly every room. Nice photos. Weird house. Lee began to laugh as he opened the link.

“There’s a pole in the living room!” he exclaimed. “What kind of site did you send me to?”

“I own a house equipped for pole dancers?” I asked, shocked and appalled.

“There’s lighting under the beds, too. And an entire room full of bunkbeds. I’m starting to get a weird vibe about this house, Mom,” he added.

“Me, too,” I said, staring at the photos. “Do you think all the calls I've been getting are some kind of elaborate sting operation from a bunch of cops?”

“Good thing you don’t own that house,” Lee said.

“I’ve tried to sell it ten times, but these dumb realtors never stop asking questions about the bats and moldy crocodiles,” I told him.

I think I’m gonna have to get out of the real estate industry. Take up some other kind of hobby that’s a little more tame, like maybe raising armadillos or something. I don’t want to be associated with any more houses in Scottsdale that cater to pole dancers and lovers of fancy lighting in the bedrooms.

Not as long as there’s a name like “John” connected with my cell phone number.