Apprentice Again

“You got the job, son!” said old Mr. Voss. He had a strong, calloused grip. But I was unsure of my job description. I was visiting the Voss home with the intent to list the house for sale. When I found Mr. Voss in his back-yard shop, I was immediately put to work by the man, taking his orders like an apprentice, helping him re-build an old redwood trellis. He called me Rob despite my corrections, and I realized as we worked, that he wasn’t completely tied in mentally with this world. Physically, at 85 or 90, he was in command, and worked his antique tools like a master carpenter.

“Wipe these tools down, Rob, and let’s go check on the other guys.”

There were no other guys. As I hurried to keep up with his long strides, I said, “Mr. Voss, I’m a Realtor, and I am here because you called my office about selling your house.” I handed him my card. He seemed to take new notice of me and our surroundings. His tall, wiry frame and wide shoulders that he had held erect while we worked now slouched and stooped.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, right…… Sissy says we’re selling and moving. I’ll show you around the place.” A fat orange cat rubbed against Mr. Voss’ legs and accompanied his every step. The place was in perfect shape, improved by Mr. Voss with well-crafted wood trim and finish. I was excited at the prospect of listing it.

At one point on our tour, Mr. Voss stood beside me on the strip of grass bordering the busy street in front of his house, and so help me, proceeded to relieve himself, splattering the roadside curb as well as the tops of our shoes. He maintained a stream of conversation as though we were standing alone in the woods.

I herded Mr. Voss back into the house, where Mrs. Voss sat in her rocker. She regarded us silently and incoherently. I locked the doors. This was a scary situation. These people were not lucid.

On the kitchen wall, “Sissy” was scrawled in black ink under the phone. I dialed the long-distance number beside the name.

“Hi, I’m a Realtor and I’m here with Mr. and Mrs. Voss. He called me to sell the house, and I’m a little concerned……”

“What?” screamed Sissy. “You’re in my parents’ house? Where’s my niece!?” I told her I saw no niece.

“Listen, Buster,” she said evenly and menacingly, “I don’t know what you’re plotting, but you will never sell my parents’ house. I’m calling the police.”

A week later, someone else’s Real Estate sign stood in the front yard of the vacant Voss home. There was no sign of life except for the fat orange cat on a ledge of the brick chimney.

Sissy was right. I never did sell her parents’ home.