Dan St. Yves: Revisiting a real estate romance

Pardon my nostalgic turn this month. I recently came across some old video footage of myself at a reading of an old REM column. I thought I would do my part to reduce, re-use and recycle the column, as well as add a link to that video footage just for fun.

Ironically, there is some current relevance as I mentioned Donald Trump, currently making a run of the U.S. presidential nomination.

This was a particularly special column, first appearing in REM back in July 2002. It appeared in several other publications as well after that, and was featured in my 2003 book Nonsense and Stuff. It really broke my fledgling writing career back then into larger markets and opened doors that have led to my most current writing efforts.

It had several different names provided by various editors, but here it was called…

What if real estate ad-writers penned a romance novel?

Have you ever noticed how Realtors take more than just a little bit of artistic license in describing the homes they’re trying to sell? Some of these budding Shakespeares are amazingly competent at transforming a humble little bungalow into one of Donald Trump’s 5-star resorts. Imagine what might happen if one of these individuals tried their hand at more creative endeavours. It might look something like this:

Victor glanced at Nikki, from across the 12 x 30-foot screened veranda. Nikki smiled, recognizing that special gleam in her husband’s eyes. She rose from the matching thatched-fabric patio chair and pushed open the embossed fire-rated door, leading to the formal living room (boasting 10-foot ceilings).

The room was warm and inviting, with the deluxe gas fireplace crackling in the corner. Antique leaded-glass windows reflected the flames of passion in their eyes.

Victor followed her, pausing just long enough to admire the crown moulding installed earlier in the week. It was the perfect complement to the Norwegian Pine hardwood flooring, he thought to himself.

Nikki started to walk coyly up the curved mahogany staircase, returning the animal-like stare of the man she just couldn’t bear to live without. The neutral tones of the berber carpeting caressed her slippered feet.

Raul, the faithful man-servant, recognized the need to discreetly depart and slipped into the spacious 6 x 8-ft. butler’s pantry, featuring floor-to-ceiling shelves, a surround-sound stereo and wet-bar.

Nikki had now made it to the second floor of the spacious, south-facing Cape Cod manor, and was vixenly removing her knitted ecru bathing robe, hand-crafted by Tibetan monks to match the surround-tub enclosure in the master ensuite.

Victor’s smile widened with each heaving inch of bare flesh exposed. He flung his tuxedo jacket onto the window seat, beside the double-door exit to the private deck, overlooking the 14 varieties of fruit and nut trees.

Meanwhile, down in the butler’s pantry, Isabella, the weekend chambermaid with an unrequited crush on Raul, discovered to her delight the locking mechanism on the reinforced ornamental door. Raul felt a cold shiver run down his spine as the young woman opened a can of South American pecan oil.

Next door, Betti and Jeorge Felizidad peered over the pond that separated their estate from their neighbour’s fully fenced yard (complemented with perfectly trimmed cedar hedges).

They had seen this played out so many times before: the heat, the passion, the afterglow.

But enough about the Allen’s cocker spaniel and shih tzu. Back to the owners of this glorious home, located close to the ocean, mere moments from shopping and recreation and just 90 minutes from the U.S./Canada border.

A full three minutes had passed since Victor and Nikki had entered nirvana (the emotional state, not the group) and Victor was snoring contentedly. Strange muffled sounds were coming from downstairs, in what seemed to be a panicked, Venezuelan voice. Nikki ignored it as she surveyed the wall unit that surrounded their sunken, king-sized bed.

Life was good.

All descriptions are approximate, please verify if important.