As I was rushing out the door, I was giving last minute orders: "Now, if they are impolite, we aren't renting to them. Don't give them any false hopes. If they are rude now, they will be a nightmare for the next year." And, "No pets. No excuses." And, "If you like them, give them Kirby's number." Marty assured me all of these directives were obvious, as Marty Sunshine has been hearing me do this forever.
Of course, what I forgot to give him was the rental amounts for each home. So, while I was meeting with my client he sweetly called to ask. It worked out well. My client was intrigued enough with whatever
When I got home, Marty had dutifully gone through the list. He proudly presented me with a paper with copious notes, and in a few cases, frowny faces, depicting people who will not be renting from us. He then threw this bomb at me: he had given a few our home number for folks to call us back at if they had any questions. "Our home number?" I gasped in horror. "Tell me you mean my cell."
Nope, he didn't. Because at that moment, the phone rang and it was one of Marty's favorites calling back. She was lost and needed directions to the house in question? And, while we were at it, when would I be over to show her the home? "You need to call Mr. Kirby." I repeated as patiently as I could muster for the thirtieth time. "He is the one who has the keys."
That didn't seem to convince her nothing could be done, but it got her off my home phone for the time being. And I predict, no matter if she rents or not, I will not have heard the last of her now that she knows how to get in touch with me.
Update: She called again. At 5:30 a.m. this morning. Marty may never hear the end of this.
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