Better Than Ezra

A cautionary tale.

Looking for a vacation home with my son Jake and his wife Jill has been an ongoing adventure. Along with our realtor Barbara Walters (“yes, that’s really my name,” she said when we first met) we have seen dozens of houses in northwestern Connecticut. We finally settled on a town we all like, and a wish list: high ceilings, no traffic, over three acres of land. When something comes on the market that seems to check all the boxes, we see it.

This past weekend, an antique farmhouse in our designated town, with a lofted great room, barn, pond, and studio came on the market. Sam and I drove up from southern Connecticut and Jake and Jill drove in from Brooklyn. We would join Barbara Walters and the listing agent, who I will call Ezra, which actually isn’t that far off from his real name.

Sam and I hit traffic and were running a few minutes late. When we arrived, Ezra was already chatting up Jake and Jill. Barbara greeted us, and Ezra looked down his nose and over his shoulder in our general direction.

“I’m assuming these are the parents?” he said, turning crisply away from us and striding toward the house as I was introducing myself. I heard him say we “looked clean” and instructing us to follow him inside and remove our shoes at the door.

We looked clean? While relieved he didn’t think we needed a delousing I was offended by his complete lack of interest in looping us in. At some point during his house showing, directed exclusively at Jake and Jill, I asked Barbara, whom he was also ignoring, if Ezra knew that we’d be buying the house, too. Yes, Barbara said, and shrugged.

“So, do you two have kids, or are you envisioning just coming up with friends for weekends away from the city?” Ezra asked Jake and Jill.

I saw this as my chance to insert me and Sam into Ezra’s vision. “I don’t know if Barbara told you, but we have six kids.”

“Well, then this house definitely isn’t big enough for you,” he snapped.

I started talking about our quest for a multigenerational vacation home for extended family, but he had already ditched me to stand at the window and point out the barn and gardens to Jake and Jill.

As it turned out the house wasn’t right for a number of reasons. I was relieved because it meant Ezra wouldn’t be earning a commission. I know that sounds petty, but after spending a half-hour fighting for the attention of a pompous jackass who made me feel small, I’d had it.  

I could blame my non-designer jeans and worn running shoes. Maybe Sam could have changed out of his rumpled novelty T-shirt. Maybe it was pulling in three minutes late in the Subaru, while Jake and Jill preceded us in their tricked-out 4-Runner. Maybe it was Barbara in her Easy Spirit flats and Mercury sedan who was the least cool of all.

But whatever inspired Ezra’s targeted disregard, a person in a business that involves people should not be channeling his inner mean girl at the middle school lunch table. And, despite all that sucking up, Jake and Jill found Ezra rude, too.

As we left, he was dashing off to accost his 2:30’s BMW.  We thanked Barbara Walters for her time and effort. Hugs were involved, because we genuinely like her, and this is a long process. She is cheerfully determined that we find the perfect home.

I’ll end with this visual, because it illustrates the point I hope I’ve made: in every way that truly matters, it will always suck to be Ezra.