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The next day we took a deep collective breath and decided to spin the real estate wheel
again.
Flipping through the local rag that morning, Michael noticed that one of the island re-
altors professed to be “gay-friendly,” so we decided to find out if the company's admirable
commitment to social equality included a willingness to sell houses to people wanting to buy
them.
I made the call. A perfectly nice woman, named Melinda, answered. I described what
we were looking for.
“Sure, I'd be happy to meet with you this afternoon,” she said. “I can think of a couple
of things I'd like to show you.”
No put downs. No one-liners. I could barely believe my ears.
“I appreciate your call,” she said. “Let's say three at my office.”
We were almost giddy with excitement.
Everything seemed different now that we were practically landed gentry. We viewed the
ubiquitous litter along the side of the road with outraged disbelief. (“How dare they trash our
island!”) We felt a new sense of comradeship with the sullen woman in the bakery who'd
never shown us the slightest glimmer of kindness. (“Who knows, maybe she'll be our neigh-
bor someday.”) We walked through town with our heads held just a little higher. Being an
insider really does give one a whole new perspective.
We arrived at Melinda's office just before three, although office is a generous term for
where we found ourselves. Lean-to would be more technically accurate. The interior was
dark and fetid, and when we stepped inside, our eyes took a few moments to acclimatize
to the gloom. At first the place seemed deserted. Except for the forlorn homely sound of a
clucking chicken near the side door, silence reigned. Then a movement from the back caught
our attention.
I squinted and was rewarded with the sight of a small squat woman sitting in an alumin-
um lawn chair consuming an enormous sandwich with admirable concentration.
“Hello,” I said before remembering that I was practically a local now. “ Hola ,” I
amended.
The woman, chewing furiously, didn't answer. We stood in awkward silence and waited
while she masticated the two or three pounds of cold cuts she had just crammed into her
mouth.
“I hope this isn't Melinda,” I said under my breath.
“I hope you aren't Melinda,” Michael said out loud.
She wasn't. After another thirty seconds of chewing followed by the consumption of a
gallon of iced tea, the woman swiveled in our general direction and said, with a friendly-
enough smile, “Melinda, she not here.”
I glanced at my watch. Five past three.
“We have a three o'clock appointment,” Michael said politely.
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