It was an easy way to make a living. He was making more money than he ever thought possible. And, God knows, his social life was better than it had been during his Academy days. Nothing like regular hours to put women in your life.
The secret of success for any good real estate agent lay in his ability to connect with the clients. Which meant having a naturally friendly disposition toward strangers and, often, people who tried your patience; and the ability to project it. Sounded simple enough, but Emma insisted they were qualities she rarely encountered. Most people, she said, are out for themselves, and any reasonably observant buyer will pick that up right away in a real estate agent. “If they decide you’re faking it, they may still buy the property if they like it enough. But you won’t sell them anything that has only marginal appeal.”
Matt had only to be himself. Take customers around to look at properties. Wait for them to say yes. File the documents. Collect his commission. He remembered a friend from high school who used to say he wanted one of those jobs where you slept in a bed in a store window. The idea had actually seemed appealing at the time. No responsibility. No way to go wrong. And you’d get a regular paycheck. It was more or less what he had now. The paycheck, of course, wasn’t regular, but the flow of money was substantial and presented no problem. Why then did the thought of going back to Stern & Hopkins in the morning, and every morning until he retired, fill him with horror?
The second Wednesday of the month was a night routinely devoted to the Arlington Businessmen’s Association dinner. The event was held at the Liberty Club, and it was required attendance for anyone in the community who expected to be taken seriously as an entrepreneur, CEO, or whatever. Emma had encouraged his attendance, and he had for four years been trying to persuade himself that it was an enjoyable way to spend an evening.
He arrived toward the end of happy hour, paid up, collected a rum topper, stopped for some small talk with George Edward and his psychologist wife Annie, bought a few tickets in the raffle being conducted for this month’s worthy cause, and finally wandered into the dining area.
He sat down with the same group he usually sat with, another real estate agent and his wife, the director of a medical test lab and her father, a retired construction contractor, and the owner of a landscaping business, who was accompanied by a son. Emma usually joined them with her husband, but she’d told him she wouldn’t make it that night.
They talked about nothing he’d be able to remember ten minutes later. The food came, chicken on a bed of rice, tomatoes and celery. Somehow the chefs at the Liberty always managed to flatten whatever flavor the meal might normally have had. But the bread was good.
The guest speaker was from a local investment house. His topic was Building Your Portfolio. He was a small, nervous-looking guy who squeaked a lot. He overdramatized everything, made it all sound like the outbreak of a world war, and went on at length citing price-earnings ratios, how the problems in Africa were going to affect the markets, why corporate bonds were not a particularly good investment at the moment. The woman on Matt’s right, the real estate agent’s wife, looked at him and rolled her eyes. Matt agreed. After Hutchins’s passionate pitch for the stars, this was pretty slow going.
When it was over, he mingled. Abraham Hogarth, Dr. Hogarth to anyone not belonging to his circle, invited Matt to meet his daughter. Hogarth ran an operation that monitored consumer trends and advised retailers how to market their products. Matt had never believed Hogarth really possessed a doctorate. He seemed a bit too impressed by the title, the kind of person who would very much have liked people to refer to him as Excellency.
The daughter was attractive, and Hogarth suggested Matt might come some evening for dinner. You and I share a lot of interests, he said. (Matt had no idea what those might be.) We’d love to have you over, wouldn’t we, Bessie?
Bessie looked embarrassed, and Matt felt sorry for her. She didn’t need help with men, but with her father pushing her as if she were damaged goods, the poor woman was at a distinct disadvantage. Some of the resentment showed in the way she responded to Matt.
Somebody else wanted to know whether he’d be playing tennis over the weekend. Matt did play most Saturdays. Other than walking between the office and home, it was the only exercise he got. Yes, he said, he expected he would.
The evening ended, more or less with a whimper, and he was on his way out the door when Julie Claggett spotted him. Julie was an English teacher at Thomas MacElroy High in Alexandria. Her father, a charter member of the Liberty Club, owned the Longview Hotel. “Matt,” she said, “have a minute?” Julie was a nicely tucked blonde, congenial, energetic, the kind of woman who always got her way. Like any good high school teacher, she was pure showbiz. She could have drifted through life, hanging around the pool. But instead she used her considerable talents trying to demonstrate to reluctant kids that reading was fun.
“I was wondering if I could persuade you to come over and talk to a couple of my classes?”
His appearances at MacElroy High were becoming an annual event. “Maybe this time about real estate?” he asked, innocently.
Her smile was a killer. “Seriously.” She liked him to go in and explain to her students what Quraqua looked like from orbit, and how it felt to ride alongside a comet. “Do the routine about how space is made out of rubber, and why my kids weigh more in the basement than they do on the roof.”
“Okay.”
“And why they get older more quickly waiting for the bus than they do riding it.” She grinned. “It works, Matt,” she said. “Every time you come in and talk about this stuff, there’s a surge of kids at the library.”
She had the material down, and could easily have done the routine herself. But Matt had the credentials. He’d been out there.
“Sure,” he said. “When did you want me to come over?”
He got a call from Ari Claggett in the morning. “Matt,” he said, “I wanted to thank you for agreeing to help Julie at the school. She tells me her students really enjoy listening to you.”
He was surprised. Julie’s father had never before said anything about his efforts. “You’re welcome, Ari,” he said. “I enjoy doing it.”
Claggett was a big man, tall, overweight, with a voice that implied he knew exactly what he was talking about. “They don’t get enough of it,” he said. “Kids spend too much time listening to people like me just push information at them. Julie says you show them a lot of passion.”
“I just go in there and say what I think,” said Matt. “Most of her students have the impression the world ends at the space station.”
“I wasn’t really talking about outer space,” he said. “I was thinking about books. Julie says most of her students—not all, but most—have never discovered why they matter.” He appeared to be at home, seated in a leather divan, lush white drapes pulled behind him. Matt could see something else was on his mind. “Sometimes I wonder where we’re going to be by the end of the century.”
Claggett’s interest in education was no secret. He’d pushed local politicians to get more money for the schools, and had long campaigned to get parents involved. You live or die with the parents, Julie had quoted him as saying. If you don’t have them on your side, you’re helpless. “We’ll be okay,” said Matt. “The kids just need somebody to turn them on. Maybe Orion could arrange free tours for some of them.” Ari sat on Orion’s board of directors.