Real Truths from a Real Realtor

I was meeting a client for the very first time at a property he had sent me that he was excited about.

I had never spoken to him on the phone. He was an ad lead who found me through Zillow and scheduled the showing online. I was genuinely looking forward to helping him — he was a younger gentleman who didn’t speak any English and didn’t know the process. My plan was to use this first meeting to build rapport, introduce him to our Spanish-speaking partners, and really walk him through what buying a home could look like.

When I arrived, he was already there — leaning against his work truck, waiting for me.

I was ten minutes early.
He had been there thirty.

I could sense that he was a little peeved that I was “late,” but I let that feeling go. I quickly pulled up Google Translate, introduced myself with a smile, shook his hand, and headed toward the front door.

He walked around back to inspect the yard while I went through the house to open the back door. We met on the patio and surveyed the backyard together while I fumbled through Google Translate — asking about dogs, fencing, and what he might need.

Then he indicated that he wanted to walk the remaining acre behind the house.

I followed.

What I didn’t notice was that while I was looking down at my phone, typing energetically into Google Translate, he had completely sidestepped and taken a different path.

I kept walking straight.

And then I took a step that would absolutely ruin the moment.

My next full step landed me directly into an overflowing septic tank.

Imagine the feeling of your leg sinking into a pit of the worst-smelling sludge imaginable. My shoe instantly filled. My pants clung to my skin. The smell was immediate and overwhelming.

I pulled my leg out and started gagging.

Do I play it cool?
Do I acknowledge how absolutely disgusting this is?

Before I even had time to react, my new client turned around, made a beeline for the front of the house… and disappeared.

No “Are you okay?”
No conversation.
Nothing.

He was just gone.

With my pride completely bruised, I trudged back to the house — still having to go inside to lock both the back and front doors. By the time I finished, the client was nowhere to be found.

I slunk back to my car, shoe in hand, trying to figure out how to proceed. I put my shoe into a grocery bag and tossed it into the trunk because the smell was truly putrid. I rolled my pants up as best I could to avoid contaminating my seats and started driving.

But the smell was so bad, I couldn’t continue.

I looked around to make sure no one could see me and decided the only logical solution was to take my pants off and get rid of them.

So I did.

I chucked them out the window and pulled forward — only to immediately realize there was a police officer parked down the street who had watched the entire thing unfold.

He hit his lights the second my pants left the window.

He kindly asked me to retrieve them. I refused — absolutely refused — and just sat there, completely dumbfounded at how my day had taken such a dramatic turn.

Instead, I popped my trunk.

The officer picked up my soiled pants, placed them in the trunk, gave me a sly smile, and walked back to his patrol car.

Real estate is not always glamorous — but it’s never boring.