Ron Burch

STATUE, 305 FT, 1 OWNER

           “Now is that a hand or what?  That hand itself is 16 feet, five inches long.  Just take a look at that.  Just the index finger is 8 feet.  Eight feet.  And the width of one eye is two feet, six inches.  Look at that craftsmanship, look at the quality.  Hand made.  No mass reproductions there.  No sir.  One of a kind.  And if you want to talk value per square foot, this is it.  The total height from the bottom of the pedestal to the tip of the torch is 305 feet.  From the base to the torch 151 feet.  The pedestal itself is 89 feet.” 

           “Uh huh.” 

           He didn’t look impressed.   He looked bored.  So bored I wondered if he had hip pop songs running through his head.

           “She’s a big girl.  225 tons.  200,000 lbs of copper, 250,000 lbs of iron and steel, for a total of 450,000 pounds. Some people call her the Statue of Liberty but she’s also known as Liberty Enlightening the World.”

            With a sharp turning of my upper body and the sweeping of my right arm, what they do on game shows where I got the idea, I smiled at the guy as if to say, “behold the statue.”  Some 20-something-year-old, some computer wunderkind who invented a website or something where you can watch videos or make videos or watch videos make themselves.  Misshapen haircut with his bangs uneven, bad skin, wearing a Gorillaz t-shirt, old jeans and ratty gray Converse tennis shoes.  He glanced at the set-up and back to me, a little disappointed.

           “Is this the real Statue of Liberty?”

           “How many do you think there are?”

           He shrugged.  “Lots of fakes in the world.”

           “This is the one and only,” I replied, giving him that special smile that I usually saved for a closing but thought perhaps I could entice him.

           He lifted his head up, taking in the scope of the statue.  He folded the set-up, scrunching it into his back pocket.  “I was looking for something newer.”

            I hated open houses.  Bunch of lookie-loos.  People who don’t have anything better to do than spend a Sunday wasting my time. You know, I wanted to tell him, I could be sitting at home right now having a light beer while watching a forgettable football game on the television instead of standing here wasting my time with a little rotund puke like you. 

            “You have an agent?” I asked.

            He shook his head, his eyes a little closed. 

            Instantly, I had one of my cards between my fingers headed in his direction.  He glanced down at the card but didn’t reach for it.  “Go on,” I said.  “I could set you up with an incredible deal here.  I know the best mortgage broker in town.”  He took the card, not really looking at it, nodding.  “And if not here, there’s plenty of other listings around town.”  He slipped the card into the back pocket of his dark jeans.  I knew it’d end up on the street outside but I didn’t care.  Something you learn in the real estate biz is that you can talk and persuade as much as you want but the client has to want it more than you do.  This guy didn’t want it.  He looked like he wanted a nap.

           “Well,” I said, “why don’t you just look around and I’ll be here if you have any questions.”

            He nodded.  I knew he wasn’t a buyer but maybe he had some rich friends.  Taking out his cellphone, he dialed as he went up the stairs to look out her head.  There was no way I was going to take those stairs.  This was a $300 Armani shirt I was wearing.

           I checked to make sure I had enough chocolate chip cookies available and went outside.  It was around three and I still had two hours left of the open house and no buyers.

           My real-estate sign had fallen over on its side so I picked it up and repositioned it so it could be seen by someone coming around the corner.  This guy, shaggy hair with a poorly-trimmed beard and an army fatigue coat, yelled something at me.  It was not my idea to sell the Statue of Liberty.  I just worked here. 

           This wasn’t the first government asset I’ve had to liquidate.  After they sold off all the national parks to the oil companies and real-estate developers, the government found themselves still deep in debt.  Numbers we couldn’t really understand and with Congress denying them the power to just print more money, the executives decided that they had to do something before they defaulted.  So they sold off all the parkland.  Most of Alaska is now owned by a corporation, Alaska Inc., and is being developed as another Branson, Missouri:  JUNEAU -- where you can hunt big game in the afternoon and take in a nice stage show (Cats is currently running) and dinner in the evening.  Then they sold off the Washington Memorial to a credit card company and that big statue of Lincoln to the Japanese who had it shipped to Japan where it sits in some temple.  They’re currently in negotiations for Mount Rushmore but are trying to put in a codicil about not allowing an extra head to be added by the buyer.

            My phone rang.  It was the agent of a guy who wanted to turn her into condos.   I looked back at the statue.   Her crown was glinting in the sun.   I told him she might already be in escrow and I’d call him back.   I walked back inside and slowly started to climb the stairs so I could look out at the city below and try to figure out the mistakes I have made.