Playing with Barkley

Playing with Barkley

Kevin P. Tremblay

I pushed pancakes saturated in maple syrup around my plate and hadn’t touched the bacon. Saturday morning breakfast alone at the local Pancake House was boring. A man appeared out of nowhere and sat at my table uninvited.

“Excuse me. Let me introduce myself. I am your soulmate,” he said as he sat down.

His blue eyes mesmerized me. His startling presence stole my breath. A timeless moment occurred that took me right out of this world. I came back to earth promptly and felt marginally grounded. Who the hell is this guy? I was confused and admittingly delighted. My soulmate, really?

“Excuse me. Who are you? I did not invite you to sit with me.”

“I am Barkley Thomas and when entering here, there you are. As pure iron is attracted to a powerful magnet, I could not resist coming over to meet you. Do you mind me sitting with you?”

Martha had to think fast to get rid of this nutjob. Yet, a small voice in her head said, “Don’t be hasty.” On that impulse, a decision was made, she would play with him. There was a level of safety being in public with this stranger. What was his angle? Why me? Of course, my logical self said, “Do not believe him,” but let the games begin.

“Sure, but why me?”

“When I entered to get breakfast, I was instantly drawn to you. Resistance was futile. I had to take the risk. I was overpoweringly attracted to you. You’re radiant and beautiful. I could not pass you by.”

Barkley was a handsome bloke. His sun-bleached hair was windblown, and he was unshaven with a coarse stubble. His eyes captivated me. There was more to this guy than a pretty face. He had an athletic body too. His powder blue button-down shirt exposed his red tee. This was no shrinking violet. My skin tingled. Be careful reverberated in my brain.

“Barkley, tell me why I should be interested in you? What makes you think we are soulmates?”

“I didn’t get your name. Tell me that first, please?”

“Martha Ramela.”

“Martha, I’m single and live outside of Metropolis. The reason I can be sure that you are my soulmate is that if we click – that would prove it. Besides my compelling attraction to you. My heart will be yours forever, if. I am a good dog, will behave, and always come home. I clean up good enough to be seen in public.”

He chuckled and was certainly a forward guy. Foolish of him to make such a commitment without knowing me. Yet there was something disarming about him. Could it be raw honesty?

“That is an interesting answer. You don’t know me. I could be a psychopath.”

“I may not be a Ph.D. but can smell evil. You are a person of kindness and deep thought is my sense of who you are.”

This was an interesting guy, so candid. It was refreshing. Tell me more, I thought.

“Did you want something to eat or coffee?

“I came in for breakfast.”

Martha summoned the waiter. Barkley ordered the Farmer’s Breakfast, with home fries, a slab of ham, three eggs, and an apple, cinnamon, and raisin muffin. This guy was extroverted, I kept noticing. Yet he had a relaxing way, and was easy to look at, and polite as well. This was turning out to be an entertaining breakfast. She had not had breakfast with a man in a while.

“Are you married,” Martha asked, getting this out-of-the-way. She was single for a reason.

“No sir. I was married for less than a year when I was eighteen. Karen, the wife, was not ready to settle down. She would spend nights away. I respect marriage. She asked for the divorce. It broke my heart.”

That was unexpected, the circumstances, and his honesty. Mr. Blue Eyes appeared authentic, honest, masculine, and outgoing. Martha was softening. Her guard was slowly letting up. This guy was just a random stranger, he could be an ax murderer or gigolo for all she knew. She reminded herself to be careful.

“So, how old are you?"

“Just turned thirty. My turn. Are you married and how old are you?”

“I have been in two serious relationships, but both times we drifted apart. My work keeps me busy. I stopped looking for Mr. Right a while ago. I’m twenty-nine.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a real estate agent. What about you?”

“I have a small construction company. Barkley’s Quality Construction.”

Martha then began to show interest, and asked Barkley, “What does your weekend look like?”

“I have two appointments to look at some jobs and write up estimates for the owners. One is a complete kitchen makeover, the whole shebang.”

Martha came back with what her plans were. “I have a few showings today and tomorrow, here in Metropolis. One is a second showing. I have a contract filled out and already for their John Henry, if it goes well. They want the house.”

“How long have you been in real estate?”

“Since I was twenty. It is stressful, but I love showing houses and being my own boss. You’ve got to like people. This business is not for a shy guy.”

She watched him shovel food down his gullet between sentences. Yet he was careful not to talk with his mouth full. This guy would be easy to be around. Our conversation was not rushed. I was losing my balance. He was hot.

“The construction business has been good to me. I bought a house just outside of Metropolis. I was considering moving into the city and looking for another rehab to buy. I do know about the two-year exclusion when selling your personal home, where there are no capital gains. I’ve already done this once and made a bundle. It was also a rehab. Being single It doesn’t bother me if there are 2 x 4s on the kitchen floor and no curtains on the windows,” he chuckled.

I was surprised as not many people know about the exclusion from capital gains when selling their personal dwelling. This is a smart guy. There has got to be a dark side. It occurred to me to just ask him.

“Barkley, tell me all the bad stuff about you, and what makes you tick?”

“I’m a rotten housekeeper. I can’t cook. I like to sit around the house in my boxer shorts, drink beer, and fart while watching the games, football, and baseball. Have the meanest veggie garden in the neighborhood. And now tell me about you.”

That was it. Cut bait or begin to pull the fish in. That was a weird thought. Yet, if he is authentic, then grab hold as there aren’t many men around like this one. If for real. It’s like the fish just jumped into my boat. I need to resist him. He does have a house to sell. My job is to get properties listed with me before anyone else does and get the house sold ASAP.

 “Do you have any idea of what your house is worth?”

I know how to do this. Get your hook in before any other agent does. Besides, this guy comes with the offer of his soul too. One thing at a time. Get the house listed!

“I have been using another agent. He’s an honest guy. When I bought the place, he even gave me a projected market analysis saying how much it would be worth after the rehab was completed. That was over two years ago.”

“Oh, I was going to suggest doing a market analysis for you, free of charge. If I do a good job, you might consider listing your house with me.” I said this a little excitedly, on purpose, as part of the negotiations.

He had woofed down his food, and the check came. I insisted on paying.

 “Hey Barkley, breakfast is a tax deduction and for mine too, because we talked real estate.” I sparkled at him.

“A deal. I’ve done the house all over. Stainless steel appliances, jacuzzi, the works.”

I left a tenner on the table for a tip. Paid the tally at the register. We went outside through the automatically opening double doors together. I negotiated to get the listing by being charming.

I handed him my business card making eye contact and ensuring our hands touched. He took out his wallet and placed her card in it and pulled out a dogeared and limp card of his for her. This Saturday morning breakfast turned out to be amazing. And I’m off to get an offer on a house today too!

“What is a good time for me to come by?” I asked.

“I’ll be home by 3 this afternoon, or tomorrow until noon.”

“Three it is.”

We shook hands and walked away from each other until three. The game is over. I am taking him seriously. No more playing around. I really don’t mind dirty clothes on the floor, or which way the toothpaste tube is squeezed!