It had been two days since Ginger put the sign in the window and she was doing nothing but fielding calls from people who asked, "How much?" The deciding factor was never beautiful cabinetry or the view from the kitchen window. When it came down to it, people cared most about the price. It was no surprise. She just tired from saying the same thing over and over.
On Wednesdays, she drove around and took a look at the other properties she owned. She checked in on her tenants, and took notes on any concerns they had. If something needed fixed, she nodded and wrote it down in a steno pad. She could have dropped her pen and fixed a lot of problems on the spot, but she found that her tenants didn't trust her handiwork. She hired a guy to show up and do the work. It cost her money she could have saved if she'd done it herself, but she found that tenants stayed longer and didn't call her as much if a man took care of the maintenance.
When she fixed a leaky faucet or changed out a hot water heater, sometimes tenants kept calling, certain they heard dripping, convinced their water wouldn't heat up - even though a ten second test proved otherwise. She shrugged it off and hired a handyman. She still inspected any job first, though.
She was on her way back from a property when she saw a little girl at the bottom of the hill. She was alone on the sidewalk in front of a house that rented for two times what Ginger charged for her duplex apartment. As Ginger drove closer, the little girl's face seemed angrier. Just as Ginger was about to turn up her street, the little girl pushed her middle finger as high up in the air as she could - thrusting it in Ginger's direction. The little girl seemed to be straining herself. Ginger's eyes widened, and then she shook her head to herself. "I know," she said aloud in her car. She knew that feeling. She understood what it was like to want the world, or anyone, even a random stranger driving by in a car, to just go to hell.
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