Glass Knobs

They were new in town, these two. They sat in my office donning sneakers and flannel, quaffed hair, and forearms inked with tiny symbols. An arrow, a semicolon, a cross. Attire I’d come to recognize as the holy vestments of youth ministry. In fact, the couple was quite churchy and spoke of gathering the young faithful in a home of their own one day. A home I might find for them.  

I listened carefully to their demands. They had eyes for distressed wood and hammered tin. They felt drawn to exposed brick, compelled by restored hardware. They desired character, charm. They wanted not a home, but a story—one unique as their own, which they now authored together. They said all this staring into one another’s eyes.  

I hid my smirk well, a skill I’d learned from my years housing such couples. They bring me their fantasies, their visions, and I use them, play on them like plucking a harp’s strings. I play so they’ll hear the music in the walls of sheetrock, in the empty cabinets, and the tiny rooms where they’ll spend bright, sunny days. Days not yet wasted. Only then will they succumb. It takes heart, not brains to buy a home.

All buyers are innocent and pitiful. But that day, with the two youth ministers before me, I felt differently, somehow. I felt not pity but envy. And what I coveted wasn’t their taste in design, nor their adoration for one another, but their confidence, the ease with which they came into faith. How come some are satisfied, nurtured by the milk of hope and salvation while others are not? Was it my fault that I’d lost my taste for the divine? That I needed something stronger than milk? 

Of course, I knew what would make them bite. But there must be song and a little dancing, too. So I began our tour with the property on Belmont Street, with its imitation wood linoleum and fluorescent lighting. 

“Not so charming,” she lamented while inspecting a silver aluminum doorknob. 

“It smells of sweat and paper,” he added. 

Indeed, the Belmont property was formerly a law office. But I didn’t tell them that. I only told them it was within budget and had every amenity. 

“We were imagining something less efficient,” he said. 

“I just remembered,” she chimed in, “my grandmother’s house had glass knobs on the bedroom doors. I think I would like that—glass knobs.”

I have to admit, they had taste. Whether or not it was good was another thing altogether.

The next property was in Oak Park, a subdivision lined with rows and rows of flat little ranch houses. It was hot, so we never got out of the car. Instead, we drove through the curvy lanes and looked on silently as yard after identical yard blurred past our windows. Their faces began to take on a look of hopelessness, perhaps even doubt. What a great test of faith when a reality refuses to fit neatly within one’s vision.  

“The next property isn’t for everyone,” I told them as we left Oak Park. “But we might as well take a look.” This brought a little life back into their eyes. 

The Myrtle Street listing had an arched front doorway, which we discovered after tearing away the vines that covered it. 

“Wow,” he said. 

I snapped the door open, and we stared into the dark living room while our eyes adjusted. Natural light had been blocked by a tremendous vegetal growth covering the windows. In fact, some branches and vines made their way through cracks in the panes, like leafy arms reaching, groping at the walls. The only sunlight visible entered through the floorboards, which were irregularly spaced and apparently without subflooring. I thought I felt a breeze. 

“Quite the project,” she said. 

“But it’s eligible for the historic home registry,” I said. “And just wait until you hear the price.” 

I shut the door, and slowly, our eyes adjusted. The living room walls had been demolished and left only the framing. The kitchen had no appliances. The words Where art thou? were spray-painted on the hallway wall in sloppy black letters.

“How long has it been on the market?” he asked. “What’s the story?”

I knew what he meant. But the interesting thing about stories is they can be about what’s yet to happen. So I told them: Here is a house in need of love and care, in need of someone, a couple, with confidence, with faith, with a vision of their own little paradise. Imagine a home in which every piece of wood and every inch of plaster is an homage to your lives, your work ethic, your style, your faith. 

“Quite the work ethic,” she said.

“We could enlist the help of the congregation,” he added. “The teens could learn tangible skills as well as life lessons. We could serve lemonade after.”

There was a pause that lasted a few seconds. They poked around in the darkness.

“Are those blackberries?” she asked, eyeing vines that were pushing through a windowpane in the living room. 

She approached the window, reached out to the vines, and plucked a berry, which she popped into her mouth. Then, she pondered the bush. And the bush, well, it seemed to move. Or rustle, perhaps. The three of us took notice. There was a brief moment of silence before the black thing fell from the vines and landed with a thud on the floor. It was a long black thing and began to writhe against the wall and, when we saw it was a snake, we hopped and danced, the three of us, while it continued writhing, until, finally, it slithered through a crack in the wall, tunneling inch by inch, the last bits of its tail whipping frantically as it disappeared from sight.

I stood in the doorway of the Myrtle Street property waving goodbye to the youth ministers after that. And I took notice of their attire once again. It seemed to me not so much a style as it was the absence of a style—a neutralization of identifiable features. Me, myself, I prefer color. I want to be a flower in the garden.