Mr Johnson of The True Estate Realtors adjusted his poise on the couch in front of me. “Yes, I’ve owned this estate for many, many years now.” His eyes glazed at the ornate wall behind me. Behind me there was his trophy wall, and on it were the heads of many an animal: beaver, bear and even bobcat; although to me, it did not seem as if he collected the pelts himself. He wore a suave pinstriped deep-blue suit. A matte-gray waistcoat beneath it was buttoned; the buttons were small glossy pearls. Like they were fashioned from animal ribs rolled up into little bone balls for him.Above the waistcoat, he wore a stark-white shirt with a sleek black tie. His bony figure and this tie accented really how thin and skinny this man was. Obviously this man was trying to make me succumb to the notion that he indeed had killed, skinned and dried these animals for this wall of his. I humoured him. “Yes Ryan, it is very impressive.” I averted my eyes from the wall and focused them on his face. “Tell me - did you personally kill these animals?” I’d barely finished before being cut off.
"Every single one!" his deep voice rebounded off of the warm yet empty walls of this two-tone mansion which he also supposedly owned. He altered his tie to make it straight, which only made it wonky, because, as it were, it was already straight. He was obviously trying to assume some sort of pride. I don’t know why. He didn’t have to. Maybe he’s an egotist. I thought blandly to myself. "So how long have you owned this wonderful house?" I asked, with an ever-so-sly hint of dry sarcasm.
"Oh this old thing? He gazed around, stroking his thick, dark goatee which protruded messily and unkempt from his pointed chin. "Ever since I can remember."
"Would you take me on more of a tour of the house?" I asked, adding a friendly smile. But not a warm smile. Friendly, but not warm - I need to keep things to an acquaintance sort of profile. ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’ - as far as I know, this man poses no threat to me - he is no enemy of mine. But he could be. I’m yet to figure something out about him. Egocentric, proud, a slight narcissist, rich and something else.
We walked into his kitchen. The stove looked brand new - or scarcely used for that matter - the surfaces glistened and there was a brand new smell in the kitchen. And the rest of the house. “Mr Johnson,” I leaned against one of the surfaces, but before I could ask my question, he shunted me off of his surface: “Please Mr Camahadre, no leaning.”
"Sorry," I righted myself, disgruntled and annoyed at the motion. "Could you make me a drink?"
"Of course." He reached into the fridge and handed me a cold can of lemonade. "I hope this is okay, we haven’t been shopping this week."
"Yes, this is fine, thank-you." I sipped the lemonade then almost choked on it. "We, Mr Johnson?” I spluttered. “I thought you lived here alone?”
"Oh I do, but, my uh," he shifted his hands nervously. "My mum still helps me with the shopping. I’m… I’m a little bit on the stupid side to do it. Don’t know what I need or want and whatnot. You know the malarkey."
"All too well." I laughed.