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Writer's pictureJ. Joseph

The Investor: Analyst Wilke's Perspective

Listen, kid, I don’t know how much more I can tell you than what you already know. I mean, it wasn’t even that big a meeting. I only remember it because the guy dressed super funny and had business cards. I mean, who uses business cards anymore? So, you know, take what I’m saying with a grain of salt or two.

If I recall correctly, it actually started with a phone call. Some guy, I don’t know who, but definitely not the suit guy, called everyone on the block a couple days beforehand. They were asking about our town, our situations. It was like a poll or something. Not positive, but that was the feeling, you know, like those long political polls where they ask you like a hundred different questions? It was like that. Anyways, we all got one, and we thought nothing of it. I mean, that one magazine or website or whatever had just run Mikey’s story, so we had a whole lot of out there contact over that month.

So, evidently, I said I wasn’t super happy about my whole sitch, or something the guys on the other end of the phone construed as such, because a few of us got a followup call, asking for when would be ideal to meet with someone. Of course, being polite, I was going to answer, but also being from around here, I know better than answer. So, I told the secretary that I could make myself available pretty much any day.

“Alright,” she said right back to me, after only a moment’s delay, “Can you make yourself free on Thursday, then?”

I, of course, could. I mean, work’s been kinda slow recently, thanks to the only other one of your besties who actually stayed in town, but you knew that. I didn’t want her to know that, though, so I took a moment, ruffled through some papers, making sure they could be heard over the phone, then paused, moved the phone away from my head, took a breath, and got back on the phone. “Yeah,” I replied, “I could make Thursday work. When should I expect this meeting?”

There was a soft chuckle over the phone. I probably would’ve been nicer if she’d laughed at any of my jokes, rather than my honest questions. Just purely psychologically speaking, it would be a better priming mechanism, especially now that I know that whole thing was a set up for property acquisition. I didn’t know that at the time, though. “He should be arriving in the early afternoon,” she answered me, after her chuckle.

I thanked her for her politeness, even though I didn’t mean it, and she said goodbye without thanking me. Again, poor priming. But that wasn’t even remotely on my mind. Not because her rudeness wasn’t on my mind. I was very offended by it, and I planned on telling the person who was coming to speak with me about her rudeness. But, at the time, I figured this was all for some sort of follow-up interview. When I asked around for the others who they phone calls had followed up with, they all assumed the same thing. It was the only thing that made much sense. I mean, the reporter lady hadn’t interviewed those of us who weren’t directly involved with the wanderer, and getting our outside view is an important part of Serendipity’s story, you get it? I mean, of course you do, she interviewed Jo and not you. I mean, not that it means much, but you know, your point of view should be just as important, you know?

In any case, we all assumed we were being contacted about the story, that someone was coming to interview us. So, I went and did the only logical thing. I wrote notes, reviewing everything I remember from those months that Mikey had been here. I really dug, deep, you know. See, I didn’t want to be surprised by any questions. I wanted to have that time down pat, an answer for any question they people might ask.

The first indication I had that I might be wrong was before I even saw the person come. I saw that car pull up and, now then, it might be just my stereotypes of reporters, but I was confused. That car was far too nice, in my humble opinion, to belong to any reporter I’d ever known about. But, I figured, maybe this was just someone with money and class who became a reporter. I don’t know anyone’s life story. Then some guy in a real nice three piece suit stepped out. Now then, either this guy wasn’t a reporter, or he had no idea how to be a real reporter. See, a reporter is supposed to be casually dressed, especially when interacting with people in an informal environment, in order to encourage them to speak openly. Else you end up intimidating people.

I moved away from my upper floor window, so he wouldn’t notice me spying on him when he walked over to my house. I was first on his list, it seemed. But at this point, I had gone from certain about what was about to happen to quite confused. He came to my front door and knocked. When I opened the door, he smiled and said, “Hello. I’m Mr. Leighton. You spoke with my assistant a couple days ago. May I come in?” Very polite, very forward. This was more what I was expecting from a reporter. Which only served to heighten my confusion.

“Sure,” I answered him, “Come on in.” I stepped back from the doorway and led the guy into my living room. “Would you like some coffee? Tea?” I asked. It’s important to be polite, especially to guests.

“No thank you,” he replied. Clearly, unlike his assistant, he knew the importance of building rapport and being polite.

I sat down across from him, on a sofa. I let him take the chair, as it was significantly more comfortable. He hadn’t even offered to take the couch, but he was the guest so the offer wasn’t necessary, just a nicety. “So,” I asked, “What is this all about?”

Mister Leighton smiled at me. Then, he started asking me all these questions about the area, like how the schools were, and what local amenities were like, and whether everyone liked living here. I figured that was weird, but background information on the area is important, I suppose. Anyways, I brushed that weirdness out of my head and answered his questions. Then he moved on to even weirder questions, questions that had no bearing on any story, like whether around here people moved frequently and exactly where our property lines were. After answering those questions, I finally voiced my concern. “Wait, what does that have to do with any story? I don’t mean to be rude, I’m just confused.”

“Story?” he asked, “What do you mean?”

I furrowed my brow at the suited gentleman. “You are a reporter conducting followup interviews, right?”

Mr. Leighton chuckled at that. “Is that what Alyssa said?” he asked, shaking his head.

“Implied, not said, assuming Alyssa is your rather rude assistant,” I answered him honestly.

He nodded to me. “Makes sense,” he said, “I apologize for her rudeness, and misleading you in any way.” And he flourished his business card out of his pocket. Like I said, he was weird. Physical business card, on cardstock and everything. Handing it to me, he said, “I’m a property developer.”

I took the card, and put it on the coffee table, then sighed. “I have to apologize right back, I’m afraid. I don’t know how I can help you.”

“Well, you seemed somewhat dissatisfied with your situation, and my firm was planning on redeveloping a portion of this area into luxury condos.” He was beginning his sales pitch.

I felt the need to interrupt him before he got going too hard, you know. I didn’t want him to feel like I was wasting his time. “That’s not exactly what I was talking about. I really can’t sell the place.”

“Why not?” he asked, “Trust me, our firm’s offer is more than fair property value, and we’re willing to negotiate if you help us convince the others in the area to sell.”

I sigh. “That’s not the point. Even if I wanted to leave, which I’m not one hundred percent sure I do, I couldn’t sell to your firm.”

“Why? Is there something weird about your town’s charter, some regulation about development?” he pressed.

He was pressing, so I gave him the answer. “Not that I know of.”

Before I could finish my answer, Mr. Leighton once again asked, “Then why?”

I shrugged. “Because I don’t exactly own the property.”

He looked somewhat confused at me. “But, you said you’ve lived here all your life,” he began, working through my situation in his head.

I smiled and shrugged, then answered him honestly, “Since I was born.”

“And you said your grandparents built the house, right?” he asked. He had paid a lot more attention to my answers than I thought. Especially my offhanded comments.

I nodded. “After the old house burnt down, granddad built a new house.”

“And you don't pay rent to anyone, right?” he continued.

I furrowed my brow a bit. “That’s a tad complicated,” I replied, “But yes.”

He sighed, and concluded, “Yet somehow, you’re not the owner.”

“Of course not. See, you get it,” I jokingly told him.

He shook his head. “See,” he responded to my joke, “I don’t understand. How exactly does that work?”

I shrugged. When it was clear he wanted an actual answer, I explained, “Well, ownership around town gets a little odd, involves the charter and a whole lot of confusion and regulations. That causes most of us to rent from people, technically, to streamline things. But, since everyone here doesn’t care that much, the cost of our rent is basically only maintenance of the places. You understand now?”

He didn’t, not really, but he nodded, so I felt satisfied. Then, he asked, “So, who owns this property?”

This is a Ryer place, right, which as I’m sure you’re aware even more than I with your folks being who they are, makes ownership even more confusing than in most areas of the town. But, he asked, and it would be rude not to answer. So, I told him what I knew. “Um. Technically speaking? I'm pretty sure it's still Mr. Ryer. Dick, if I remember rightly. His name, not his personality. He doesn't come around here, though, so I don't know where he might be.” That was the simple truth.

He sighed deeply. “Okay, well, thanks for nothing.” Saying that, he slowly stood up and stated, “Well, I'll go meet with the others now.”

I wanted to help save him some time and irritation. I didn’t want anyone’s opinions of Serendipity to be ruined, so I helpfully told him, “The other people your rude assistant followed up on? Their places are all owned by the Ryers, too. Sorry about that.”

After I said that, he just groaned and walked out of my house. Very grumpy, but at least he was just I wasted a few hours grumpy, not I wasted a few days grumpy, you understand. I think he went across the street to Jim’s, but I’m not positive. I mostly just returned to my study and called up everyone else. Told them what happened and that they probably shouldn’t expect anyone to go talk with them.

Sorry I couldn’t be more help with your whatever. I wish I remembered more, but it really wasn’t a big deal. Honestly, I was confused about what was going on basically for the whole interaction, and then it was done, and no one followed up on it. So, why are you looking into this? Because you don’t seem your usual oblivious and apathetic self about this situation. You can tell me. You know I can keep a secret.


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