In a cute little neighborhood deep in the extremely middle class Fishers, Indiana, sits an orange house. Yes, orange. It’s down a road of 60s and 70s homes, mostly bi- and tri-levels with big trim pieces on their corners and around their windows. It’s a bit like traveling back in time to the Brady Bunch house but more modest.
This orange house had the right location and a big yard, but it was… orange. A number of seriously questionable design decisions had been made in that bi-level over the years. There was the exterior door, now blocked off from both sides, the flimsy thin walls that turned the basement into a claustrophobic mess of rooms, and — of course — the broken plate backsplash in the kitchen. Yes, the back splash was made out of broken plates.
These were things that could be changed though, and the square footage was right. The yard was amazing. We could have ended up in that house. Up until Marissa opened the door to the garage.
Behind a white SUV, in the darkness of the garage, was a medical gurney with a human shape resting on it under a white sheet. Two feet stuck out of bottom side.
The real-estate agent shrieked, “Oh my god!”
I started laughing.
The “body” was hooked up to a set of medical monitors and IVs like you see in hospitals, and what Marissa and our agent had failed to notice, was that the home owner was a firefighter. I’m not sure how they missed that. There was an entire room decorated with firefighter helmets, hydrants, Dalmatian pattern blankets. The window on the front door had a sticker that read, “We support our local heroes!” There was a picture of the man is full firefighter gear, for Pete’s sake! I don’t know how they missed it. The body was, of course, just a training aid, and I like to think the homeowner borrowed it for the sake of freaking out visitors.