Open House

"Look at the houses, not their prices," advised my wife as we strolled through Nantucket this summer. Quaint as the island's historic dwellings are, I was distracted by realtors' come-ons. The recent implosion on Wall Street appeared to have planted a "For Sale" sign in front of every third house. In olden times on Nantucket, ascertaining the price of a house was akin to practicing scrimshaw on a live whale. One had to brave an agent's scrutiny in person or even on the phone:

One: Hello, I'm calling about 245 Spinnaker Lane.

They: Yes. How may I be of assistance?

One: By telling me its price.

They: That property is handled by Tug Morris. If you leave your name and number, I'll have her ring back.

One: Are there not materials in the office you could refer to?

They: I'm sorry. The listing is Ms. Morris's. An exclusive, I'm afraid.

One: (Unintelligible oath rhyming with "Nantucket.")

Now, with 600 homes currently for sale on the island, it's a whole new ballgame. The listings these days are a bit less exclusive. One could posit that while in the past Tug Morris was a not overly friendly matron in floral skirt, pearls, and espadrilles who had a reserve bordering on hostility, this summer she is a strumpet clad in black leather pole-dancing on Main Street with asking prices tattooed across her torso, fliers clamped between her teeth, and a newfound willingness to sprint after cars and roll naked in their exhaust fumes in hopes of rustling up interest in an open house.

Yesterday's discretion has given way to wanton desperation. Witness the realtor's post box. Stationed outside available properties, this contraption (unlike its namesake, which is traditionally used to receive information) imparts valuable details about the house's occupants. Removing a helpfully supplied cheat sheet, one learns the square footage of their home, how many bedrooms they possess, the taxes they pay, and, best of all, the asking price (these days followed by the pitiful troika "o.b.o." (or best offer)).

Imagine the distress of someone who purchased an 18th Century whaler's cottage in 2004, razed it, constructed an 8,300-square-foot getaway replete with turrets, moat, state-of-the-art alarm system and helipad only to learn that his vacation home is now worth half what he plowed into it (or, to put this in perspective, precisely what it would fetch today in Tennessee (if within commuting range of the flagship FedEx facility)).

This summer, I swaggered into a realtor's office like Jack Nicholson at the Cafe Carlyle. I wasn't outfitted in Nantucket reds, topsiders, an old St. Mark's sweatshirt, or a faded sun hat purchased out of the "New Yorker" 20 years ago. I wore a T-shirt featuring an egg frying in a pan ("This is your brain on drugs"), a pair of brown Payless sneakers, and a wide smirk. When I entered, every single employee (four this summer; 11 in the past) rose to their feet with tears in their eyes. "May I get you some mineral water, sir? A cappuccino?" asked some obsequious office manager/factotum/greeter.

"No, you may not," I said imperiously. "I'm here to buy a home." Their collective sharp intake of breath informed me that my wish was their command. "What I want is not to view actual properties, nor to take some fancy-pants virtual tour on a computer screen. Nor do I want to see photographs, artist's renderings, or pen and ink sketches by the seller's nephew. I want to see numbers."

"As in 'three bedrooms'?" asked a silver-haired fellow who looked peaked, as though he'd recently lost a great deal of weight and no longer slept more than two hours per night. "As in $849,000," I responded. "Please bring the distinguished gentleman in the anti-drug T-shirt all listings in that price range," instructed the wraith.

"No, no," I said. "I want to see the prices of everything for sale on the island. No details. Just the prices." The staff looked at each other in bewilderment. "He's serious," my wife told them. "Others thirst to know how the rich live; my husband is obsessed with how much it costs them." The minions came forth toting cobwebbed ledgers. I pored over the glorious figures for hours: $4,249,999; $2,119,999; $969,999; and most deliciously, $1,249,999 crossed out to read $489,999. Despite having a net worth of $38,216 (including household appliances), I found these bargains were making me salivate. "On second thought," I said, looking up, "I will have that cappuccino."