An open letter to circling realtors: Leave me alone

If I want to sell my house, I’ll be in touch. But I don’t, so get off my lawn and put your For Sale sign back in your trunk

A message to the real estate agents of Toronto: Get off my property! If and when I decide to sell my house, I’ll let you know. Until then, leave me alone. I’m staying put.

I don’t care how hot the market is, I don’t want your flyers clogging my mailbox to tell me all about it, or a postcard every time you rake in a commission from somewhere nearby.

And I especially don’t want your ingratiating murmur behind me as I lug an armful of groceries and a bucket of cat litter to my front door.

“Hey there, how are you doing?” I heard as I fumbled for my key. Figuring it was someone greeting someone else, I ignored it.

The voice repeated itself, closer this time. Halfway up the walk was a youngish guy with dandruff, a smile more toothy than Julia Roberts at her best/worst and the shoulders-hunched body language that says, “I’m a lost puppy (with scaly dead skin on my scalp). Please like me.”

A water-heater shark? Or maybe a religious zealot touting the imminent arrival of the Apocalypse with the guarantee, if I signed up now, of a seat on the celestial Red Rocket outta here. Either way, I wasn’t buying. But, no, he wasn’t selling. Or, rather, he wanted to sell something on my behalf:

The roof over my head.

I don’t care how hot the market is, I don’t want your flyers clogging my mailbox to tell me all about it

Did he expect my reaction to be: “Hey, why didn’t I think of that? Great idea! Let’s you and me put a sign up right now.”

I guess I could have been politer. I did sort of say “no, thank you.” But with adjectives.

“Have a good day,” was his only rejoinder (oh, c’mon, fight back). The smile stayed glued in place but I was pleased to see his white-flecked shoulders drooping even more.

I like my house. I like my street. Quiet but close enough to Queen West to make me a hipster with a hedge. I’ve lived here for a quarter of a century. It’s taken that long to get over the trauma of moving.

I hate moving. Hell for me won’t involve flames and pitchforks. Beelzebub’s legions will make me pack and unpack boxes for eternity. Besides, where am I supposed to go?

I know someone approaching retirement who, though he and his wife have a lovely place close to downtown, is talking about relocating out beyond the 905.

Nothing against small towns — I grew up in one myself — but he’s Toronto born and bred. This is not a return to beloved rural roots.

He’ll doubtlessly make money on the deal but he seems unsure of how they’ll occupy their time. Be that as it may, he insists that retirees shouldn’t just get out of the rat race, they should move away from the racetrack. I’ll stick to the city, thanks. I get a kick out of wandering down the street to watch the Queen streetcars groan by in a shower of rust, packed with commuters, none of whom is me.

Small-town rush hours just aren’t the same — not much voyeuristic fun to be had from a four-car lineup at the Timmy’s drive-through window: “Oh, look, Norm from the hardware store dropped his apple fritter in the mud. He’ll have to go around again. Nope, he’s getting out and picking it up.”

I’ve just put up my customary election note on the front door: “We don’t talk politics with strangers.” Must I add a permanent “Not for Sale” sign?

We have a problem with raccoons, too. They’re messy and they can’t read but at least they’re not smarmy.

Things don’t always move fast on my block. But I wasn’t even back inside when I heard one of my neighbours showering the happy-face, flaky- shoulder guy with more verbal shrapnel.

Yet another reason I like living here. We have a lot of shared values.

That noise you hear outside is the sound of real estate agents not listening. Oh, look, they’re smiling.

Shoo! Or I’ll sic the raccoons on you. And I’ve taught them to use adjectives. Bill Taylor is a Toronto writer, shallow but with deep roots. billtaylor2@me.com