Renting Dignity

I hold out a two-week old newspaper in front of me staring at the circled red property. 3720 Jackson, 4 Bedrooms, Close Walk to Campus; Call Chad. I must call Chad.

Calling Chad, I am greeted by a rather effeminate voice. I should not criticize; rarely has my voice been confused with booming Barry White's except by one person who, I think was joking, said I the timbre of my voice had "a shocking resemblance to prepubescent Barry White." Awesome.

"Hi. I'm calling to inquire about the property."
"The what?"
"The property, the four bedroom house on Jackson. I'd like to look at it."
"Is it a big house?"
"Well, I'm not entirely sure. It might be a big house but judging by the rent, I would say not. Regardless, that's brings us to the point as to why I am calling. I would like to peruse the house."
"I like my house."
Although this is the first time I have called about renting a house, I am relatively certain that this is not the courting procedure. Nonetheless, I give in.
"I like houses too! But I do not have a house now. I would like a house though. Do you think you could help me with finding a house?"
The presumed fiance of the landlord on the other line pauses.
"Why don't you have a house?"
This grates my nerves. If all phone calls will go like this, I must conform to society. The way things must go: one must be desperate in order to rent a house. They cannot merely want a house, the must desire, without even seeing the tenancy utter and supreme devotion to it.

I drop to my knees.
"I LOVE THE HOUSE YOU HAVE TO OFFER. I WANT TO SEE IT MORE THAN ANYTHING IN THE WORLD. MORE THAN LIFE ITSELF!"
"More than Barbie?"
"MORE THAN BARBIE."
The voice on the other line goes quiet for a bit, until I hear very clearly, "DADDDDDY SOME MAN IS ON THE PHONE TALKING ABOUT BARBIE TO ME."
And as I'm about to close the phone, I hear a much deeper, much more Barry White-esque voice than mine mutter, "Third time this goddamn week this has happened."