by Damian Dressick

Lookie-loo's or ready-to-buy's with checkbook in hand, the first thing any of them want to see - if they're in possession of all the facts - is never the fenced-in yard or the new Sub-Zero appliances in the freshly tiled kitchen or even the small stainless steel accented deck with a view of the harbor that juts out from the master suite. Would-be buyers don't care about the wide plank flooring or the state-of-the-art security system. They could be watching paint dry when I point to where the nonstructural wall used to be and how the house is one of the city's prime examples of Federalist architecture adapted for modern living.

Without exception, potential purchasers head straight for the bathroom. They let their noses fill with the scents of PineSol and bleach and tentatively - always tentatively - run their hands along the tile walls. Their eyes linger on the chromed water pipe running across the ceiling to the shower. Invariably, their gazes fix on the slight crook near the center, where, I understand, the extension cord was tied. Then they unfailingly tell me, "Thanks, but no. I don't think I could live in a place where something like this happened."

<<>>