Realtor.

Some pronounce it “realator.”

No matter how you say it.

Spell it.

Spit it out.

Everybody knows one.

Swing a cat by the tail and you’re likely to hit one.

We’re infested with ‘em.

And they just keep comin.’

Once upon a time there was one.

Roy Lehmberg.

Then two.

Shirley Beth Grote Lyles.

And then four.

Six.

Seven and eight.

Eight times two.

Sixteen going on 24.

Twenty-four.

Do I hear 30?

Thirty

Thirty-one.

Thirty-two.

Thirty-three.

Do I hear 40?

And so on and so on.

Almost like Mason churches.

Every time you turn around, there’s another one.

Apparently it’s a new law.

You gotta have a real estate license to live here.

Forget driver’s license.

Hunting license.

Voter registration.

Social security card.

Forget birth certificate.

High school diploma.

College degree.

Rabies tag.

None of those matter.

The law is the law.

Every man, woman, and dog over 18 years old must be a realtor—or else.

So line up and get licensed.

Or else start packin.’

That’s Mason.

Renee Walker is an author, poet, and real estate broker on the square.