“I can usually figure out if a person is smart, but I can’t figure out Trump.”

The other day my eighteen-year-old son and I were discussing something totally unpolitical — our housing rental search. My son just graduated from high school and had time to join me on most viewings; he was learning to drive so these trips were convenient occasions for him to practice.

Usually, you get shown around by an agent; occasionally, you meet the owner. One of the options we liked was offered to us by the owner. He seemed a nice guy; he was in his forties — around my age. We liked his house and were set to move forward with our application. After walking through the property, we wanted to see a couple of other things in the community, and the guy offered to accompany us, so he got into our car while my son drove and directed us.

Subsequently, he became hard to read, and we struggled to close in on this property. “You are my number one option,” he texted me. “But I have another family who can move in earlier, can you match them?”. I said no. For several days we continued to exchange texts, though our communication was intermittent.

When I was finalizing another opportunity, the guy reappeared, asking for additional proof of income. After all he was interested in our application, but it was too late.

“I can read people really well,” my son said, as we ate dinner and I mentioned to him about the house resurfacing. “I didn’t tell you then, but the guy was shady. I could tell when we were in the…