| Essay Non-Fiction posted September 25, 2022 | Chapters: |
...21 22 -23- 24... 
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What is the price of your well-being?
A chapter in the book A Fly on the Wall
On...Being a Realtor
by Rachelle Allen
| Background My assessments of the people and situations that occur in my daily life. They are not presented in chronological order. |
July 30, 2021
When the tax laws were simplified, my accountant-husband, Bobby, worried that a majority of his clients would begin preparing their own returns. I think he envisioned himself wandering the streets with a haunted look in his eyes, palms extended, begging for scraps of food from strangers. (Because, it wouldn't be just one or two clients who would leave, you see, it would be one or two hundred. My husband has his PhD in Hyperbolic Worry.)
So, his pro-active survival plan was to become a realtor, which he did.
Then later, when tax season rolled around, he discovered that not only had his clientele not dwindled, it had, in fact, increased. And that's when he urged me to become a realtor, too. "That way, during tax season, when I'm too busy to show houses, you can help me out," he said. "You'll be really good at it," he said. "A natural."
(Being a voice, flute and piano teacher to seventy students each week apparently isn't nearly enough. I need a side hustle, don'tcha know.)
That was eighteen months ago. I've now been a licensed real estate agent one month and eight days short of a year, and I've done little but kick myself and snarl, "I HATE this stupid profession!" the whole time.
Today, though, today may have been that metaphoric straw that breaks me.
But let me not get ahead of myself here.
While I was still in Realtor school, Bobby had an Open House scheduled. But because it was tax season, he asked our broker to provide an agent to be a substitute host for it. I had the key, and my job was to open the house for the fill-in agent, apprise her of its quirks so she'd be knowledgeable should anyone ask, leave handouts for her to distribute to all who came through, and go over how to lock the place up before leaving.
Bobby arranged for her to meet me there at 12:30. The Open House was scheduled from 1:00 to 3:00. At 12:45, when the fill-in was still MIA, I called Bobby to advise.
New York State Real Estate Law stipulates that, unless one is a licensed agent or broker, she cannot do anything at an Open House other than bestow pamphlets containing information about the house and say, "Hello! Welcome!" Period.
At 12:50. Bobby called back to say the fill-in agent was still at her house but would be there as soon as she could.
As I hung up, a wave of nausea arose as I spied an SUV pulling up in front of the house and parking. The situation had now become officially dire.
Having gone there for the express purpose of setting the stage for an Open House, I certainly was not dressed to be on it, front and center. But the show must go on, and it couldn't be with me in an oversized sweater and skinny jeans because, as everyone's parents advise, you get only one chance to make a good first impression.
I was left with no choice.
Like a world class hurdler, I took the stairs three at a time, dashed into the master bedroom, yanked open the closet door and grabbed the first garment I saw: a Laura Ingalls-Wilder prairie-style black skirt that I didn't even need to unzip to pull over my hips and thighs. I tucked my lumpy sweater into its waistband, grabbed a belt so wide I wondered if Bobby's client was a WWF winner, and fastened it quickly as I rushed back down the stairs.
As the couple came through the door, I said breathlessly, "Hi!" Then I added, "Welcome!" and handed them the pamphlet about the house. The fill-in realtor managed to saunter in at 1:10.
And that was my initiation into the world of being a real estate agent. Looking back, I should have gotten out while the getting was good. Once I became licensed, it was so much worse.
Like the tough-love style fathers who throw their progeny into a deep pond in order to teach them how to swim, my new broker's first assignment for me was seriously overwhelming: an eight-bedroom, eight-bathroom B & B in a tiny farming town. It was co-owned by a divorcing couple who had no intention of budging from their hefty price tag, despite the fact that the property had been on the market sixteen months already or that COVID was now in full swing.
It cost me a king's ransom in advertising, but I did manage to find a buyer in four months' time --and even for $100 over list!
For my second assignment, it felt as if my broker had lobbed me over Niagara Falls without even so much as a little inflatable duckie around my waist: a forty-four-acre inactive farm, replete with uninhabited farmhouse, built in 1900, owned by a ninety-five-year-old wealthy widow in a nursing home.
Shoot. Me. Now.
It took four grueling months for an offer to come through for that one, too.
The aftermath of these sales never held much glory or delight for me; I was still trying to shake the months of worry and strain that comprised them. Instead of joy, it felt more like I'd finally been let off a malfunctioning carnival ride where I'd been hanging upside down for a decade. I was too surly to be grateful.
That's when my broker suggested I try my hand at being a buyer's realtor. He arranged for me to sign on with a company called Op City so that I could be paired with some first-time home buyers. Only a brand-new realtor --someone who didn't know better-- would agree to this effort in futility.
And that's how I came to meet the couple I dubbed "The Houdinis," the ones who've brought me to today's crossroads, where I question whether or not the hefty commission checks are anywhere even marginally worth all that precede them.
They are bank-approved for $77,000, this couple. ("Ah-OO-ga! Abort mission!" screams my Little Voice.)
When I meet them, I note that their car is the equivalent of a can of Spam with wheels and is probably held together with paperclips and bread wrapper ties. "There is no way this ends well," my instinct warns. But I've just come from two unexpected victories, and, even though I'm shell-shocked, Competitive Me has suddenly become hungry for a trifecta.
Besides, their vehicle fits in beautifully with the neighborhood.
In the yard next to the house we're here to see sits a group of people in hoodies, hunkering close to an active fire pit. (It is a steamy afternoon in late July). There are countless empty wine, beer and whiskey bottles strewn about the scruffy grass between their filthy, naked feet. (It's not quite 5:00 p.m.)
Later, when I recount this portion of the tale to my-husband-who-got-me-into-this-hideous-profession [NOT that I'm still bitter, of course], I use the term "a coven of alcoholics" to describe them.
My new clients and I climb the crumbling stairs to the front door, and I fight with the arthritic, 60's-era combination lock to wedge the numbers into the proper order the listing agent has supplied. No success even after repeated attempts.
"I left my phone in the car," I tell my clients. "I'll contact the other realtor and be right back."
I've nearly punched in the last digit of her phone number when I hear the husband call out to me. "We're in!" he says.
"Huh?" I say and look up.
They are on the side of the house, there is a screen on the ground, and the wife --certainly no sylph of a woman-- is half-in and half-out of a window, the sash of which begins at her husband's shoulders. His cupped hands give her foot the extra boost it needs to propel her the rest of the way through the opening.
I freeze every part of my body except my eyelids. Those I blink again and again and again because I am just sure I cannot be seeing what I seem to be looking at.
Even the coven of alcoholics has turned for a better view.
Before I can delete the six digits on my phone, the wife opens the front door from inside and beckons her accomplice and me in with a cheery scoop of her arm.
The coven of alcoholics continues to stare, but, thankfully, none among them has reached for a device with which to document this unbelievable moment.
The house's interior, to its credit, has been freshly painted. But that is the best I can say for it. Its configuration is nothing short of bizarre. Coffin-sized abutments jut out from main walls, and a narrow, two-story alcove lines each side of a precariously steep stairwell. A door off the kitchen opens down to a set of rickety stairs that lead to a dirt-floor basement. The three of us take one look at that nightmare-waiting-to-happen and promptly close the door. We even lock it.
"Seen enough?" I ask as cheerily as I can. They nod wordlessly with terrified, unblinking eyes. PTSD therapy sessions are definitely in their near future.
I lock the window the Houdinis came in through, and we all but race each other to the front exit.
It is now twenty-four hours later, and I have just gotten off the phone with the listing realtor.
"Why didn't you change the numbers on the lock so the combination wasn't in order?" she demands the moment I answer her call.
"Because it was so old, it wouldn't budge," I fire back in an equally unpleasant tone. (I have learned that my usual Perky Piano Teacher Voice does not work on realtors. If you're not aggressive, you'll be eaten alive.)
"The next-door neighbors say that your clients went back later and broke in through the side window." This tone has a ruthless "Gotcha" vibe to it.
"The neighbors who were sitting around a fire pit on a ninety-degree day and drunk out of their minds at 5:00 p.m.?" I let that sit a beat before adding, "Those neighbors?"
"Well, that's what they said," she insists.
"My clients wouldn't do that," I assure her.
"Oh, and how do you know that?" she hisses.
(Really, I would gladly deal with a thousand unruly children right now if it meant I could end the conversation I am having with this one obnoxious adult.)
"Because they absolutely hated your hideous listing, and none of us could leave there fast enough," I say and immediately hate myself for having joined her in the gutter.
Since then, in true teacher fashion, I have drawn up a Pros and Cons List of why I should remain a realtor. Can you guess which side has blossomed with twenty entries and which remains blank?
When the tax laws were simplified, my accountant-husband, Bobby, worried that a majority of his clients would begin preparing their own returns. I think he envisioned himself wandering the streets with a haunted look in his eyes, palms extended, begging for scraps of food from strangers. (Because, it wouldn't be just one or two clients who would leave, you see, it would be one or two hundred. My husband has his PhD in Hyperbolic Worry.)
So, his pro-active survival plan was to become a realtor, which he did.
Then later, when tax season rolled around, he discovered that not only had his clientele not dwindled, it had, in fact, increased. And that's when he urged me to become a realtor, too. "That way, during tax season, when I'm too busy to show houses, you can help me out," he said. "You'll be really good at it," he said. "A natural."
(Being a voice, flute and piano teacher to seventy students each week apparently isn't nearly enough. I need a side hustle, don'tcha know.)
That was eighteen months ago. I've now been a licensed real estate agent one month and eight days short of a year, and I've done little but kick myself and snarl, "I HATE this stupid profession!" the whole time.
Today, though, today may have been that metaphoric straw that breaks me.
But let me not get ahead of myself here.
While I was still in Realtor school, Bobby had an Open House scheduled. But because it was tax season, he asked our broker to provide an agent to be a substitute host for it. I had the key, and my job was to open the house for the fill-in agent, apprise her of its quirks so she'd be knowledgeable should anyone ask, leave handouts for her to distribute to all who came through, and go over how to lock the place up before leaving.
Bobby arranged for her to meet me there at 12:30. The Open House was scheduled from 1:00 to 3:00. At 12:45, when the fill-in was still MIA, I called Bobby to advise.
New York State Real Estate Law stipulates that, unless one is a licensed agent or broker, she cannot do anything at an Open House other than bestow pamphlets containing information about the house and say, "Hello! Welcome!" Period.
At 12:50. Bobby called back to say the fill-in agent was still at her house but would be there as soon as she could.
As I hung up, a wave of nausea arose as I spied an SUV pulling up in front of the house and parking. The situation had now become officially dire.
Having gone there for the express purpose of setting the stage for an Open House, I certainly was not dressed to be on it, front and center. But the show must go on, and it couldn't be with me in an oversized sweater and skinny jeans because, as everyone's parents advise, you get only one chance to make a good first impression.
I was left with no choice.
Like a world class hurdler, I took the stairs three at a time, dashed into the master bedroom, yanked open the closet door and grabbed the first garment I saw: a Laura Ingalls-Wilder prairie-style black skirt that I didn't even need to unzip to pull over my hips and thighs. I tucked my lumpy sweater into its waistband, grabbed a belt so wide I wondered if Bobby's client was a WWF winner, and fastened it quickly as I rushed back down the stairs.
As the couple came through the door, I said breathlessly, "Hi!" Then I added, "Welcome!" and handed them the pamphlet about the house. The fill-in realtor managed to saunter in at 1:10.
And that was my initiation into the world of being a real estate agent. Looking back, I should have gotten out while the getting was good. Once I became licensed, it was so much worse.
Like the tough-love style fathers who throw their progeny into a deep pond in order to teach them how to swim, my new broker's first assignment for me was seriously overwhelming: an eight-bedroom, eight-bathroom B & B in a tiny farming town. It was co-owned by a divorcing couple who had no intention of budging from their hefty price tag, despite the fact that the property had been on the market sixteen months already or that COVID was now in full swing.
It cost me a king's ransom in advertising, but I did manage to find a buyer in four months' time --and even for $100 over list!
For my second assignment, it felt as if my broker had lobbed me over Niagara Falls without even so much as a little inflatable duckie around my waist: a forty-four-acre inactive farm, replete with uninhabited farmhouse, built in 1900, owned by a ninety-five-year-old wealthy widow in a nursing home.
Shoot. Me. Now.
It took four grueling months for an offer to come through for that one, too.
The aftermath of these sales never held much glory or delight for me; I was still trying to shake the months of worry and strain that comprised them. Instead of joy, it felt more like I'd finally been let off a malfunctioning carnival ride where I'd been hanging upside down for a decade. I was too surly to be grateful.
That's when my broker suggested I try my hand at being a buyer's realtor. He arranged for me to sign on with a company called Op City so that I could be paired with some first-time home buyers. Only a brand-new realtor --someone who didn't know better-- would agree to this effort in futility.
And that's how I came to meet the couple I dubbed "The Houdinis," the ones who've brought me to today's crossroads, where I question whether or not the hefty commission checks are anywhere even marginally worth all that precede them.
They are bank-approved for $77,000, this couple. ("Ah-OO-ga! Abort mission!" screams my Little Voice.)
When I meet them, I note that their car is the equivalent of a can of Spam with wheels and is probably held together with paperclips and bread wrapper ties. "There is no way this ends well," my instinct warns. But I've just come from two unexpected victories, and, even though I'm shell-shocked, Competitive Me has suddenly become hungry for a trifecta.
Besides, their vehicle fits in beautifully with the neighborhood.
In the yard next to the house we're here to see sits a group of people in hoodies, hunkering close to an active fire pit. (It is a steamy afternoon in late July). There are countless empty wine, beer and whiskey bottles strewn about the scruffy grass between their filthy, naked feet. (It's not quite 5:00 p.m.)
Later, when I recount this portion of the tale to my-husband-who-got-me-into-this-hideous-profession [NOT that I'm still bitter, of course], I use the term "a coven of alcoholics" to describe them.
My new clients and I climb the crumbling stairs to the front door, and I fight with the arthritic, 60's-era combination lock to wedge the numbers into the proper order the listing agent has supplied. No success even after repeated attempts.
"I left my phone in the car," I tell my clients. "I'll contact the other realtor and be right back."
I've nearly punched in the last digit of her phone number when I hear the husband call out to me. "We're in!" he says.
"Huh?" I say and look up.
They are on the side of the house, there is a screen on the ground, and the wife --certainly no sylph of a woman-- is half-in and half-out of a window, the sash of which begins at her husband's shoulders. His cupped hands give her foot the extra boost it needs to propel her the rest of the way through the opening.
I freeze every part of my body except my eyelids. Those I blink again and again and again because I am just sure I cannot be seeing what I seem to be looking at.
Even the coven of alcoholics has turned for a better view.
Before I can delete the six digits on my phone, the wife opens the front door from inside and beckons her accomplice and me in with a cheery scoop of her arm.
The coven of alcoholics continues to stare, but, thankfully, none among them has reached for a device with which to document this unbelievable moment.
The house's interior, to its credit, has been freshly painted. But that is the best I can say for it. Its configuration is nothing short of bizarre. Coffin-sized abutments jut out from main walls, and a narrow, two-story alcove lines each side of a precariously steep stairwell. A door off the kitchen opens down to a set of rickety stairs that lead to a dirt-floor basement. The three of us take one look at that nightmare-waiting-to-happen and promptly close the door. We even lock it.
"Seen enough?" I ask as cheerily as I can. They nod wordlessly with terrified, unblinking eyes. PTSD therapy sessions are definitely in their near future.
I lock the window the Houdinis came in through, and we all but race each other to the front exit.
It is now twenty-four hours later, and I have just gotten off the phone with the listing realtor.
"Why didn't you change the numbers on the lock so the combination wasn't in order?" she demands the moment I answer her call.
"Because it was so old, it wouldn't budge," I fire back in an equally unpleasant tone. (I have learned that my usual Perky Piano Teacher Voice does not work on realtors. If you're not aggressive, you'll be eaten alive.)
"The next-door neighbors say that your clients went back later and broke in through the side window." This tone has a ruthless "Gotcha" vibe to it.
"The neighbors who were sitting around a fire pit on a ninety-degree day and drunk out of their minds at 5:00 p.m.?" I let that sit a beat before adding, "Those neighbors?"
"Well, that's what they said," she insists.
"My clients wouldn't do that," I assure her.
"Oh, and how do you know that?" she hisses.
(Really, I would gladly deal with a thousand unruly children right now if it meant I could end the conversation I am having with this one obnoxious adult.)
"Because they absolutely hated your hideous listing, and none of us could leave there fast enough," I say and immediately hate myself for having joined her in the gutter.
Since then, in true teacher fashion, I have drawn up a Pros and Cons List of why I should remain a realtor. Can you guess which side has blossomed with twenty entries and which remains blank?
 Recognized |
#8 September 2022 |
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