Love's Real Stories

December 31, 2014

Glass Breaker

I’ve broken more glass than anyone I know. I have left a trail of shattered and broken windows, bottles, glasses, plates, bowls, light fixtures, and miscellaneous statues, figurines, vases – some quite valuable- even a couple of windshields and skylights. But by far my most frequent glass victims have been windows. Windows always seem to be in the path of objects thrown, kicked, dropped, batted, flung, or otherwise generated by me.

But I was shocked when I ran into this house, late for my open house, slammed the front door behind me, and slipped on a carpet runner. My keys slipped from my hand, flew across the room and slammed into the living room window. I was shocked because the window did not break. The keys dropped to the floor harmlessly. It made no sense. I have broken windows with the mere flip of a pebble, the tap of a knuckle, much less the hurling of a mass of metal such as my key ring. This was encouraging; perhaps it represented a new trend. Perhaps it could mean the start of a new relationship with glass!

But alas, my hopes were dashed when I turned around and saw a crack traversing the front door glass. That made more sense: a simple slamming of the door by my hands translates into broken glass.

As a life-long glass-breaker, I knew what to do; I went into fix-it mode.

Fix-it tip: The common butter-knife is the perfect tool for removing old glazing around a pane of glass. Perfect, that is, if the glazing putty is at least forty years old, as was the case here.

I greeted my open house visitors as I scraped out putty, removed old glass, and measured for new glass. I called The Glass Man (“He’ll fix it fast, man,” said the radio ad); he delivered the new pane of glass, putty, glazing points, and putty knife.

One guy, at the open house with his kid, said, “You’re either a well-dressed handyman, or you broke a window.”

“You’re right in both cases,” I said.

The guy let his kid help me roll the putty into worm-like lengths between the palms of our hands. I stuck them to the edges of the newly placed glass. I let the kid spit on the putty knife; then I drew it smoothly and firmly along the glass edges shaping the putty into a nice bevel with clean corners.

I’ve heard it said if you break glass accidentally, you’ll have good luck. As it went, that guy with his kid bought that house, and they became my long-time friends and clients.

Maybe being a life-long glass-breaker isn’t such a bad thing.

Leave a comment

December 19, 2014

Blue Christmas

Every time I hear “Blue Christmas” by Elvis I think of my wily old mentor KDV, when he tricked me one Christmas season.

“Hey bro, come with me to Shanty Town and help me take a census,” said KDV.

Shanty Town was a group of little run-down houses, more like shacks, on an acre of ground just east of downtown occupied by migrant agricultural workers. KDV had the property listed for sale, and the out-of-town owner never set foot on it. The rent always came every month, though.

“I’ve had this junk-heap listed for over a year, and miracle of all miracles, we have a buyer. The problem is I have to come up with tenant information. You with me, babe?”

We pulled into the property. December rains had pounded the dirt into gooey mud that covered every bit of land the houses didn’t.

“I hate this place,” he said. “Count heads, babe.”

We knocked on the first door. “Buenos días,” said KDV. “Cuantos personas occupado aqui? His Spanish was worse than John Wayne’s. A man in cowboy boots and a t-shirt looked back with fear in his eyes.

Three kids sat quietly on the floor. The place had one chair. “No se,” said the man.

KDV and I appeared so out of place, we could have been from Mars, or worse, the Immigration Department or I.R.S.

Each little house was the same: lots of kids, few possessions, and lots of fear. Nevertheless, we were given tamales and hand-made tortillas as peace offerings. Skinny Christmas trees stood in a couple shacks, and some had a few decorations.

“What a dump,” KDV said at the end of our excursion. I was struck by his lack of empathy.

The next Saturday, KDV asked me again to go with him to Shanty Town, because the buyer wasn’t satisfied with the tenant information. The sale was supposed to close before the year-end.

“It’s the weekend,” he said. “Better chance to catch them all at home.”

We pulled into the mud again. This time KDV opened all his car doors and cranked up the car stereo, blasting out “Blue Christmas” by Elvis.

He jumped out and whipped open the trunk, shouting “Merry Christmas! Feliz Navidad!”

The trunk was stuffed with wrapped Christmas presents. On each was written niña, niño, señor, or señorita. There must have been a hundred wrapped gifts: games, crayons, candy, toy guns, balls, you name it. We all laughed and celebrated.

KDV turned to me and shouted over Elvis. “Thought I was the Grinch, didn’t you, babe!”

Yes, I had. “Never forget, babe,” he said, “we gotta make people happy whenever we can; especially kids, and especially at Christmastime!”

2 Comments

December 15, 2014

Time Management

“You will never find time for anything,” said JP. “If you want time you must make it.” JP taught classes in time management.

I said, “I am definitely going to take a class in time management, just as soon as I can work it into my schedule.”

“Never leave until tomorrow that which you can do today,” said JP.

“Time flies,” I said.

“But you’re the pilot,” he said.

I eventually took one of JP’s classes in time management. I made detailed lists and schedules. I became a student of time management.

I discovered a problem with time management, a problem that stops even the best time managers in their tracks like kryptonite stops superman.

My discovery began when my client Roger called. “Hey, I have a lead for you. Get over here.”

Rodger was not on my schedule that day, and I had laid out a busy one. But Rodger was an A-plus client, an advocate, a never-ending source of clients and business. Even the best time managers agree that when an A-plus client calls, you make time for them first.

“Come on in,” said Rodger, “My neighbor Jack is gonna sell his place. He’s there right now waiting for us. Sound good?” It sounded great.

“Let’s get going,” said Rodger, “Time’s a-wasting!” We hopped in his truck.

“Just one thing before we head over there. I gotta return Jack’s rider mower I borrowed last spring.” We pulled up to the barn. “Shoot, I forgot I stacked this plywood in front of the door. Give me hand?” We re-stacked his 18 sheets of plywood on the side of the barn. Rodger backed the truck in, and we laid a couple of 2×8’s as a ramp to drive the rider mower in to the truck bed.

“Dagnabbit! Where’s the frickin’ key to this thing? Aw heck, we can probably push it. Give me a hand?”

The mower was a heavy beast, and proved unwilling to be manhandled up the ramp.

“Cripes,” said Rodger, “I’ll go back to the house and find the frickin’ key.”

An hour later Rodger was turning the key in the ignition to the rider mower. “”Son of a goat! Out of gas!

I’ll get the gas can from the garage.”

A half-hour later Roger gassed up the mower.

When we arrived at Jack’s place, there was note on the door, “Be back in an hour.”

“An hour ain’t bad,” said Roger. “Let’s unload this mower and go back to my house for a beer.”

That’s when I understood my discovery: the kryptonite for time management is people. To manage time, you must manage people. Good luck with that.

Leave a comment

December 4, 2014

Fair Market Value

A little lady shot past me and down the hallway of my open house. She glared at me from time to time as she zoomed from room to room, muttering “heh!” and “bah!”

I caught up to the little lady in the back yard where she stood with fists on hips, scowling as if she were surveying a landscape so foul it could be the County dump.

“Just a regular old house,” she said, “and you’re charging a king’s ransom for it!”

The truth is, the house was a tad over-priced, but that was the seller’s idea, not mine.

“You Realtors keep raising the prices on these houses to where a regular person can’t even buy one!”

I heard the front door slam. I excused myself from the angry little lady, and went back in the house, where I came upon my mentor, the wise and wily KDV.

“Hey, babe,” said KDV, “just checking up your open house. What’s shakin’, grasshopper?”

I told him a lady accused me of raising home prices. I neglected to tell him she was still here at the house.

“Absurd!” said KDV. “Home prices fluctuate with Fair Market Value, and Fair Market Value is like the Mississippi River. Its level rises and falls in response to forces beyond our control, my friend.”

The little lady skittered in and stood behind KDV, unseen by him, with her fists on her hips, scowling. I nodded toward her surreptitiously in an attempt to clue KDV in, but he raged on, unaware of her presence.

“Whoever suggests we as Realtors have such power is simply uninformed. Here, let me wave my magic wand!” he said sarcastically and rhetorically, “Where would you like the price to be today?”

“Show me this person who says Realtors are the cause of rising Real Estate prices, and I will show you someone who sounds like an ignoramus!”

The little lady stomped around from behind KDV. Caught off-guard, he hopped a foot in the air. She stuck her finger in his face and screeched, “You’re a nincompoop!”

She shot back out the front door, muttering.

KDV said, “Oops. That’s the lady you told me about, right?”

“The very one,” I said. His shoulders sagged.

“Rule number 4507, grasshopper: ‘Never shoot your mouth off.’

“Anyway, babe,” he said, “that lady is wrong about Fair Market Value. But she’s right about one thing.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I’m a nincompoop.”

Leave a comment

November 21, 2014

Un-selling

I was driving along, honing my skills as a lively and interesting conversationalist, when to my utter amazement, tears shot from the eyes of my passenger, Kathy Grisham.

“No, no, no, no,” she sobbed into her hands.

“Uh,” I said. I recalled in that moment the words of my mentor, the wily and wise KDV: “There’s more to this real estate stuff than showing houses and writing contracts, babe.”

“It’s all wrong!” Kathy bellowed. “My husband won’t listen to me! The house he wants us to buy, it’s all wrong, all wrong. It needs too much work and costs too much. And I’m about to have a baby! Do you understand?” She wrung tears from her handkerchief like a soaked washrag.

I understood the part about having a baby. The rest I was foggy on. Kathy and her husband Brad were excited about buying this house as far as I knew, and I was excited about making a sale.

Now she was yelling. “He’s a dreamer! Always biting off more than he can chew, always getting in over his head!”

When she said “getting in over his head” she whirled her handkerchief in circles over her head, and covered the inside of the car with showers of tears. “You’ve got to get me out of this,” she wailed.

I wiped the tears from my cheek, also my hair and right ear, and drove on to the house, where we met Brad.

“Honey!” said Brad, as we strolled room to room, “just wait till I refinish these hardwood floors, and patch this old plaster. The painting is no big deal, and some plumbing and electrical will get the kitchen and bathroom in shape in no time.” It took everything I had to not shout, “Here, Brad! Sign this tear-stained contract!”

But Kathy looked at me pleadingly. I silently said good-bye to my tear-stained contract.

“Uh, it’ll take a lot of money and time to do all that,” I said numbly, “are you sure you’re not getting in over your head, biting off more than you can chew?” I wanted to bite off and chew my tongue.

Brad saw the look of agreement on Kathy’s face. “Honey?” he said.

“You’ve been painting our apartment for two years,” she said. “I want some furniture besides paint cans, tarps and ladders.”

Back at the office I told KDV my sordid tale.

“Ah, yes!” said KDV. “The art of un-selling! You know, babe, there’s more to this real estate stuff than showing houses and writing contracts.”

Leave a comment