Love's Real Stories

Must Sell Now

“I need you to list my house, man. I must sell now! Time is of the essence!”

That message was good news. I would love a new listing.

I drove straight over to the address. The front door was open and loud music poured out. I knocked on the door jamb and called out. “Hello?”

A skinny wild-eyed guy with long stringy hair jumped into view from the interior. “What’s wrong, man?” he shouted.

I said I received a message to list a house. Did he call?

“Oh, yeah!” He dashed off into the house. “Come on in, man, we’re getting ready to sell. Time is of the essence, right?”

The interior looked like an active garbage dump. Bottles, fast-food wrappers, cigarette butts, and furniture askew covered the floor. A skinny German shepherd was licking a pizza box.

The guy leaped out the back door.

“Here’s my wife!” he shouted. She was crawling up and down the back patio methodically arranging a couple dozen potted plants in two straight lines, sliding them an inch or two this way or that, then repeating the process, her eyes in a fixed stare. Other than the two rows of potted plants, the back yard was a replica of the interior: piles of garbage and junk.

I was mystified, but I told them I would do some research on market value and return the next day to discuss a listing.

“For sure, man!” said the guy. “Totally! Time is of the essence!”

Back at the office I described the bizarre scene to my wily old mentor KDV.

“Sounds flaky,” said KDV. ”Reminds me of some of the pads I’ve seen in the Hollywood Hills, babe. Don’t get your hopes up.”

The next day I knocked at the front door. I heard no music and got no answer. I was turning to leave when the door opened slowly. The guy peered at me, eyes half-shut, with total non-recognition. I reminded him of our plan to discuss listing the house.

“Oh yeah?” he said slowly, “No way I’m selling, man.”

Mystified again, I drove away thinking ‘flaky is right.’

A week later I received another message from the guy: “I need you to list my house, man. I must sell now! Time is of the essence!”

Normally that message would be good news.

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January 16, 2014

Draw the Line

A certain word associated with country property should never be forgotten. Hard lessons are learned when it is.

The lesson for me began with a phone message from my client, Jill:

“We have a problem. Would you give us a call, please?” Her voice was shaky. “Freddy won’t go away!”

Jill and her husband Jack closed escrow and moved into their new country home just a week prior. “Freddy” was the seller, Mr. Johnson, an old mountain man who didn’t say much. Jill dubbed him Freddy after a character in a horror movie. “He just creeps me out,” she would say. “He stares at us. And he wears that black felt hat and plaid jacket.”

I first met Freddy, that is, Mr. Johnson, at the side of the road. He held a rumbling chain saw, and stared at me. He made it clear I had inconvenienced him by interrupting his work.

“I’m looking for the owner of the property up the road, the two-story house with the pond in back,” I said.

He stared.

I explained I had buyers for country property and I was scouting for them. Did he know who owns the property?

“Yep.”

Did he know their name?

“Yep.”

Several ‘yep’s later, I determined he was, in fact, the owner in question. I eventually listed Mr. Johnson’s property, and Jill and Jack bought it.

I returned Jill’s call.

“Freddy’s up there right now,” she said. “At our pond!”

Forty minutes later, I stood next to Mr. Johnson.

“Pretty, ain’t it?” he said. The pond was the best feature of the property; clear, fresh, and private, surrounded by sycamores, maples and oaks.

As tactfully as I could, I told Mr. Johnson that Jill and Jack were uncomfortable with his unannounced visits. “It is their property now,” I said.

“Pond ain’t on the property,” he said, “this here’s BLM land.”

“But the fence line…….”

“Old cow fence,” he said.

I flinched and recalled a vision of my old mentor, KDV. “A certain word associated with country property should never be forgotten, babe,” he said. “Listen, bro, the only way country buyers will know what they’re buying, is if they get a………..”

“Survey,” I said out loud. “We should have gotten a survey!”

Mr. Johnson stared at me. “Yep.”

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January 7, 2014

Animal Aura

“No more charging bulls and no more vicious dogs, please,” said my client, Janice. “I want to find a place with good vibes.”

Janice was referring to two properties I had shown her and husband Mark. At the first a neighbor’s bull charged us and at the second a neighbor’s Springer Spaniel sunk his teeth into my ankle. In both cases, Janice and Mark had loved the property we were touring, but left in horror.

“Not this time,” I said. “I checked this one out this morning; no beasts as far as the eye can see.”

We drove up the gravel driveway, and curved behind a row of maple trees. At the back of the property, hidden from the road, stood a two-story cottage with a front yard of tall flowers and a vegetable garden behind.

A little round lady emerged from the front door wearing an apron, wiping her hands on a dish-towel. She smiled and waved as we arrived.

“I’ll be out in the garden,” said the lady. “You kids just make yourselves at home.”

The place smelled like a bakery. In the kitchen a pie sat steaming on the wood-block countertop. All the rooms in the house had high ceilings, wood floors and old-time wallpaper.

“I already love this place,” said Janice.

“Funky, but nice,” said Mark.

We headed out the back door. An over-sized black cat was sleeping on the back porch rail-cap. Janice and Mark strolled out to the garden and I hung back with the cat.

“Beautiful cat,” I heard Janice say.

“Oh he just visits. He belongs to my neighbor,” said the lady.

I reached to pet the cat, and in a flash, he sunk his fangs in my thumb. I stifled a scream and hid my bloody hand in my pocket. I said nothing.

“Let’s write it up,” said Mark as they returned.

Back at the office I put the purchase contract on the table.“What is wrong with your thumb?” said Janice.

I confessed the cat attack. “I didn’t want to tell you guys that yet another vicious animal lived in the neighborhood.”

“Come to think of it,” said Mark, “that bull was aiming for you. And the dog bit you; and the cat attacked you.”

“Yeah,” said Janice. “This place has good vibes and we’re buying it. And you should adjust your aura.”

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January 1, 2014

Dog Day

“That was really, really, scary,” said Janice.

“We could’ve been killed,” said Mark.

Janice and Mark were referring to the recent incident wherein a massive bull had charged the three of us in a pasture behind a ranch house they were considering buying.

“The place has bad vibes. Really, really, bad vibes,” said Janice as we drove away. She pulled bits of weeds from her hair with shaking hands.

We were now back on the road, after a break to settle the adrenalin rush, on our way to see another property I thought might be a good candidate for them to buy.

I pulled off the main road into a quiet tree-shaded country cul-de-sac, and up the driveway of a Tudor-style cottage home with a brick and stucco exterior, high-pitched tile roof, and tall mullioned windows.

Inside were high ceilings, tile floors, and plush bedroom carpets. At the conclusion of our inside tour, Janice stood in the center of the Great-Room. Shafts of sunlight highlighted the wood-paneled walls and brick fireplace.

“This place has a great feel,” she said. “I really, really like it. But we better go look out back.”

Mark was already in the large back yard, surveying the nearby properties for their bull population, no doubt. Although the place was adjoined by country property to the rear, none appeared to contain any livestock, and the homes on either side were of the residential non-bull type as well.

“Nice place,” said Mark.

“Oh, look,” said Janice, “what a cute dog. And not even barking at strangers.”

A Springer-spaniel in the yard of the next-door property rested his nose on the lower bar of the split rail side fence wagging his tail and his entire hind end, watching us with droopy brown eyes.

“Springers are sweet dogs,” I said as I walked over to the fence.

The Springer’s head shot forth through the split rail fence like a rattlesnake. He sunk his teeth into my ankle and ripped my pants as I pulled my leg away.

As we drove away Janice said, “Bad vibes, bad vibes again!”

Back at the office my mentor, the wily old KDV asked, “Did you find a property for that couple who were chased by the bull?”

“I thought so,” I said, “but it turned out to be a dog.”

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December 27, 2013

Roof Life

I spotted a guy driving a pickup truck weaving through traffic, sticking his head out the window, looking up.

The pickup truck looked like it had been splattered randomly with buckets of black tar and dented by hammers and other blunt objects, which it had, because it was a roofing truck. The guy driving was John James Miskella, and he was looking up because he was looking at roofs. Half of the roofs around town had been installed by John James or his father before him, and he kept his eye on them like a dad watching over his kids.

I had called John James in behalf of my first-time buyers, Dion and Alma Sarafino, to provide a roof report for the house they were buying.

“A report?” he said on the phone. “I can tell you right now the doggone place needs a new roof. When they built that subdivision they hired out-of-towners who slapped those roofs on with cheap materials and hit the road. The ridge shingles are warped and cracked, and the valley flashings are rusted through. Those roofs are dying prematurely.”

I now stood in front of the house when John James pulled up. He slid the ladder out of the truck, leaned it against the rafters and lunged up to the roof like a panther. I lumbered up behind him.

He kneeled at the peak of the roof and moved his hands lightly along the shingles as if he were gauging the health of a sick beast.

“What a shame,” he said. “Like I said, it needs a new roof. And I would feel better about the whole doggone thing if that separate patio roof got replaced, too. They used cheap roll roofing on it instead of hot tar. ”

I wrote up a repair request. The seller agreed to replace the main roof but not the separate patio roof. Dion and Alma were disappointed.

“The patio roof will cost as much as three house payments,” said Dion,” but let’s move ahead.”

A week later I met at the house with Dion and Alma as John James was finishing up his job.

“Now that’s a good roof,” said John James.

“Wait a minute,” said Alma, “isn’t that a new patio roof?”

John James nodded.

“But that’s not being paid for,” she said.

“I know,” said John James Miskella, “but now I feel better about the whole doggone thing.”

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