Adventures of RealtorMan

“Come on now you two, time to get out and put the pool toys away.” called out Mrs. James from the relative safety of a deck chair, well beyond the splashing and kicking. “Your father will be home soon.” She didn’t like going in the pool when the girls were in there; she feared inundation. With so much water surging about, more like a water park than a sensible lap pool, the children liked so much having it just to themselves, as they did today.

“Oh please Mrs. James, just a few more minutes.” came the inevitable request. Wise mother that she had become in the past, she built in a little extra time at the outset, anticipating the request. Clever children that they were, they knew that she did this. There were indeed a few more minutes to be eked out in the water but it was never quite as much fun after that first call.

Poppy and Pansy Mendel were the eight and three-quarter year old daughters of one Greg Mendel, a POP’s resident, professional sports coach, and divorced father of two. Desperate to find care for his twins, by divorce decree in his custody nearly half the time, and that time rarely coinciding with his own free time, he had spotted Mrs. James alone in the lobby one day and quickly wondered if she might be the answer to his prayers, such as they were. He was aware of a teenage girl living in the building but he knew he needed someone more reliable. Soon after, he had taken aside the trusty Gervase and asked his opinion.

“Mrs. James?” Gervase chuckled. “Mrs. James is a real lady.” Always tempted to ask why he was asked something, as concierge he had learned to never ask, never. He waited. Sometimes there was an ensuing explanation, frequently not. (more…)

Peter knew he was vain. Anyone could see he had a good reason to be, he boasted to himself, with a physique like his. Hans had said another word for vain—something to do with being sissy—but he couldn’t remember it exactly. Sometimes Hans even called him “Sissy”, like a pet nickname. Hans was always using big words Peter didn’t know. Small wonder, the way he was always reading. He read on his computer. He read books and magazines, everything he could lay his hands on. Peter wished Hans would ‘read’ him instead, pay more attention to him.

When he wasn’t out exercising, while Hans was reading or writing, he had liked to cook or bake. At least Hans showed some appreciation for him then; he was never stingy at the market about buying ingredients for Peter to try new things. Hans refused to be a vegetarian like Peter but he didn’t mind eating the really super healthy stuff Peter liked to make. During that time, Peter perfected his banana bread recipe—it was loaded with health. He felt healthier just making it, so he’d made it every Sunday morning.

One of the reasons Peter had really liked living at the POP’s was access to the great workout room and the pool. Hans objected about the extra expense of the fees at first, wondering aloud why, if Peter already worked as a personal trainer at a gym, he would need to have all these facilities at home as well. Hans had tried to say he preferred to buy a bigger unit somewhere else, in a building without any facilities. Hans had read—what else?—about the differences between condo buildings. He’d tried to explain it all to Peter but Peter only pretended to listen. He only needed to remember just enough to fake interest when Hans wanted to discuss it. (more…)

Morris “Morrie” Mangold, owner of Wrested Development and pillar of downtown re-development, was justifiably proud of his accomplishments.  A successful immigrant, he had left Iraq, along with many like-minded family and friends, several decades ago. He was now leaving his mark on the face of the city, a force for good recognized for his architectural achievements by a succession of fawning city fathers. As he set the pace of city development, the city awarded him in return. He moved in the best circles, round and round in them, surprising even himself with his socially upward spiral.

He was a father himself, and a devoted family man. He fostered a retinue of relations invited to his side over the years and sent on to higher education to learn specialties that would later be useful to him. The real business, the cut and thrust, he would teach them himself. This tightly knit group ran their empire together through thick and thin.

His adopted city was old enough to value its history and he was shrewd enough to value his gradually acquired reputation. Alert to this, he avoided pitfalls that befell his competitors and was cautious in adapting his designs, where needed, to the prevailing winds of the preservationists or to the particular sensitivities of various neighborhood groups. Privately, he thought these people were ridiculous; bigger and newer—those were his ideals.

His latest condo proposal, The Alchemy, reflected those ideals; dark but alluring, towering but sleek, all steel and glass, the new black gold of our time, turning yet another scrappy and underused bluff side into gold for himself too, he hoped, hence the name.  True, it would be somewhat wedged onto the lot, but wasn’t that the whole point of urban development; to build skyward, increase density, and generate more tax dollars on a smaller footprint?

What’s not to like? he wanted to know. The crumbling, old, and long out of commission lighthouse on the site would be wonderfully preserved and incorporated into the design. The streetscaping and public pocket park would be unsurpassed, offering something for everyone. Perhaps not for the inhabitants of the condo building next door, The Prospect on Prospect, whose views would admittedly be restricted by his inspired new project. Too bad they hadn’t bought into one of his other developments instead of there. Who’s sorry now? was his little private joke. (more…)

“I have to say, the other Realtor we are working with never offers us all this information.” Shel opined.

“Other Realtor?” R.M., looking askance, replied. At Michelle’s curiosity driven request, they had driven north into Riverwest. He was pointing out a few of that area’s condo developments along the way when she’d spotted the coffee shop. They were at the counter, waiting for their order.

“We were out looking the other day at properties listed by Driftwood Realty, with an agent from there.”

“Let me try and explain something about how real estate works,” offered R.M., as they returned to the car with their drinks. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit here awhile ’til this cools a bit before I start driving again.” indicating his steaming cup. “Once burned, twice shy.”

“As in every business,” he began, “there are rules to the game that don’t often seem to make a lot of sense to an outsider. Real estate is no exception. For instance, you can see any property listed in MLS with any MLS agent—it doesn’t have to be with someone from the real estate company that has listed it.”

“So you’re saying that one agent can show us everything, that we don’t have to see each listing with a different agent? (more…)

Opening a cupboard in the dining area one day, Hans discovered that Peter had apparently made off with the set of expensive, etched champagne flutes. While it was true that they had picked them out together at Cathay Imports, the import shop owned by John and Cathy Cabot, who lived upstairs, after all Hans had paid for them. In hindsight, he regretted having walked out in a snit when Peter was packing up. What else was gone that he hadn’t missed yet, he wondered? Going through everything in the condo to find that out was too much like housecleaning.

They had purchased many other things together, when they were first setting up the condo. And Hans felt melancholy remembering how they’d prepared for their vacation in Puerto Rico. Peter explained that everything was more expensive there; it would be his second time on the island. They would be better off buying the basics more cheaply and generically before they went and have a wider selection here too. So they chose swimwear and towels, sunglasses, extra memory cards, the works, and Hans had paid for all that too—his treat, so Peter would agree to come on vacation with him.  Since Peter had left him Hans hadn’t gone swimming even once, it made him so lonely. (more…)

R.M.’s cell phone summoned him from his labors with the Multiple Listing Service, the MLS. Mostly, these labors involved three things; one, researching currently available condos for an interested buyer; two, tracking units either pending or sold in the previous month (he had been keeping these records for many years now); and three, trying to keep, at an inaudible level, his swearing at the vagaries of the computer, now busily withholding these facts from him. At the first two tasks he ultimately prevailed. The third needed additional work. He answered, temporarily abandoning all three pursuits; it was much easier to talk to someone anyway.

“Hello, I hope you will remember me, though I never introduced myself when we met some time ago at the sales trailer for The Prospect. My name is Dr. Cal Thorne. You very kindly offered to speak with me again about that project and other developments.”

“Yes, I do remember. How are you?”

“Thank you, I am very well. I was wondering if might I now extend the invitation I mentioned then. Would you care to join me for afternoon tea at my apartment?”

“I’d be delighted.” R.M. was not unfamiliar with the ceremony of afternoon tea. It could be quite formal, depending on the occasion, at the very least decidedly polite. “What day did you have in mind, Dr. Thorne?”

“Would Monday be convenient? Perhaps at 3:30 or so?”

The following Monday afternoon, R.M. was buzzed into the building and met in the hallway by the figure he recalled from the trailer; also welcoming him into the apartment was a lady introduced as Mrs. Thorne, Dr. Thorne’s wife. There was a wildly curious young child, introduced as Dr. Thorne’s grandson, Keki, and a highly diffident and not introduced white cat, who pawed at a chair leg and retreated, injured no doubt by the slight. (more…)

Earnest Arbuthnot wore a distinguished air and most people saw him as the epitome of their ideal of an English gent. He had arrived as an expert advisor for a special exhibit, been asked to fill in temporarily for a vacating museum curator, and in that time had grown to appreciate the city. Or rather, as his fine manners were noticed, the city grew to appreciate him, drawing him into its inner circles. He reflected that as a single middle-aged man it was hard to be unhappy with such social recognition, such a steady diet of delicious events to attend.

As he was admired here more and more, he found himself missing his old life in England less and less. At home, he was quite an ordinary chap; here, he was the bee’s knees. He eventually decided to stay, applying for and then accepting a full-time position at the museum. He now lived at The Prospect, quickly drawing the notice of other residents for his respectful and well-expressed remarks at monthly association board meetings.

Everyone who lived in a condo automatically became an association member, was encouraged to participate, and held a vote or votes based, rather like the condo fees, on the percentage of ownership in the association. And although the meetings at the POP’s were typically well attended, not everyone spoke at them. There were lots of listeners; a mercy, perhaps. (more…)

First thing most mornings, Hans Knopupik checked his phone for messages. This was his way of rationalizing to himself that he started work early. Nobody else really cared that much because he worked from home. Home was a smallish one bedroom condo on the lowest residential floor at the POP’s. It faced west, toward the city. He also liked to think that because he faced the city, he was somehow keeping in touch with it. In fact, all he could see of it was Prospect Ave., up it and down it, and a few older buildings across the street.

If he ever felt the need of a grander view, he took a ride up upstairs to the solarium and sat for awhile. The sun beat into his own unit windows so hard on sunny late afternoons that he had to close his shades anyway just to be able to see his computer screen. Sometimes on summer afternoons, to escape the brightness, he took his laptop out into the terrace facing the lake, where the building cast it’s deep shadows. Wandering around the building in this way, he got to meet a few more of the residents than he might normally have done working alone day after day in his unit. That nice lady Mrs. James, the association secretary, had taken an interest in him, chatted him up.

Hans had originally had a partner, Peter, when he moved into the condo but their arrangement hadn’t lasted very long. It was a small space to share, even with a lover, and there had been a lot of fights; silly fights, about the placement of shampoo in the shower, and really big fights, about commitment and seeing other guys. So Peter flung himself out of Hans’ life and home, went off in other directions (so he informed Hans) and rented someplace else. They still saw each other, very occasionally, but it was a relief to Hans that he no longer had to share his space. He vowed that his next relationship would be in a two bedroom, two bathroom unit at least. ‘2 BR/2 BA’, as he read in real estate ads. (more…)

Ch.Tumbling Beyond the Cottage Byre and Wall, a.k.a. Briar Rose, or Rosie for short, had been headed for the life of a show dog; Shetland Sheepdog, in the Herding group. Now fully grown but coming in a tad short of the required standard height and thus unable to compete any further, she was found a new home at the POP’s where she proved a lively enough companion but with enough early training to mingle acceptably in the better sort of entertainments her new adoptive family often hosted.

Although she didn’t appreciate the view and only reluctantly stepped out onto the balcony—she found that jutting out just her nose went far enough to suit her—all of the visitors to their unit, on the third floor from the top,  went out and stood, sweeping their full glasses to and fro. She learned that they would soon come in from out of that windy spot and fuss over her, which she liked, up to a point. Some of the tasty food bits that then came her way were worth the few simple tricks required of her. After all, as an intelligent and agile dog, she might literally have run through hoops for treats. Consequently, she was becoming a little bored and somewhat plump.

There were other dogs in the building. It was easy to sniff them out though she seldom met any of them. They sometimes barked through closed doors as she walked along the corridor. There were also cats;  she had no wish to meet them.  She was whisked up and down in the elevator several times a day to relieve herself. That’s what her people called it. “Come on Rosie! Relief is on the way!” meant a trip outside.  She was forbidden to use the balcony for this function; a real relief,  in her estimation.

She waited daily for the key in the lock and the appearance of Gervase, the concierge, who took her on outings. Gervase allowed her to meet other dogs and she could always detect other dogs on his clothing. It was mostly the same few dogs, with an occasional exotic to add dash to a day. Gervase walked rather slowly for her taste but at least the walks were long and he sometimes took her down to the lake for a romp on the beach, which was against the rules, not the condo rules but the beach ones. (more…)

Even when squalls are forecast, the sudden swoop of wind and deluge catches even the watchful by surprise, wrenching change in the blink of an eye. Thus it was with the James’ family. Mr. James suddenly died. It seemed that his back trouble had been symptomatic of a much larger problem, undiagnosed until too late for intervention. This was an entirely unexpected crisis for the family coming at just the wrong time, as often happens.

Dan Cohn, the Prospect’s developer, was meeting with them some weeks later. “R.M. told me about your grief. First, let me say how sorry I am; my condolences to you all.”

As there was no reply he went on, “We don’t like to write anything this grim into our contracts, about the death of a partner, so it’s not in yours. Normally, when a party wants out it would be up to them to buy and then re-sell on their own, especially after a unit is finished out to their specifications, as yours is.”

“Mrs. James,” he offered, “under the circumstances, if you want to re-consider, we could void the contract.” (more…)