I recently met with a young relative seeking my advice about the possibility of launching a career in real estate. How do I compress what I have been doing the last thirty years into a coherent narrative of “career?”
I entered this business with eyes tightly shut and a leap of faith that my best friend from high school really knew me well enough to trust that this was work I could do. Bicbic had a silver tongue and could talk anyone into doing anything. In her real estate dealings, she could talk anyone into buying or selling just about anything, skills she had refined by selling horse property in Southern California.
So, in I went shadowing my friend to learn the business. My problem was she was determined to throw her all into the big ticket speculative land investment bucket and I had not even learned to sell a bucket for a lean to.
Fortunately for me, Bic’s prima donna ego was bruised by our broker and she threatened to move both of us to another brokerage house. I am not one for threats. I don’t like it, we don’t get along, let’s move on. The broker we had chosen to migrate to was a meticulous task mistress. I moved on (Bic stayed behind when the original broker capitulated and agreed to her earning larger commission splits, private office, etc.) and learned to enjoy the more nuanced pace of finding homes for families. The interaction with people and even the detail involved with contracts made for a balance of physical and mental skills I enjoyed.
My growing family of husband, toddler, and pre-teens had me re-route into a couple of career turns before finding a niche in property management, an animal unto its own in real estate. I honed my skills in people management with the wonderful, colorful characters who rented in Guam’s equivalent of a mid-city apartment complex and their equally unique business counterparts.
There was the housewife who burned her kitchen not once, but twice, and had to be asked to leave, totally oblivious as to whatever would cause us to do that. There were the gardeners, the mechanics, and the little old Kim chee maker who fermented her highly praised wares in her bath tub and sold them to her neighbors and probably to the mom and pop store in the neighborhood, too.
There was the flash flood requiring an evacuation of ground floor occupants in a tiny rowboat. The tenant who vanished causing us to post notices on the door and to a last known address before we could clear out her apartment and dispose of her effects. Did she meet her demise while traveling with no one left behind to be notified?
Then there were the aging oriental ladies, one in particular who layered on make up kabuki style whom the maintenance manager nicknamed “Mama San.” That manager too was a character in his own right. Divorced from a southeast Asian wife, he had put in time as a Buddhist monk, yet loved to crank up the volume worthy of the Wagnerian tunes he favored.
As I shared with my young cousin, this kind of work entails more counseling than any other skill I possess. I have done everything from cautioning wide eyed young “businessmen” about the dangers of under capitalizing their ventures; trying to find help for an aging resident with no local support system who was exhibiting signs of dementia; to driving to the site of a raging fire fueled by liquor stored in the warehouses that had contained them. There was marital friction, roommate and elder bullying, mediation of all stripes, the entire gamut of human foibles and emotions. I am still grateful that I did not have to deal with “remains.” I guess I can claim that no one died on my watch (on premises, at any rate).
I am certain there are more tales to tell but will refrain at this time. They were interesting times! Thus concludes the re-telling of the first half of my adventures in real estate.