Rental Dementia: One More for The Road

I was completely burnt out. I was tired, lost and drudging through each day with only one clear thought in my mind: “I have got to get out of New York for a while.” It hits me like this sometimes. Living in New York’s a full-time occupation—and they’ve been scaling back the benefits. A month overseas, and I’d return refreshed, rejuvenated, ready (and willing) to hustle a few apartments. I’d do the happy dance for a new batch of clients soon enough. But, until then, I wasn’t looking for any more business.

So far, we had only booked our flights. Our hotel was still up in the air, we had yet to outline an itinerary and a very persistent woman wanted me to spend my last weekend looking at condos in Brooklyn. Sales typically take a little longer, so how the hell was I going to get this new couple into a contract in less than a week? I’d give the educational tour while some other strap would come along and collect a commission. No way, not this time.

But she kept calling and sending emails; she wouldn’t leave me alone. Her list of neighborhoods grew by the day. I never completely committed to the appointments and, at first, neither did she. We were both hedging, and spent a lot of time talking about possible units, and as far as I was concerned, possible appointments.

No one ever tells you they’re going to buy an apartment that weekend. Some call on Monday begging to get into a space, but by Friday can’t remember what unit they called you about. I couldn’t tell how serious she was, so I kept putting her off. There were a hundred little things I still had to do before we left, so I whined, complained and bitched to my girlfriend about my bad luck, and how, at that point, I felt obligated to work with them.

I reluctantly made two appointments for Saturday. On Friday night she sent me an email. Her husband had found a dozen or more apartments, scattered throughout Brooklyn, that they wanted to see as well. I put down my travel book and started making the calls.

We met early and went all day: Brooklyn Heights, Boerum Hill, Cobble Hill, way down into Carroll Gardens and then finished in Dumbo. I took them to every new construction building I could think of. Too small, too expensive, too close to the BQE, too modern, not enough character. Then they both said, “Wow!” in unison. Holy shit, I think I caught another one.

It was a conversion on Court Street, well priced with plenty of space that featured wide-open views. When we parted later in the day, I was headed home to start packing, and they were headed back to the “wow apartment” for one last look. They’d call me later if they wanted to make an offer.

It looked smaller than they remembered, a little darker, too. I thought, “Wait until you actually buy one.” There would be no offer, but the good news was that they had fallen in love with Brooklyn. We had seen everything out there, save a few buildings still under construction and one smaller unit in Dumbo.

Even though it was only a one bedroom, and had sat on the market for over a year, they still wanted to see it. I scheduled the last round of appointments for Tuesday morning. My flight left on Wednesday, and I still hadn’t packed, finished my laundry or opened the travel book.

The other agent was expecting an offer later in the day, but agreed to show it to us anyway. By the time we got in to see it, the other offer was already on the table. She liked the apartment, asked a lot of questions and seemed genuinely interested. The other agent wouldn’t let on to what we were up against, but we knew it wasn’t full price. I came up with a good round number, $25,000 less than asking, and asked him point blank if I was right. He only smiled, and we headed to our last two appointments.

We finished up with the last two duds: neither interested her in the least. Three days of dragging them all over Brooklyn, and I was finally finished. My excitement grew as we walked up Court Street. I was leaving in less than 24 hours and was giving her the “let’s keep in touch” spiel when she asked how certain was I about the other offer. “Not 100 percent, but I’ll bet I was pretty close.” She said, “Let’s go $5,000 higher and see what happens.” I called the listing agent and made the offer on the spot.

It was a half hour before our flight boarded when I finally got through to the other agent. Our offer was accepted. The contracts were being sent. I turned off my cell phone, ordered another beer and opened up my travel book—at last.