All Talk, No Walk

A Real Estate contract is generally not enforceable in the great state of Illinois unless it is a) Written, b) 'Signed-off ' on by competent parties (Acceptance), and c) Some form of Consideration ($$$) is placed in an escrow account to show 'Good Faith' on the Buyer's part. Think of it as the Holy Trinity of the home buying experience.

It's the 'Good Faith' part of the experience I wish to address here. The truth is, most of the negotiation process in this Northside Chicago market takes place verbally. Once a written Offer is submitted to the Seller's side of the deal, the details usually get hammered out by the respective Realtors involved via cell phone, text messages and email. Sometimes we are The Negotiators, other times, mere Messengers. Either way, there are at least four channels of emotion, rationality and objectivity that need to be successfully navigated--the Seller, the Listing Agent, the Buyer, and the Buyer's Agent-- not to mention the chorus, and supporting cast of Attorneys, Home Inspectors, Lenders, Appraisers, and Blood Relations waiting in the wings for Act II to begin. Once there is signed Agreement the 'experience' as it were, takes off in another direction altogether. Another story for another day.

So here's the scenario: A potential Client sits at her computer, Googles 'Search Chicago Real Estate' and of course, lands on Page One. After surveying the first 10 choices she decides to click on ChicagoHomeEstates.com because...well, it just sounds so right. Chicago...Home, no...even better... Estates. She then decides to choose an Agent so she can Register on the site for greater access, picks the best looking one and Voila!...she arrives at my Home Page. Once registered, she is free to search the Chicagoland area for a home or rather...an estate of her dreams. She requests a showing for a Condominium that piques her interest. I respond.

Now this is where the afore mentioned 'Good Faith' begins. Our website Features our own Listings while at the same time providing a Search Engine for the entire MLS of Northern Illinois. This is provided under under the guidelines of Broker Reciprocity and is about as clear as clear can be, in my opinionated opinion. Every Listing that is not in the Chicago Home Estates personal inventory has a clearly marked icon (a little house button to click for more info) stating so.

There is a question asked and a response box to be checked: Working with a Realtor? YES or NO.

Check NO, and I'm her guy.

Check YES, and her own Realtor will need to show her the requested property (and should probably also invest in his own website with advanced Search Engine capability). Just so you know, there are only two sides of any Real Esate transaction as far as Realtors are concerned--the List side and the Buy Side. There really isn't any more room in a deal for a third Realtor. We have a name in the business for such a soul. We call him 'The Unpaid One.'

It is at this point in the experience that I make it crystal clear to my potential Client that her Request For Showing either is or is not my own Listing (I have no intention of ever being The Unpaid One) and I proceed from there.

Now let's just say that we meet at the property, introduce ourselves to the Listing Agent, and take the tour. Thirty minutes later she decides the place is perfect and wishes to make an Offer. Whether I write the deal or not I have established what is called Procuring Cause on that particular property, thus avoiding any possibility of becoming The Unpaid One. We soonafter fill out an approved Board of Realtors contract, sign in all the appropriate spaces, forward it on the the other side of the deal, and wait for a counter-offer.

It is at this point that the verbiage begins. Several phone calls back and forth between all parties involved and hopefully, a middle ground can be found. Let me walk you through the dialogue of a recent negotiation attempt that mirrors my example above. The gender has been changed to protect the idiot,,,I mean innocent..

"The List Price is $639,000," I said. "I suggest we come in around $605,000 and hopefully get this deal done under $620,000. " Just so you know, while aggresisve in negotiations I am not a 'low baller.' If the Listing in ridiculous then that's another story but in this competitive Chicago market, most properties sell within 3% of the Asking Price in less than 120 days.

"We are obviously not on the same page," says my Client. "I will not consider offering anything with a '6' in it. Tell them $550,000 and we'll close in three weeks." (In case math wasn't your best subject in grade school, that's $89,000 under List Price.) I put on my Messenger outfit and prepare to deliver the news.

"Good news is...we have an Offer for you!" I say to the happy, happy Listing Agent. "Bad news is we are coming in 15% under List." Actually, I don't really say any of this. Instead, I just let the ink on paper speak for itself.

As expected, our opening Offer was met with dead silence by the other side. After 10 minutes of verabal resuscitation and another 3 or 4 minutes of 'point and counterpoint' with the Listing Agent I was finally able to persuade him to just give us a counteroffer. He called back an hour later. "$625,000. November 30th Close." This was good.

"Not good enough," was my Client's response. "$565,000 and we want our September Close date..."

FAST FORWARD ...

THREE MORE COUNTERS AND 72 HOURS LATER...

"They are willing to spilt the middle and come down below their 'Drop Dead Number,' I inform my Client. "$600,o00." I deliver the news feeling more like The Negotiator than the Messenger for the first time in a couple of days. I know that I am but $1 away from getting a deal done with no '6' in it. I am indeed, the man.

"Okay, but I want $10,000 more back in the form of a Closing Cost Credit paid to me at the settlement table," demands my Client. "Net sale price of $590,000. It's my final Offer. Make it happen Geno!" Bad Faith. Bad Faith, but I do as directed.

And I do get it done, feeling a little uneasy about throwing in a Closing Credit curveball so late in the negotiation (poor form, to be sure). The Sellers however, eventually agree after several more hours of persuasion, and I forward the good news to my Client.

And then within a matter of hours my Client bails out of the deal totally. The reasons and excuses were numerous but the real reason (and thus the point of this sad but true essay) is she could. The original contract was written over the phone and faxed to all parties (not unusual for people with busy schedules and allowable by law), no Initial Earnest Money check was ever collected (again, the initial check is but a token gesture and is not needed until Signed Agreement occurs), and the motivation to Sell was greater than the motivation to Buy in this case. My internet Client was just fishing around the bottom of the lake seeing what she could snag on the cheap. Looking back, it was just a lot of words accompanied by very little action, not the least important of which was the Seller's signature. Lots of talk with no accompanying walk.

Postscript: As it turns out the Buyer (no longer my Client at this point) tried to go around me and cut a deal with the other side on her own shortly before this all even started. When that didn't fly she then tried to persuade me to take my commission out of the Listing Agent's portion hoping to keep the Buy-Side Co-Op for herself. Again, failure to launch.

In the end, she had just agreed to use my proffered services as the great Negotiator/Messenger I am, and waste my time for half a week ultimately doing what she felt was in her own best interest. And I'm actually cool with that. Thus is the nature of the beast we call the internet.

The other three deals I'm presently working on (all internet Registrants on our site) are as sweet as blueberry pie--the people couldn't be nicer. Half of my annual business comes from a mixture of the ChicagoHomeEstates.com website and the Blog you are presently reading. The other half is made up of past Clients and referrals. And only a few deals a year come from people who can't talk and walk at the same time. C'est la Vie, say I.

Ol' St Joe Is Good To Go

When I walked through the big oak doors of the Archdiocese of Chicago's Holy Relic Bookstore a few weeks ago, I knew for sure that I'd be lying to a clergyman within minutes. Like many post-WWII children who hail from the eastern seaboard, I attended Catholic school for the first six years of my education and became proficient at an early age with all the loopholes surrounding Confession, Penance, and Absolution. I figured out pretty early on that if I had to tell a fib then I could just as easily get out of trouble with God by reciting a few Hail Marys and an Act Of Contrition. A quick Amen later, and I was off on my merry way to play and lie another day...

So by the time my poor parents figured out that parochial school tuition was a waste of money on a perennial 'C' student with little or no priestly ambitions, the imprint of Guilt (and all the psychological antibodies associated with it) had already left a permanent mental stain on my psyche. In other words, even at 50 years of age I still get a twinge of remorse when I hear my own voice speaking less than truthfully. You think it would stop me...but it doesn't.

"Do you have any statues of Saint Joseph," I asked the young, pale seminarian working the register. He was wearing black pants, a black collarless shirt and a black buttoned up sweater. It struck me funny that a lad similar to him, and no older than him for sure, had terrorized me well into my second year of grade school forty-three years earlier. Still, I felt a little guilty for my intentions and what I had mentally rehearsed in the car ride over....The statue would 'be for my boss (lie), whose name was also Joe (true), for his birthday (lie). He too, is a devout Catholic (not sure, but pretty certain a lie) and would be surprised at the kind gesture on my part (no doubt)'--just in case someone at the store happened to inquire why I was really there in the first place..

"Yes," he said. "We have three sizes of Saint Joe. The small one is $3.00, the big one is $8.00, and the stone statue for the garden is $49.00.

"I don't have a garden," I told him, immediately wishing I could snatch back my words from the thick, dusty bookstore air. The lie barely had time to dry as it floated in the silent space between us. I felt the frowns of invisible Guardian Angels looking on in judgement, if not downright disapproval. The young man just looked at me with his holy brown eyes.

I meant to say "My boss, Joe, doesn't have a garden" but you know how it is once you start lying. I decided to plod forward anyway, offering as little as possible to the web I'd already begun to weave, and just get the hell (heck) out of there---with my statue.

"The $3.00 one will be fine," I said, feeling like a real cheapskate. A cheapskate liar, actually.

"Cash or Charge?" he asked, writing out my receipt with perfect parochial penmanship. I felt like he was mocking me. I almost pulled out my American Express Gold Card but thought better of it.

"Cash," I said, my eyes fixated now on the $3.00 sticker attached to the small, cardboard box on the counter wondering if I was even allowed to charge something on Amex that was only $3.00. Saint Joseph looked a little Chinese to me through the small, cellophane window. I had a fairly good idea where it was made as I removed the statue from its box and examined the bottom of the plastic painted relic. Taiwan. Close.

The young man, back at the register now, charged me tax. I wanted to object---the Church being non-profit and all-- but I let it slide since I was there on such false pretenses in the first place. Although, according to the unwritten laws of Karma... as I understand them, I should be entitled, not only to any duty-free (and Guilt-free) religious purchase for whatever reason I choose, but also to a couple free cracks to the side of his head for retribution of his predecessor's cruel and usual actions back in the day. That too, I let pass without incident trying my best not to blow what was left of my Christian cover.

I was almost out the door with my sacred score when I heard him speak from across the room..."Good luck selling the house."

I froze for a second. God, or perhaps one of those invisible angels, must have whispered something into his inner ear. My true motives were now exposed. I should have dressed nicer--no boots, no jeans. Should have taken the diamond stud out of my ear. Of course I couldn't pass myself off as a decent Catholic much less be in possession of any friends named Joseph or otherwise, who might even appreciate receiving such a $3.00 Chinese statue from a heathen such as myself. What was I thinking?...I should have sprung for the $49.00 garden model and stuck with my original story.

"You know, we have a complete St. Joseph's Home Selling Kit for eleven dollars more," he said. "It's blessed, too."

He led me to a Patron Saints display aisle where they also stocked kits for St. Francis of Assisi (Animals), St. Adelard of France (Gardens), and a St. Lucy/St. Clare 2-for-1 package (Eye Disorders). St. Joseph, by far, had them all beat as far as inventory went. There was even a Discontinued shelf with one last remaining St. Christopher (Travellers) who apparently lost his Patron Saint status during a corporate re-org when Vatican I came to an end. I almost bought it out of pity (and because he was the only statue without Asian features) but I was already over budget for this folly.

Onward Christian Soldier...



Back at home I took out the instructions, along with the statue and remaining contents from my upgraded St. Joseph Home Selling Kit, and laid them all out on a tiny patch of earth in front of my Condo. I dug into the mulch area next to a bush where my dog pees every morning and placed the Chinese looking statue into the hole, upside down and facing west. I covered the treasure with mulch and walked back into my home feeling like the least successful Listing Agent on the North Side of Chicago--forty days on the market, no Offers, and to top it off---snickered at and upsold by a second year Theology student in a cardigan sweater. That was the weekend before July 4th.

I forgot it was even there until yesterday when I was talking to my mother on the phone. She mentioned an article in her local paper back east about the powers of Saint Joseph and how she herself, had been praying for the sale of our place for the past two months. I told her the bookstore story and we laughed until we almost cried. She's not nearly as irreverent as me but I gotta tell you...I learned it somewhere.

A few hours later my phone rang and I received my first 'second showing' in weeks. An hour or so later another 'second showing' request came followed by an e-mail later in the day from a suburban agent. She said an offer was on its way and that her clients had seen the place a month earlier and was hoping it was still on the market.

I opened my desk drawer and rustled through my papers for the Saint Joseph instruction sheet. I'm pretty sure I was supposed to be praying too along the way but I can't say for sure as the sheet must have gotten thrown out with the rest of the kit. That's just the type of Catholic I am--throw the instructions out with the box and hope nothing breaks. The truth is, I can't imagine that a saint as renowned as Joseph could care less if I ever sold my house regardless of how many of his kits I buy or how many prayers I say for my own sake. I know that advertising in the Chicago Tribune doesn't fare much better, either

An Offer has yet to arrive on my fax machine but I've since concluded that the real secret lies in those mother's prayers. If anyone has the Old Man's ear upstairs, they do. Think about it...what in this world is closer to God than words from a mother's lips? Put together a combination of that, a big enough lever, and a $25,000 Price Reduction ....and get ready to move some Earth, baby.

West of Western...(Avenue, that is...)

For the past two or three months I have been venturing farther and farther north and west in my Real Estate travels. I was pleased to discover, much like Columbus, that the world is not flat (contrary to what many believe) and that I in fact, would not sail my Mini Cooper off the edge of the Earth if I happened to wander a block or so past California (Avenue, that is...). That subconscious mother's voice that had been yelling into my inner ear these past few years (alright, all my life) ...

"Genie, stay away from those far west streets. You'll get side-swiped by a part-time realtor. Those 'west of Western' (Avenue, that is...) agents communicate by pagers and Supras (electronic lock-boxes for the laziest of Listing Agents) and every property has at least 2 kitchens with aunts and uncles everywhere. There's not a Starbucks to be found, Sushi is a four letter word (to them) and you'll be wearing a gold blazer with a name tag within a month. You'll have to put your picture on your business card. Please be careful son..."

...that voice...has finally subsided. It's safe now. The Northside spill-over has officially begun. My wife and I recently purchased a house in the Forest Glen neighborhood of the city (I saved my beloved spouse just seconds before she became an honorary Trixie, I am certain).

And by 'safe' I mean from an investment standpoint. With basic land values steadily hovering above $750,000 per 25'x125' parcel in Lincoln Park, most single family home buyers have no other choice but to expand their searches outward from the sweetspot of the upwardly mobile speedball of Chicago's Northside, and head west. And for those of you who are not from this topographic region, just believe me when I say that heading east is not an option--big, big lake....And while I suppose there are arguments to be made for meandering north or south, it is my professional opinion that northwest is indeed, the only way to fly. My last five deals have occured in this geographic annex of Greater Chicagoland and if it's good enough for my clients then it's good enough for me. I will soon have a yard to cut and a house to paint every 10 years.

The thing is, if you want a relatively spartan single family home in the neighborhood I presently reside in (Lincoln Park) then you'll have to spend around a mil. If you want it to be real nice then you'll need to spend around 2 mil; exquisite...3 mil. Exquisite and in the best part of Lincoln Park, 5 mil for starters; 30 mil if you want a Pritzker for a neighbor. If all of the above price points are not in your housing budget but you just gotta have the 'hood and all it has to offer, then guess what...? C.O.N.D.O.M.I.N.I.U.M.

Bottom Line: If you want to spend less than seven figures for an actual house--and you don't mind having a Petro for a neighbor--then by all means, sell the Condo, point your vehicle in a westwardly direction, continue 30 or so blocks past the edge of the Earth (California...Avenue, that is), and claim your stake before all the other Trixies and Chads get here first. A Starbucks is sure to follow--I'm betting heavily on it. Sushi, however, might be another story altogether.

Geno Petro

Postscript...R.I.P.

Earlier in the year I wrote about the mystique of the American Express Centurion (blacker than black) Card and how once, a few years back, I met a Commodities Trader who boasted of having one. For those of you not in the know, Centurion cardholders number in the mere thousands world-wide--10,000 or so is the estimated 'buzz' number that is floating around the web although A.E. never goes on record one way or another on the subject. The privileges associated with 'The Card' are other wordly from a layman's perspective and the fodder for many an urban legend. One example:

'The Card arrives at your residence accompanied by a security guard who passes on to you a big black, velvet lined box with two Black Cards and a mini-computer. One Black Card is the actual Card while the other is an exclusive 'entrance pass ' to some of the most prestigious clubs in the world. The mini-computer is yours to keep to track and record all of your purchases.'

"Hmmm...perhaps," say I.

Now my wife, who has worked for the company since 1990, has never seen one herself even though her particular area of expertise is 'corporate travel.' Apparently, Centurions get from point A to point B some other way--private jets, yachts, limos, astral projection would be a few of my guesses but what do I know? I only have a Gold Card and I'm pretty sure my status numbers in the millions. Which brings me back to the Trader I met who mentioned he had one.

To recap that story; A friend of my wife's new boyfriend---wait a minute....that doesn't sound right. Regroup; My wife's friend's new boyfriend was apparently a billionaire Trader---self proclaimed, come to find out (duh)---and in the market for a house in Chicago. A very big house--not just Trader big but billionaire Trader big. He had already wasted some other Realtor's time for several weekends (there was nothing in the 'up to 5 million dollar range' that suited him as he desired his new estate rest on at least four city lots) when I burst on the scene with all my best Real Estate mojo. We had shmoozed for an hour or so at a dinner party when I suggested he double down on his price-point. I told him of a particular Vanity Builder I knew (heard of) who would assemble a city block if necessary, to build such an estate. Average price: 10 million.

I was immediately annointed his new 'go to guy in Chicago.' He soon after married my wife's friend, adopted her already once adopted child, and to put it as nicely as I can...it was all downhill from there. When I shook his hand at the wedding I noticed the gold tone on his watch was rubbing away at the wrist band. Hmmm... Also, he was acting pretty drunk for a billionaire, I thought, but as I've mentioned often...I can be judgemental. I Googled him out of sheer curiosity--nothing. Not a strong indicator of a man with 9 zeros of supposed net worth behind his moncker. Cheap watch, drunk and no Google. Come on...even I got Google.

Nonetheless, we set the development machine into motion and the Vanity Builder, my new best friend, began to put together a deal to buy out all the owners of a particular condominium complex on one of the premier streets in Chicago. We would then knock down that structure and proceed into La La Land with the new project. "Money," we were told by my client, "was no object." Architects were brought in, designers retained and limestone from France was hunted down. And although nothing was actually put into writing (or signed) as of yet, my client decided a nice dinner was in order and thus, the moment of truth would finally arrive: my wife and I would once and forever see what a black Amex card in motion looked like. I ordered a bottle of Cristal and I don't even drink. (Read here later to see how the rest of that evening played out.)

The following Monday I set out to meet him and pick up the initial Earnest Money check. He instead, back pedalled out of the appointment over the phone and attempted to have me give him a check for $10,000 for a position on Unleaded Gas Futures. He told me he was putting the 10 million dollar house project on hold for a while and wondered if I'd be kind enough to let let all the other parties know, as well. Oh, and that we should play golf at his club sometime soon. He subsequently backed out of the whole project, packed up his new wife and child, and left the state. My new ex-best friend, the Vanity Builder, thinks I'm an idiot to this day. Whenever those months in my life come to mind, so do I. This is where the old story ends....

And the Postscript begins:

In August of the following year my ex-client left to go to a bank in another state and never returned, leaving his wife and child behind in a virtual panic. They were to close escrow on a newly constructed house the next day and he was supposedly gathering the needed additional funds from one of his private accounts. The Builder defaulted the wife at the closing table, kept the $100,000 Earnest Money (her retirement savings from before they met) and killed the deal and her credit for good. Shortly afterwards, a couple million dollars of other peoples money (mostly investors) went missing along with the remainder of his new wife's assets she had turned over to him in the early months of their short marriage. Her 80 year old parents had given him their life savings, as well. My wife's friend, along with her child, and her parents are now penniless. We haven't heard from, or of, any of them in months.

The other day on a whim, I decided to Google the Trader again. A few moments later I came across his name under the headline, Mystery of Missing Trader Solved. His badly decomposed body was discovered eight months after his disappearance, in a secluded area of a Midwest state. The article mentioned that the FBI had been searching for him all year, that possibly millions of dollars had been swindled from dozens of people, and that the one time Trader, a man with a 'tendancy to exaggerate' according to acquaintances, had apparently taken his own life leaving behind a wife and newly adopted child. One definition of exaggerate is 'to magnify beyond the limits of truth.' This whole sad scenario however, is almost magnified beyond the limits of belief.

I wanted to forward a copy of the article to the Vanity Builder but then I hesitated, examining my motives. Why? I asked myself. To save face? The Builder is a multi-multi millionaire in his own right. He couldn't care less about me or any of those mentioned above at this point. That deal is as dead as my client. Besides, all I lost was face and a couple hundred thousand dollar commission I never really expected anyway. Shame on me for spending it in my mind. The reality is, there's a woman and her child scraping out a living somewhere in the Midwest who has lost a whole lot more than face. And I should have seen it coming....


Geno Petro

True Story...albeit a little off the subject

True Story. I sat next to a one-armed girl in typing class back in the 8th grade. I know it shouldn't have... but it freaked me out and I couldn't ever really concentrate on the teacher's instructions. I forget the girl's name now although our surnames must have been similar (alphabetical seating, and all), but I do recall that she was the fastest typist in the school. That fact was well broadcasted and she received constant praise from the Faculty of Secretarial Curriculum. Thinking back I guess maybe she had two arms but only one hand. I can't say for certain. I tried not to look too closely but I do remember the way she returned the carriage with her left elbow at the end of each line or paragraph.. So yes...two arms, two elbows, one hand. I'm pretty sure.

Ironically, I would later in life lose most of my hair (to absolutely no praise or acclaim) and the majority of sight in one eye (drinking accident), and come to understand how one adapts to such curveballs Fate hurls ones way. Anyway, the result was I became among the worst typists in the grade.--me and everyone else that didn't sign up for the class to begin with, although I wasn't given that choice. As you might suppose, most of the guys who enrolled in Intro To Typing did so because of the obvious high 'girl to boy' ratios in such classes. Mine was just a bad handwriting issue and a mandate from my Guidance Counselor. Typewriters were 'the way of the future,' I was told. I didn't buy it, though. One armed girl or not, I hedged my bets and went in the opposite direction saving up my paper route money for something called a calculator. And even though they were $200 at the time for the simplest model, it was my only hope of getting through four more years of Math. I eventually bought a guitar instead and graduated in the bottom third of the class with all the other smart alecs.

So, I didn't become a rock star because of the hair loss issue (although I understand the drummer of Def Leppard has only one arm and one leg), a pilot because of the bad eye, an architect because of low Math IQ or a writer because of horrible handwriting and equally bad typing skills. And as luck would have it, typewriters were not the 'way of the future,' but computers were, leaving me on the sidelines in about every way imaginable from a career standpoint. Ultimately, I sold Insurance for a living until I was 40.

Add on another 10 years in the Real Estate arena and the mercurial cycle of life completed yet another revolution and landed me back to where I was in 1969--in front of a keyboard with a lot to say and only two fingers with which to say it. At this stage of the life game I would almost gladly give up a hand--or even a hand plus an elbow (no return carriages necessary on a laptop) to be able to spill out a couple hundred volumes of work at a 120WPM. There are not only Real Estate related blog posts floating around this shiny dome of mine, but novels, short stories, essays, and screenplays, as well--or so I imagine as I peck away in earnest trying to complete a sentence before I forget the driving thought. As a result, I am seriously considering enrolling in an adult typing class just to help extract these ideas from my brain to the screen via my fingertips in a speedier manner. It certainly couldn't hurt

I met a one-armed man on a cruise a few years back. Sat next to him in a whirlpool almost everyday on the pool deck as we cruised the Caribbean at Christmas for the umpteenth time each, it turned out---St Maartens, St. Kitts, who cares. Anywhere but the Midwest in December, is my credo. His too.

"Let the wives shop and we'll just get a tan on whatever is left of our aging bodies," my new friend said one morning, including me some way in his own personal quagmire of physical shortcomings. He probably meant the hair, come to think of it, or perhaps it was the slight limp from an old high school football injury that pops up every so often. He sold cars in Detroit. Judging from the gold Rolex on his remaining wrist he seemed to be doing pretty well for himself. I can only hope that my junior high school typing companion found a similar route to success in her life---or at the very least, simple happiness and a decent computer programming career.

Geno Petro

Send Lawyers, Guns and Money...

When I attended my very first Closing of my very first deal with my very first client I sat at the Title Company table feeling a little like a simple house cat trying to wrap his mind around calculus. Honestly, I never paid much attention to what I was signing for the six or seven properties I bought and sold as a consumer before I was an actual Realtor. I just always assumed that my agent and mortgage guy 'had my back' and figured that they wanted to get paid as much as I wanted to move in or out. If I learned one thing in my pre-Realtor Fortune 500 career it was the concept of 'Recruit and Delegate' and there was no reason to believe it shouldn't spill over into my personal affairs, as well.

I discovered during my 15 years in a suit and wingtips that a person can recruit, if not delegate himself into and out of almost any business situation. I was even going to write a book about it once but only got about as far as I've communicated to you here before I began looking for someone else to write it for me. I'm not sure how many words per minute I type these days but I've already been at work on this for 20 minutes so you can do the math if you like. An IBM Selectric typewriter was my weapon of choice in those days so without the technology that now rests at my fingertips (and that would be exactly two with my typing technique) the man hours involved in such an endeavor would be have been brutal. And as usual, I have digressed...

So at my first Closing as a licensed Realtor I was like that actor in that dream about to go on stage with a pretty good idea of what the play is about but not the slightest idea of what the exact lines are--a cross between that, and the calculus curious cat I mentioned above. I watched and listened in amazement as the real estate Attorney went through the scores of pages in both packets--first the loan and then the title. He explained in detail what each form meant; where to initial, where to sign, and what to expect if too many late payments occured or how to make an extra payment every now and then to reduce the principle and accelerate the mortgage.

"This goes to the city. This goes to the state. This goes to your broker," glancing my way with a nod and a wink. His voice and the occasional sigh from my client were the only sounds in the room besides the furious scratching of ink on shuffling paper. Like I just said, I didn't know my lines back then so I wasn't saying a thing although I did want to interject the fact that whatever was coming to me was actually coming to my brokerage office instead and I would receive but my mere cut of the proceeds. Whatever. I just looked on in silence as I've learned to do at every Closing since.

My point here is that a Real Estate Attorney is a 'must have' for any transaction in Chicagoland. Rarely do they come into the picture before an Offer is accepted but they certainly earn every cent of their flat fee, in my opinion, from the Review Period onward. And an FYI to those of you from neighboring states or places far beyond the boundries of Cook County; Title Companies here only record and check the paperwork and distribute the funds. It is the Attorney who does all the explaining. Even after witnessing a hundred or so of such escrow closing ceremonies myself, I would be remiss in thinking I could accurately guide a trusted client through 200 pages of legal documents. And since my transaction activity spans the entire gamut of six and seven figure properties, there are just too many zeros and virtually no room for error in these scenarios for this cat.

Same holds true with the banking end of my deals. I defer to my Mortgage Guru almost 100% of the time I write an Offer. He's helping one of my clients out of a jam even as we speak, as her 'low interest rate internet loan' suicide bombed itself a week before Closing. Recruit and delegate, I'm telling you.

So okay...maybe it's not enough subject matter for an entire book but if you are still reading this by now then I am happy I guess. As I often tell people requesting my advice in real estate legal matters, "I purposely didn't go to law school because I purposely didn't want to be a Lawyer. Besides, have you ever tried to explain the Pythagorean Theorem to any of your family pets? Sure, they will listen but it's pretty obvious from the look on their faces that they are really quite content not knowing what they already don't know. What they do know is how to get fed and watered at regular intervals and I'm pretty sure that's a form of delegation, even if at the lowest of intellectual levels.

Anyway, that would be me. I'm real good at stalking down and retrieving property in Chicago and will even mix it up with the opposing licensed tomcats in the alley if necessary. But my suggestion to you when I show back up with the goods is, if you havent already surmized...call my Guru then get a Lawyer.

Geno Petro

A Yankee's Guide to Chicago

Chris Hendricks, an Active Rain blogger friend of mine from Cali, is coming to Chicago to watch his beloved Giants take a few swings at our hapless Northsiders. I just looked up the word 'hapless' in my synonym dictionary to be certain I was using the correct adjective and sure enough, directly below the definitions: unlucky, unfortunate and woebegone...was a copy of the 2007 Chicago Cubs schedule. To me this posed yet another question: If 'hap-less' means unlucky, unfortunate, and woebegone...what does 'hap' mean? I looked it up too. And yes, it's a word as well. Definition: one's luck or lot. Funny, eighteen years of Liberal Arts education and I never heard of it. And, if the Cubs weren't already a half dozen games below .500, we wouldn't even be having this discussion.

Anyway, Chris and his wife are coming to Chicago and requested an insider's list of 'non-touristy' things to do while in town. I was thinking as a joke I might arrange a tour of the stockyards (or what's left of them) followed by a trip to the basement of the Sears Tower (think about it...nobody pushes the Down button in that elevator) then maybe a quick dip in the Chicago River after dinner at Charlie Trotter's (average dinner for two---$600. With wine, an easy grand, out the door---but a swim in the only river in the Midwest that flows in opposite directions---priceless,). Like I mentioned, Chris is a blogger friend of mine. I've never really met him in person. Please don't call Dateline.

All kidding to the side for now, I do think that a weekend trip in Chicago using only Public Transportation, specifically the Elevated Train system (EL), would be an awesome way to see our city. So to Chris and his lovely (I'm assuming) wife, here is what I propose:

Friday Afternoon: Fly into O'Hare field, collect your baggage from the lower level of whichever terminal your gate is located and follow the overhead signs to Ground Transportation and CTA (Chicago Transit Authority). Wait for the train to arrive at the platform and take the Blue Line east to downtown. While it may at first seem you are waiting for eternity, it's still a much quicker passage into the city than navigating the expressway with a kamikaze (I'm being polite) taxi driver during rush hour. (BTW, it is always rush hour from the airport to the city.) You will enjoy an interesting, if not scenic view of the urban topography that lies at the feet of our extended city limits. (The airport is actually about 17 miles northwest of the Chicago Loop and was annexed into the city limits by some back room gerrymandering decades ago.) Upon arrival, it's a short walk or cab ride to any downtown hotel.

Saturday Afternoon: Take the Red Line north to the Addison Stop. This is Wrigley Field, home of our hopefully soon to be 'happed' Chicago Cubbies. Come a few hours early to stroll through the surrounding neighborhoods. You may want to skip the likes of the Cubby Bear, Hi-Tops and other such tourist attractions and instead, walk a few blocks east before the first pitch. Boystown is always a fun place to stop for a drink or coffee. Just follow the rainbow flags along Halsted Street. I can't really describe it but you'll know it when you see it. Halsted Street between Addison and Belmont, you can't miss it.

Saturday Evening: If you haven't had too many $7 beers and you managed to arrive safely back to your hotel (Caution: the Red Line ride back after a Cubs game can in itself, be a David Mamet play) consider jumping on the Blue Line west to Bucktown for dinner. This is one of my favorite Chicago neighborhoods and this Metromix link will tell you what's happening there on a daily basis or simply walk the sidewalks and pick a place that feels right for you. You'll love it there. The train stops at the intersection of North/Damen/Milwaukee Avenues.

Sunday Brunch: Take the Brown Line northwest to Lincoln Square. This Northside neighborhood has a German heritage with plenty of local cafes, bistros and restaurants. Get off at the Western Avenue stop and wander eastward. The town square is beautiful.

Also, if you are coming from a northern or southern destination along Lake Michigan the Red Line can drop you within a few blocks of Millennium Park, a must see for everyone including Chicago natives. If you are staying downtown, it is walking distance east from most of the finer hotels and a few of the rattier ones, too. The Crown Fountain, Kappor Sculpture, Lurie Gardens, and Pritzker Pavilion, located in the Park, are all 'must sees' if you are visiting Chicago. The Art Institute is adjacent to the complex so pat one of the guardian Lions on the snout as you walk in to view a Picasso.

I must now admit that I am also a visitor of sorts in this amazing city. Born on the East Coast, I arrived here in the mid-1990's against my corporate will. For the first year or so I wouldn't take off my hat or galoshes in protest of the longitudinal relocation package that landed me here-- even in July. Finally I opened my eyes and learned to embrace the beauty of a 6 week Summer. The dozen or so times I myself have ridden on the EL in Chicago, it's been to the locations I mention above. (Personally, I own two cars and would drive to the mailbox if it wasn't just in my lobby.) Anyway, it's only a thought. Try the CTA if you'd like to give your Chicago visit an added twist of adventure.

As for my friend Chris and his wonderful (I'm pretty sure) wife--I hope this gives them a few ideas. Maybe try one rapid transit excursion this trip--perhaps the Red Line to the game and back or the Blue Line to Bucktown, to be sure. I happen to have house guests in town the same weekend the Hendricks are here so we may very well still never meet in person. My two young nieces from Doylestown, Pennslyvania will be anxious to see what big city surpises my wife and I have in store for them. First stop, Sears Tower...bottom floor....just for laughs.


Geno Petro

SUNDAY OPEN HOUSE 2 UNTIL 5 PM

2746 N. Wolcott Ave, 1 North


{CLICK BELOW FOR MY SUNDAY OPEN HOUSE VIRTUAL TOUR}


...Come to 2746 N. Wolcott Avenue from 2 until 5PM on August 19th. Be among the first dozen guests and receive a bottle of wine, compliments of the house! This is our personal residence and truly, the showpiece of the neighborhood.










Click Here for a 'Virtual' Sneak Peek!


Geno Petro

Hey Jude...Dude.

{A few days ago}

While standing in the Starbucks line with one of my younger clients the other morning I noticed Paul McCartney's latest attempt to puncture the demograhically unforgiving shield of the twenty-something buyer we all seem to be expanding toward with near Einsteinian adequation. Word on the web and beyond is that the ex-Beatle averaged less than a million paid downloads for each of his last three singles (Dude!) and is now banking on the 'check-out line of choice' for Realtors and housewives of all ages, to boost his shrinking musical market share in the U.S. I stood silently looking at the CD display ironically titled, "Memory Almost Full," waiting for my beverage. I tried hard to remember if I even own a CD player anymore. I don't think I do. Great excuse for not forking over the other half of the twenty-spot I just handed the Barista.

To put it in persepective, Hey Jude--a record I did buy with my paper route money--sold 4 million records in as many months back in '67 when the same time adjusted dollar bought you an actual piece of circular vinyl in a mini record jacket with Peter Max artwork, liner notes, and an extra 'B-Side' for all the yet-to-be morphed Trivia Pursuiters in unknowing early gestation. Even compared to a contemporary talent as benign as... say, Hannah Montana of current Disney Channel fame, the old rocker from Liverpool is at best these days, just barely "like...so whatever." (translation: not very popular.)

And while my own twenty-something client was fairly certain she'd heard of the man, she wasn't really sure of anything he'd recorded. "Oh wait...I know. Satisfaction...right?" I should add that she also refers to me as Mr. Petro which pretty much makes me feel like the junior high school Science teacher I never wanted to be. And upon exiting the coffee shop, one last glance over at the air brushed album cover only reinforced the fact that while I'm at least a decade younger, I may actually look older than Sir Paul. Hey, at least my beautiful wife still has both of her own legs and a much sweeter disposition, from what they've been telling me on the on E! Channel.

{40 years ago}

And since I now find myself rapidly digressing down the Abbey Road of my youth I should probably take a moment to mention that the last song of every dance I recall attending during those junior high soirees of the late 1960s was in fact, Hey Jude. It was during these same awkward middle years that I, along with a few of my closest inner-sanctum buddies, would hover close to the Boys Locker Room entrance in the gym only to stand and watch as the marginally cooler upperclassmen and really pretty, older girls (tenth grade) swayed insufferably for the full 7 minute 7 second 'long version' of the ballad. And by the time my buds and I were old enough to get our own pretty girls, Hey Jude had been replaced by Miss American Pie and a dance was the last destination we had in mind as we flew through those remaining high school nights in our Fords and Chevys, with no foreseeable end in sight. And according to my client, herself a 1998 high school graduate, Smells Like Teen Spirit was the long playing finale at her spring formal...from what she understood. Apparently, her and her date never made it to their big event either.

{Back to the future}

We took our Ventis back to my car and quickly navigated through the Northside Chicago traffic before turning onto Lake Shore Drive, headed north to meet her fiance at the Uptown property. We had collectively--on our own and together, in all combinations of accompaniment--already looked at 30 similar places. There was no reason to imagine (hope) that this one would be any better or worse than the others. The light wasn't 'right' at one, 'too bright' at another, 'on the alley,' 'off the alley,' "What...no alley?" 'too close,' 'too far'....and the thing is, I totally get it. Everything is just 'so whatever' these days, from music to condos and everything in between, that I decided to quit fighting it and instead... just get it.

You see, I can't just slap my product at the end of a check out line like Paul McC and expect some unsuspecting young housewife, fiancee or whomever to impulse buy a condo too close or too far from an alley, with or without too much light., based on my past reputation and successes, no matter how much I air brush the promotional photos on my website. My typical internet clients have many, many options so the fact they are even in my car is remarkable in itself. So what, if we have to look at 30 properties together. They've no doubt looked at hundreds on line before we even made a connection. So like I already said, I get it.

I turned up the radio and we listened to NPR in silence as we drove along the lake. They were airing story about the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. Go figure.

"Have you been following that conflict over there?" she asked me, trying to make general conversation I guess, obviously sick of talking about Real Estate and all it has to offer to society. I was lost in thought about how bad Paul McCartney sucks these days.

"Yeah. My entire life." I said. "I've been hearing about it over there, in one way or another, ever since I can remember." And this is true. Be it 1967 or fast forward to 2007, that is the one situation on this Earth that has remained constant, the way I see it. The two best Beatles have already died and nothing has changed for the better in the Middle East. Not even close.

I veered onto the ramp for our exit as her cell phone rang. Her fiance was running about 20 minutes late, she announced. He's always 20 minutes late. Historically, I've never been a late person and such last minute delays used to really tick me off. But lately, I've started to become a bit tardy as well. I mean, who really cares when it's all tallied up at the end of the proverbial day? I circled the block as it started to drizzle.

"There's a Starbucks at the corner," I said. "We can wait for him there."

"Cool," she said.

We stood in the Uptown Starbucks and found ourselves in a similar line staring at the same "Memory Almost Full" display as earlier. The same CD was playing through the speakers. Not very good, I thought again. Pretty lousy, in fact. I felt a little embarrassed for my generation. At least a more youthful icon like Kurt Cobain died before he had to trap consumers at a coffee house and he was actually from Seatlle. As the Barista topped off our half-emptied beverages my client turned to me and spoke,

"I think that Prince is around 50, isn't he?"

{Just the way it is}

I think it was her way of trying to identify with me more as a person than a Realtor now that we touched on such non Real Estate issues such as the Israeli/Palestinian conflict and music from the last 40 forty years. A little of that perhaps, mixed in with trying to find a way to fill the next 15 minutes with small talk until her partner showed up to nix yet another condo. Too 'uptownish,' was my best bet on this occasion, or maybe...'too close to the lake' (I haven't heard that one yet this year) but I chose to keep it to myself. (I stop biting my tongue however, after the 4oth showing-- or the second 'back out' or 'deal kill,' whichever comes first.)

But as I paid for the second and final round of the morning and caught my own middle-aged reflection in the scone and muffin glass at the counter, I couldn't help but think that just maybe I happened upon a connection to a generation that virtually no one--with the possible exception of me and Prince-- born before 1960 might understand. Truth is, a couple hundred grand is a lot of money to those of this generation and whether they plan on spending it on a condo, graduate school, or simply walking the Earth like Cain in Kung Fu, they are going to definitely do it in their own time and in their own way. And in my opinion, at least their music doesn't suck for the sake of being commercial. It's just generally bad on it's own terms.


image by mosaiccartsource

Geno Petro

Check Out The Crib

O.M.G! Your BFFs will die when they see your supermodel Duplex in West Lincoln Park/Lakeview. Jenn-air, Bosch, and Granite Kitchen. Marble Baths with Grohe body sprays in two Baths. 20 foot Living Room atrium with curio Fireplace. Two levels of custom paint in designer colors. Deck, so many closets, and 2 secured Parking Spaces make this condo a 'Best in Show.'

Oh, and B.T.W.....it's mine. ps...for $474,900...it's yours.

2746 N. Wolcott Ave Chicago IL 60614

Call or e-mail me at 773-975-2130
GPetro@CHEmail.com

Geno Petro

The Cobbler's Shoe

My wife and I just made an offer on a house and I think I've lost all voice of reason. Of course I, in my unbiased Real Estate opinion, think the place is undervalued while she, with her eye for detail and blessed with superior negotiational instincts, considers it overpriced. I like it the way it stands now with it's odd living spaces and turn of the century quirkiness (that's two centuries ago, mind you). Nothing I can't live with, I don't think. She already has plans on turning a guest suite into a private dressing room, as lack of substantial closet space is one of the above mentioned quirks. But then again, she does have a hundred (alright, 50) pairs of shoes and again as many handbags.

She wants to knock out walls and invite Emeril and Ina Garten over to redo the kitchen (which is pretty bad, I admit--and I can't believe I actually know who those people are) while I can live with the un-chic appliances and stenciled oak cabinets for now. She reminds me though, that "for now" can mean "for-ever" in my world and also that my idea of fine dining is airline food---First Class, of course but airline food, nonetheless.

See what I'm saying? I have very little control over this situation and it's not because of this 'God thing' I've been hearing about in the media (alright, NPR) or anything like that. It has to do with that whole Tailor wears a torn suit and Cobbler has a hole in his shoe phenomenon that's been floating around since Aesop's time. I'm an expert negotiator except when it comes to something that requires my own subjectivity. And while I've been called the Real Estate go to guy in Chicago when it comes to OPP*...I can't even buy groceries at Trader Joe's without getting stabbed and robbed in the check-out line (and they're 99.9% recycled and organic tree-muggers).

I am writing this as a mental exercise I suppose, to put aside my obsessive thoughts of lounging for entire weekends in a row on a hammock while the day's catch** smokes itself to perfection on the grill in an actual yard. I should stray from the idea of simply opening the back door in January to let the hound out into the sub-zero night with no residual 'pick-up' duties of my own until the Spring thaw, messy as that might be. I should not allow myself to believe that something as mundane (although it is architectually beautiful) as buying (overpaying for?) a house that someone else no longer wants, needs, whatever...will change my remaining time on this Earth in any significant way.

No, this purchase will not slow down the aging process I've been noticing these past several months in the mirror nor will it help me shed those 10 unwanted pounds (alright, 20) from my middle-aged girth or even make my lovely wife love me anymore than she already does-- or my pets any more loyal than they are, in their own simple ways. Hell, it won't even do anything to help me sell my own listings I have lingering on the Market including the Condo I live in now. Buying this house will simply make me feel good for a few months until I am forced off the hammock and into the garage to try and uncover the lawn care WMPs*. Come to think of it, all these reasons are why I bought a Condo instead of a House in the first place.



(* Other People's Property)
(** Nick's Fish House)
(*** Weapon's of Mass Procrastination)

Geno Petro

Issues, Smissues...(bring out the tissues)

Real Estate negotiations have been relentless, if not downright brutal these past several months in my fair city of Chicago. Grown men have been spotted sobbing at Title Company closing tables and the legal mouthpieces are certainly earning their shekels as the bartering continues deep into the final hour, often times culminating just seconds before the final T is crossed and the keys to Heaven are exchanged for the balance of Escrow. Lately, everyone seems to be grabbing with both hands from the metaphoric candy aisle conveniently located at the check-out counter of the Buyer's Market.

As a Realtor, I too have found myself at the foreront of this high seas Trick or Treat line with open briefcase, taking as much as I can for my own Buyers while, likewise on the List side, slamming the door as quickly as possible on the masked marauders trying to steal a deal from my Sellers. They hover around our properties like pirates in business suits and BMWs--sword and pen in one hand, low-ball Offer in the other, ready to pounce on the residential booty with the longest Market Time. Arrghh.

And once a deal is finally agreed upon, it doesn't end peacefully with simple Mutual Agreement and Signed Contract much less, a bloody handshake. More now than ever it appears, The Inspection is becoming the 'Deal after the Deal.' Whether it's involves New Construction, Condo Conversion or Residential Resale, the Home Inspection Report is becoming the preeminant catalyst in most Real Estate transactions I'm privy to these days. What used to be addressed exclusively in the 5 Business Day Attorney Review Period--conveniently nestled between Signed Agreement and Mortgage Contingency Period--the Inspection Period as of late, has been running right up to and beyond the Final Walk-Through with dollars and Seller Credits being re-negotiated even as the last RESPA is being printed out at the Title Company.

Note From Above: All subsequent Real Estate-centric prayers should be immediately redirected from the Appraisal Department to the Inspection Issue Department. Amen.

I was at a Closing last week and got up twice and headed for the elevators with my Buyers. Twice, we were called back to the table to find a remedy for overlooked Inspection Issues that arose during our Final Walk-Through of the property. Finally, a number was agreed upon and the deal Closed. It was nothing that simple Disclaimer and Disclosure (The Double D's of Real Estate) couldn't have addressed months earlier, had the Seller's side of the deal been more forthcoming. In the third hour at the table, someone went into their pockets for $5,000 (and a few tissues, I believe) more to make the deal happen---and it wasn't me. Sad thing was, we all left the building in silence feeling that no one really won. Even the Attorney attempted to tack on an extra $250 at the end. Maybe brutal is the wrong word, but relentless...for sure.

Geno Petro

I Ain't Cause I'm Not...

I was recently referred to as an 'anecdotal' writer by a Commentor on another blog I contribute to on occasion. Actually, she didn't even refer to me as a 'writer,' (which is okay with me as I didn't make a nickle last year from that craft)...just 'anecdotal.' And she didn't mean it in a nice way either, I don't think.

I was informed that 'bloggers' in general are not 'journalists' at all but rather, individuals who base their subjective 'spewings and conjecture' on, are you ready?... "personal observation or random investigations rather than systematic scientific evaluation...of the treatment of subject matter in representational art..." (I'll spare you the rest of the diatribe). "Especially real estate bloggers," she added. In closing she mentioned, in kind of a snooty tone to boot, something about, "Man On The Street Reporting" and that it was among the lowliest of literary genres...if even that. "Just look what it has done to local television news." Sounded to me like she got dumped by a real estate blogger sometime in her past, but that would be subjective conjecture on my part. And as she was quick to (or not to) point out, what do I know? I stepped back, put on my Chicago Realtor hat and thought for a few moments as I re-read her Comment.

"Huh?" was my best retort, I concluded. The response seemed appropriate on so many levels--the old implied "I know, I know...I'm dumb, you're smart/you're right and I'm wrong" reverse-psycho, half-hearted sarcastic, ying/ yang 'come back' I learned in the 8th grade (when I also first learned what an anecdote actually was). After a minute or so of further mental debate I went ahead and pushed the Send button--admittedly a weak 'fire back' across the bow--adding my own monosyllabic Response to the modestly accumulating Comment Section below my piece. Let it be known from here 'til Deletion...The author's ('blogger's')reponse was "Huh?"...

I had most certainly happened across the dictionary definition of 'anecdote' in a past life but never thought it was a bad thing, necessarily. I've just always preferred to write in this manner (if I even felt like writing at all, to be honest). It's not like I'm applying for a Pulitzer or even a copy desk job at the Daily Herald, Bugle or wherever. I am purposely not a journalist because I purposely need to make about what a good attorney makes a year. I'm just a middle-aged fellow who sells Real Estate for a living in Chicago and spins the occasional yarn to keep things light--anecdotal, I am told...

I mean come on, do you really care about "Ten Things To Do Before Listing Your Home," "Spring Cleaning Tips," "Market Trends In Hot Neighborhoods?" or other such sophomoric (if even) real estate 101 crapola every other blogger in this field writes about 24/7/30/52/365/infinity...? Don't you already know these things anyway or at the very least, are you not able to figure them out on your own? I pay a monthly fee to have such items addressed in my sidebar or linked to my Home Page so I can write about...well...anecdotal stuff. You know, funny stuff.

So to my beloved Commentor, allow me to add to my three lettered, time stamped "Huh?" the following: The way I see it, I get to be funnier than most attorneys, live in the same neighborhood (two in my condo association alone although at last count, no 'newsmen' that I know of) without ever having had to attend law school or ever pass a bar--of any kind. And as far as whether I do or do not fancy myself a journalist, all I can add is I do have some experience in the field--I was a paperboy once. Oh yeah...... and I sold a house today. So there. That's about 10 grand after taxes, if you're counting.

Sincerely yours,

Man On The Street

photo by answers

Geno Petro

1421 N Halsted --- $284,500 in Old Town!

ps...Check out the Virtual Tour

Geno Petro

Marvin Gardens, The Shotglass and Me

For the first seven years of my life I was an only child. Both parents had careers and my mom continued working (as she had for the 10 years of marriage before I was born) until then. When my first sister popped onto the scene in 1963 the Petro family dynamic would change forever in our new, single income home. And while on one hand I had newly found seniority over another living creature other than the dog, Shatzie, I likewise learned to accept my reduced share of cherished parental attention (yeah, right...it was the 1960's. Let's be real) with dignity. A few years later, 'sis' number two came along and instantly, it was an oligopoly--which, if Econ 101 serves me correctly, is at least one more than a duopoly and two or more than a monopoly. In other words, I no longer ran the entire show in the 'age 7 and under' category in our house and soon came to understand that any and all future familial credits and debits, material or emotional, would forever be split at least three ways, ad infinitum. Throw all that 'Only Child' psychological junk right out the window. Enter... 'Oldest Son.' It was my first promotion.

Two sets of Aunts and Uncles, a few blocks away, watched me on an alternating basis almost daily up until this point in time. So to my many cousins, I was the 'orphaned cousin Genie,' the skinniest child ever to walk the already crumbling sidewalks of Levittown, Pennsylvania. And to top it off, because one Aunt saw me "rolling my eyes a lot" she suggested to my parents I wear glasses--as it turned out...big, black ugly ones like Elvis Costello wore in the 80's and high school Science teachers wear to this day, I suppose. I had already narrowly escaped the big, black orthopedic shoe scenario with some quick think 'mimic walking' of my non pigeon-toed peers but my early onset sarcasm (the eye rolling, apparently) put me in thick black frames until I stopped cutting my hair in the 70's when all childhood bets were finally and ultimately, off for good.

So....until that second grade Catholic school year I spent most of my unquality time at my cousins' respective households where I was among the youngest and smallest of the Petro males. There were a lot of Petro kids of all grades and sizes in that particular era, 15 besides me--at least 15 if I recall correctly, so we played a lot of games to pass the time--the kind of games made out of cardboard and toxic lead pieces in taped up boxes--not silicone chips, LCD screens and joysticks, if you know what I'm saying. And being an hour or so west of Atlantic City, we always played Monopoly. It was the best game ever invented, we were sure.

Now, hovering around the bottom of the family foodchain meant my game face persona was, as you might guess... The Thimble. Not The Dog, nor The Racecar.. not even The @#&%ing Iron.

No, GenieWeenieJellyBeanie (that nickname hung in the air until I got bald and heavy and everyone became convinced I was either in The Mob or auditioning for The Sopranos) almost always got stuck with The Thimble. And with such a status symbol handicap (even The Shoe could at least be mistaken for a boot, which is pretty cool) and little, if no knowledge at all of how to best allocate the multicolored $1500 stake, the most I could mentally muster back in those wonder years was to aspire for the yellow corner of the Monopoly Board--Atlantic, Ventnor, and my all time favorite--Marvin Gardens. Maybe even someday hope to own a few little green houses here and there before inevitably--parking illegally in some Park Place tow zone, blowing my Boardwalk rent money at the Casino or searching frantically for my last Get Out Of Jail Free favor from an ex-inlaw--and going belly up for good. I strived to obtain the little green houses. We all lived in Levittown which was nothing but little green houses in the 1960's, if you think about it.

I learned to become risk aversive before the 3rd Grade. I knew to always keep a hidden orange $500 bill in my wallet in case of emergency. My cousin Eddie taught me how to play the game 'on credit', how to collect from a deadbeat sibling, and as I got older...the beauty of compound weekly interest and the importance of passing GO for the 'two big ones.' The biggest, if not the oldest of my males cousins, he took me under his wing and even let me borrow his silver car on occasion, allowing me to move for him or play in his place if he got bored and left the game for greater, greener pastures--usually a girl down the block.

And when Eddie was in the game, no one much argued with the way he counted the dice when it was his turn to move even though the difference between a seven and an eight can be significant in such a game of spaces. In a few years time I began to earn some family respect of my own at gaming table (bedroom floor). I purposely cracked a lens (to look tougher) of my heavy, back-up specs, wore three and four shirts to show (imply) bulk and swore the most venial curse words whenever possible, mostly beginning with H and D, to prove my entrepreneurial points. I was learning about the Real Estate game. Later in life, more than a few of these lessons proved invaluable. Eddie thought my thimble was a shotglass, or at least called it that to make me feel bigger and stronger, I imagine.

"Snake-eyes!...Shotglass Genie passes GO and collects 'two big ones,' he'd say, grabbing half for the rent I couldn't pay a minute earlier on his Boardwalk penthouse. Eddie was always the bank, too. He'd give me a 'side job' as a Teller which meant I was in charge of all the heavy counting, passing out 1500 'big ones' to start the game, and putting everything away in order, back in the taped up box, when all the fun was over.

If you play Monopoly your whole life you eventually learn how to sniff out the dirty dogs and stay away from the dirty deals that usually follow. You learn to pick your partners wisely and keep a cousin Eddie around, if needed. You learn to count in your head and dollar cost average your losses and not invest in the Railway system in lean economic times. You realize that the meat of the market may very well lie in the 'yellow properties' and the not in the heavily mortgaged and luxury taxed 'blue corner' of the city and if you indeed win 2nd Place in a Beauty Contest, just shut up and take the $15. But most of all...you learn how to have fun doing it.

house and thimble image by hasbro

Geno Petro

The $4,000 House

I once had a chance to buy a house for $4,000. That's right, one four, one comma, and three zeros. Granted, it was last century (scary thought) and about 25 years ago. The town was Slippery Rock, Pennslyvania and was (is, I admit) also home to my alma mater. Yes, I somehow managed to accumulate a couple hundred hours of college credits and a degree or two from Slippery Rock State College and yes again, such a monikered place does in fact, exist. And finally, in summary of this seemingly unending paragraph down Long Term Memory Lane (or what's left of it from that era), it's probably the main reason you are reading this article here and not in The New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly or any of the assorted 'top shelf ' publications that barely allow writers like me (with degrees from such places) a subscription on credit much less a by-line in the actual magazine.

The rent was $80 a month, the landlord, Charlie--a fall down, snowstorm drunk of Bukowskian proportions, and the setting...well lest I digress too deeply, it was a rock quarry college town in the late 1970's--early 80's fog of my graduate school years. Three miles or so outside of this Western Pennslyvania burgh of mid-to-higher education rested a two-lane stone and concrete bridge and a hundred yards or so below that was nestled, along a rocky and muddy winding descent of rutted roadway, a delapidating park-like community of 1930's circa resort cottages and rusting trailer homes on the banks of the Slippery Rock Creek. Once home to a grand summer pavilion with a painted pony carousel (on display at the Smithsonian for many years in its later life), roller rink, and Olympic sized pool with exhibition style diving platforms, Rock Falls, as it was aptly named, had long since lost its appeal for summer resorters and was all but left for the squatters.

Twenty years past it's heyday, The Falls was now 'home' to a year-round but transient collection of 1960's leftovers; Liberal Arts graduate students, admonished or expelled college professors, twenty or so wandering black dogs from the same lineal extraction, and a bearded and ponytailed platoon of Vietnam Veterans grazing on the GI Bill. Throw a handful of tattoo-branded 'Old Ladies' (biker chicks whose 'Old Men' were either on the lam or in the 'joint' with no actual motorcycles anywhere to be found), the occasional even smaller town runaway, and garden variety of trailer park drunks-- throw them all into the mix and you have before you, the afore mentioned neighborhood of the $4,000 house I once had the chance to buy.




My National Direct Student Loan for $4,500 had just arrived in the Financial Aid Office when the idea was first proposed to me by Charlie B. (He kept his AA designation although he had long since drifted from the pack, as it were). I was the only person with 'real money' in a two mile radius. The check, intended for living expenses, was earmarked to get me through my last semester of graduate school. Charlie B. had a better plan in mind.

He owned two cottages outright and grossed $240 a month in rents from his waterlogged purple corner of the Butler County Monopoly Board. I paid $80, my housemate paid $80, Charlie's housemate paid $80 and Charlie himself, lived for free. We as tenants, were permitted to keep any 'sublet rents' i.e. sofa sleepers ($40 a month), sleeping bags on the living room floor ($30 a month), and outside hammock sleepers ($15 a month in fair climate months). We were also to supply all alcoholic beverages for both houses and Heaven forbid, we ever ran low or actual God forbid, out. And thinking back, the houses themselves were barely habitable with no perc, dried-up water wells and overflowing septic tanks. We showered (most of us anyway) on campus in the Field House. Still, the rent was cheap and the property 'cash flowed' if paid off in full. My first student loan re-payment wouldn't be due for at least 18 months, he reminded me. My landlord might have been a lush but he could count other people's money with the best of them.


Charlie had been on 30 day roar when he came busting into my bedroom with his property deed in one hand and a bottle of Yukon Jack in the other. Again...Bukowskian proportions, I kid you not. He had done the math. With future rents and 'sublets,' I'd recoup my investment in less than three years while living free and clear myself. When I asked about fire insurance he thought for a second then replied, "You don't pay anything for that. No one will insure down here anyway so you make money there, too. You see...maintenance free..."

Maintenance free. $4,000. Renters. Sublettors. Oh, and $500 left over..."for liquor," he suggested. "We'll throw a shindig." He did a little jig jabbing the folded document about my head and thin air like a drunken shadow boxer. I felt like I was being pressured into signing over my last educational stipend. We drank from the bottle. And the pressure was soon on an equal plane with any time share pitch I've experienced since. Even the Mexican cab driver who shanghaied my wife and me to the Mayan Palace in Cabo had nothing on Charlie B. with a snortful of Yukon. I finally agreed, in principle, to think about it while he slept off his bender. Three days later he was back.

"I bought a car instead," I told him. "A 1972 Buick Riviera." This was 1981 so needless to say, it was a junker and perfect for the daily trip up and down the rutted road out of The Falls to get to town and back. I later figured each trip took $10 of value off my vehicle and in a matter of months I would have probably done better with the house deal but such is life and its lessons learned.

I gave him a case of Guiness Stout to make peace and an envelope with $200--two months rent plus my end of the 'sublet' for the current month. He looked like he was going to cry, then hit me, then hug me, then he left and never brought it up again. Honestly, I think he forgot the whole conversation and was just pleased with the booze and by the end of the semester I was gone forever anyway, never to return...

Except twice. Once, fifteen years later I decided to drop by The Falls to see who might still be around. Charlie was long gone, too and my BMW, up to its wheelwells in mud and rocks, had to be towed out of the park. Great, great, great grand descendants of black dogs circled me like a trapped animal, almost sensing I was out of place there with my Fortune 100 job and failed German technology. The house was still standing. A squatter from the next door cottage told me he heard that 'Charlie B.', a rural legend by now, lost both places in a poker game when he was drunk. Not sure how much faith I put in squatters but it made sense to me. Bukowski himself hadn't done much better if you think about it. And if you don't know who he is then you've read and drank way too little in your lifetime. Think Mickey Rourke in Barfly.

Five years later, passing through that part of the state on a business trip, I took the exit ramp off I-79 north on a whim, and returned once more--this time in an SUV. Dogs were there. House was gone. Burnt to the ground (not for the insurance, to be sure). I did the math. Even without the 'sublet' dough, over the years it would have probably been an okay 'buy and hold' seeing that soon after, I abandoned the Riviera on a Pittsburgh bridge when the front left wheel fell off. The $10 depreciation schedule had finally taken its final toll and expired in the middle of rush hour traffic. And while Charlie B. may not have been much of a landlord or an actuary, or even a poker player, he was a pretty damn hard closer and if nothing else, had found a way to collect rent and drink for free.

Geno Petro