Not This Time
5
Twins, Vikings, and Gophers
I DIDN’T HAVE MUCH MONEY, even by 1991 standards. I rode the Greyhound bus from Grand Forks to Minneapolis and arrived about eight at night. Not the best planning. I needed shelter quickly and found a sleazy hotel a block away from the bus station by the simple expedient of having followed a crowd of people that direction. The people I followed wisely kept walking. Thirty-five bucks for a room and they actually asked me if I wanted it all night. The good thing was that there was a White Castle that I’d passed next to the bus station so I ran out and got a sack full and sat in my dingy room crying while I stuffed sliders down my throat. Allen had bought me breakfast in the morning, but I’d been too excited about my adventure to eat much. I regretted that about halfway to the Twin Cities.
I had a feeling I’d regret dinner, as well.
I had a plan, sort of. I needed a place to live and an income. If I could kill both birds with one stone, so much the better. The good thing was that, in spite of my apparent age, I knew the real estate industry pretty well. I’d worn a gold jacket in Fargo for the last ten years of my former life. I knew I could get a real estate license with no difficulty. The problem, of course, was that I was only eighteen. I needed to locate a licensed broker, get him to agree to hire me, take the test, and get my license. The broker might insist that I take the education course instead of studying on my own. That could cost me up to a thousand dollars. I was going to push for self-study and test. That would only cost me a couple hundred. The important thing was to get licensed and get income as quickly as possible.
And I needed a place to live cheap while I was doing all this.
When I’d done my real estate license school in North Dakota, ten years from now, we were given a lot of case studies as well as lectured on the various laws and concepts of qualifying buyers. One case that came up was of a developer in Minneapolis who had renovated an entire neighborhood of apartments. It was a model case of plans changing. The neighborhood went from a homeless drug haven to an upscale yuppie conclave. But in the course of twenty years, the buildings had become worn and the lower class clientele started moving back in. To combat that, the company started doing condo conversions. They had to renovate and update the apartments that they’d spent a ton of money on twenty years earlier. Then they sold the units off.
The whole case was pretty successful. They’d moved the units, but not at the price they were hoping for. And they didn’t maintain the property well afterward. By the time I was snatched out of my 42-year-old body and back twenty-five years, the management company was going out of business and some of the units had been condemned.
I could change that. All I needed to do was start the process ten years earlier. We were in a good real estate market in ’91. I was going to make it better.
Big dreams.
I headed for Loring Properties as soon as I woke up Wednesday morning.
“You advertised for apartment caretakers,” I said as I sat across from the manager. He was purported to be the brains of the outfit, but you wouldn’t guess it by looking at him. He had thick, black-rimmed glasses and wore a mechanic’s blue shirt with the name ‘Jim’ embroidered across the pocket. “I know that I’m young, but I’m capable and devoted. I’m good at cleaning and I can handle most minor home repairs. I’ve even replaced outlets and light switches, unstopped toilets, and shut off gas in an emergency. I don’t have a resume because I just graduated from high school and plan to go to college in the fall.” He looked at me, rocking back and forth a little. It was like he was in a rocking chair, only the chair didn’t move. I’d heard once that was a characteristic of geniuses. They said Bill Gates rocked like that in meetings. I could only hope.
“What are you going to study?”
“Business.”
“How are you paying for college?”
“I plan to get a real estate license.”
“There are no houses for sale around here. You need to go find a place in the suburbs.”
“We’re only two miles from Lake of the Isles and three miles from Uptown. And in three years you are going to want me here close when you start converting apartments to condos,” I said. I just pulled that out of the air and decided this was the time to give him my real plan. He barked out a laugh.
“We have 2,200 units in a five block radius from this location. We’re still renovating and bringing more units online. Why would I want to sell them?”
“Your older units that have been in inventory for over ten years are already showing signs of wear. You can keep renting them with nothing but a coat of paint for five or ten more years, but then the big expenses will start coming in. You’ll need more than repairs. It won’t be as costly as the first round, but you’re amortizing the renovations over thirty years. You’ll still be paying for the first round of renovations ten years after the second round is completed. Wear and tear on leased units is a lot worse than on owned units because homeowners keep their own property up. Renters don’t. If we focus on maintaining the common areas and the neighborhood, we won’t have to drop rent because of deterioration. I promise you, this is the way of the future,” I said. I was putting it all in one breath. I needed to be in this company from the start. I needed to drive the conversions and sell the hell out of them. He kept rocking and staring at me.
“Get your license. I should have a building ready for you to manage before classes start this fall,” he said. I’m sure he saw my face fall.
“I need a place to live,” I said softly. “Now.”
“Where are your things?” he asked. I gave him the name of the motel near the bus station. “You need a place to live. Now.” He motioned me to follow him and I figured, what the hell. I’d slept with high school guys that I liked less. I mean, he was old—at least forty—but I could survive being poked again. He took me to the motel first and waited in his truck while I collected my meagre possessions. I tossed them in the backseat and buckled up.
He took me on a quick tour of Minneapolis, pointing out his various properties. They were mostly old brick, three-story, apartment buildings. Each building had eight units per floor with very little variation. Three or four floors. He pointed out the Nicollet Mall, the IDS building and the Foshay Tower. There was a new bank on Marquette and we drove past the Federal Reserve Building. It was empty. Condemned. I knew they’d save it eventually. Finally, we headed down Hennepin to Uptown and he stopped in front of an apartment building on Dupont.
“This is a building that I bought and developed under the radar, so to speak. In other words, without a permit and with non-union workers. It was in pretty good shape, so everything except the appliances was considered cosmetic. We permitted the appliances.” He led me down a short stairway into the basement. “There’s one unit, though, that is technically illegal. I planned to use it as my private retreat, but I can’t rent it.” He unlocked a door and I stepped into paradise.
“This is beautiful.”
“It’s tiny. Just this room and the bedroom. Bathroom is small. Kitchen is here in the same room as the living room. I shouldn’t have put in the gas fireplace. That’s what killed the deal. It’s all to code, but the city wants $6,000 in permits issued and wants me to tear out the entire end wall so they can inspect the plumbing. We’ve been arguing about it for two years.” He looked at my backpack and my suitcase. There was nothing in the apartment but the appliances. Carpeted floors with cement beneath, but it was well-padded.
“How much would I have to pay to live here?” I squeaked. This was perfect. Perfect!
“You can’t live here. I can’t rent it to you. Here’s the key. I think there is a mattress and some dishes in our storage room. Aside from that, I wouldn’t get too comfortable here. I’ve got a twenty unit building right on Franklin Avenue that should be ready in September. As soon as it is, we’ll make one trip from this apartment, where you don’t live, to your new apartment. Don’t put anything more in here than I can get in one load.” He handed me his business card. “Use this as your address. Don’t have anything sent here. The utilities are on and are billed to the building. No telephone. This unit doesn’t exist.”
“Jim… Thank you,” I said.
“Let’s go get the bare necessities so you can survive. There’s a little grocery store around the corner. You won’t want to buy everything there, but the basics won’t set you back too much. It’s cheaper at Rainbow on Lake Street. You can walk that.”
I lay on the mattress with a sleeping bag I bought at Salvation Army. It was a free room, but I’d spent close to $200 getting basic food and dry goods. Jim had kindly carted me around to the grocery store, Sally’s, and a second hand shop on Lyndale. I was a little scared. I was alone in a big city in an apartment that didn’t exist. I expected that sometime during the night, Jim would come in and claim his payment.
He didn’t.
I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. I just knew I couldn’t relax until I had found a real estate office I could work from and got my license. With luck, I could have that before school started in the fall.
That was another thing I needed to take care of in the morning.
I’d applied and been accepted to the University of Minnesota. It was a reciprocal college and North Dakotans got in-state tuition. Then my father told me there was no money to waste sending me to Minneapolis to party. If I had to go to school, I could go to the community college and live at home. He was certainly not going to spend good money sending me to school. I could find a husband in Fargo.
I needed to go find out how I could get into classes this fall with no money. I needed to go to college. I’d missed that the first time around. I wasn’t going to miss it this time.
I started shopping for real estate brokers by reading the paper on the bus. I needed to find a sponsor for my real estate license. Without rent to pay, I had enough money to get through a couple months, maybe three if I didn’t eat much. I needed to make some sales.
In my old life, real estate was something to do that would get me out of the house and earn a little money. It had flexible hours. I didn’t need to make a mint, I just wanted to feel like I was contributing something to my own security besides dinner each night. And it wasn’t that I considered that not to be a contribution. Being home when Willa got home from school was important. I helped her with her homework. I took her to school activities. Friends were always welcome and their parents were relieved that there was a safe place for the kids to gather when they were all working extra jobs. Jesse wasn’t usually home, thank God. He stayed in the oil fields as long as there was work to be had. Life was better when he wasn’t home.
And Willa was my pride and joy.
What a name to hang on a cute little baby girl. It was Jesse’s grandmother’s name and I found out after the fact that was what his mother put on the birth certificate. He didn’t even like his grandmother. His mother waylaid the nurse and ‘took care of things’ without me even knowing. Of course, I bowed to the family pressure to honor the old woman.
That was what I always did. Bow to the pressure. That was why I ran away this time. I knew that even with twenty-five years’ extra experience, my eighteen-year-old self would bow to the pressure if I stayed.
So, this time, real estate was an easy thing for me to do. I had experience, even if I couldn’t talk about it. The market was good. I found a listing for a local firm that had a dozen different offices. I chose the one closest to the South Minneapolis neighborhoods that I wanted to work in. First, though, there was the university.
I waited for an hour and fifteen minutes to see an admissions counselor. When I went into the office, she was frazzled and exhausted. She looked like she’d been running a marathon in her jeans and hiking boots. She wore a nice t-shirt with ‘Nirvana’ on it. She was a little shorter than me and thinner. Kind of cute. She looked at me and sighed.
“Big problems or little problems?” she said.
“I got accepted here, but I haven’t chosen any classes because I don’t have any money,” I said. I’d let her figure out if it was a big or little problem.
“Shit. No parental assistance?”
“They won’t even speak to me.”
“Okay. First things first. Let’s enroll you in classes for the fall semester. You won’t have much choice. Got a major?”
“Business.”
“What is with everybody wanting to go into business. Why don’t we have more artists and English majors?”
“I could do that, but I already know the question to the answer.”
“The what?”
“Would you like fries with that?”
She looked at me and started laughing. I figured she was about ten years older than me.
“Look at me. History major and I’m a fucking admissions counselor. Hmm. No money. Business major. Here’s a ground floor opportunity,” she muttered to herself as she ran her finger down the catalog page. “Okay. Fifteen hours. Everything is a required course. Don’t even ask about electives until you’re a junior. Two of these courses are lectures that will have 200 people in them. No one will notice who you are. Sorry about that. The other three courses are basic requirements. You need an English class, statistics, and basic accounting. I don’t have any choices about times.” She entered the data on her computer and printed out a class schedule. “I’m going to walk you over to get your student ID and then we’re going to lunch to talk about your financial situation. Can you afford to eat?” I nodded. “Housing?”
“I’m managing an apartment building in exchange for an apartment.”
“Nice move. But no income.”
“I hope to have my real estate license by fall and be selling.”
“Not a very reliable source of income, but plentiful when it comes in. Come on. Let’s see what we can get you.” She brought a sheaf of papers, including my enrollment forms and my acceptance. We stopped at the registrar’s office and I got my picture taken and laminated to a plastic card.
“Don’t lose it,” the photographer said. “Replacements cost twenty bucks. You need this to check out books from the library, purchase books at the bookstore, get healthcare at the clinic, get into school events, and get a discount at about a million restaurants in town. Everything except McDonald’s. It gets you student tickets for plays, museums, and concerts, too. Your ID is your life. Take care of it.”
We went from there to a triangular building about three blocks away and ordered lunch.
“Order the Riverside Special,” my adviser said. I did. I was surprised when I showed my ID and only paid $2.50 for the plateful of food.
“It’s cheap and it’s filling. You’ll probably eat here four or five times a week. It’s almost cheaper than cooking your own meals. Rice and beans with stir-fried vegetables. If it’s too bland use some of that red sauce on it. Take it easy, it’s really hot.” We dug in and I had to admit that it was pretty good and very filling. While we talked, she leafed through papers and made comments about potential sources for funding.
When we were done with lunch, I had a stack of forms in front of me.
“Fill out every one of those and get them back to me tomorrow. We don’t have much time. Fortunately, you only need about $1,500 a semester. We’ll get you a tuition scholarship and if worse comes to worst, a student loan. I have to get back to work. I trust you can find your way home or wherever. Good luck.” She was gone. I kind of liked her. I wondered what it would be like to have a friend like her. Cool!
Gordon Fiske looked at me with so much lust in his eyes that I considered just undressing to give him a better view. It was pretty disgusting. Not that I considered sex anything more than a means to an end, but the guy was twice my age and wore way too much gold. He had pretty rugged good looks, like most of the Scandinavian men in town. I hate to spout clichés, but when he got excited, he even had the accent. Ya sure, you betcha, ya know? He could have been one of Garrison Keillor’s Norwegian Bachelor Farmers if it weren’t for the fact that one of the pieces of gold was a huge honking wedding band.
“So, in your opinion, what’s the key to a good income in real estate?” he asked. As much as he was salivating over me, he was asking good interview questions. I’d told him that I thought with a little brush-up I could go straight to the exam without having to do the whole real estate school thing. It wasn’t technically required to get a license, though after you got it, you had to have continuing education credits each year.
“Listings,” I answered. He sat back waiting for me to go on. I didn’t. I saw him glance down at my open-collared shirt. God! I wasn’t showing anything, but I somehow wished I’d buttoned that top button.
“That’s your strategy?”
“The listing agent gets half the commission, split with the broker, of course. Listings are easier to get than sales. Once you have a listing, every sales associate in the city is working for you. Sales are hard. You have to find customers and sell them on homes that don’t meet their requirements or fulfill their dreams. I plan to be the top listing agent in this office in three months. Every listing will sell eventually.”
“You can’t just list and abandon it,” he said. He was nodding his head, though. “We’ll need to get a good marketing plan together. Do you know how to read comps?”
“Yes, but you can’t just look at the numbers. Every three-bedroom, two-bath home in a neighborhood isn’t worth the same amount. You have to listen to the owner to determine why they think their home is worth more than all the others. The ideal situation is to find the lowest value home in a high-priced neighborhood. You can really sell the investment value on that.”
“You’re a sharp cookie. Why don’t we go have dinner tonight and talk over some of your strategies?”
“No.” I might have slapped his face and gotten less reaction. “I don’t screw around with the boss. Or anyone else. I’m here for business, not pleasure. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I don’t fuck. I’m not a fun person. I’m here for the money.”
He looked down at his desk and started scribbling some notes. I figured I’d just shut the door on this career. He handed me a form.
“Fill this out and give it to Mattie out front. She’ll generate the paperwork for your sponsorship and I’ll sign it. You should be able to take the test next week. Let’s see if you are as hot as you think you are.”
Comments
Please feel free to send comments to the author at devon@devonlayne.com.
