Michigan has the worst economy in the country, and so it goes hand in hand that it also has the worst housing market. In the immortal words of Rodney Dangerfield in Caddyshack, "If everybody's buying, then sell. If everybody's selling, then buy, buy." It's time to go looking for houses.
I began my search at a Grosse Pointe real estate office to look at pictures. Not of homes, but of the agents, all of whom have a portrait adorning the wall of the office. I'm partial to young, eager-looking women (who amongst us isn't), particularly those relatively new in the business and probably starving for a commission.
There were a couple of prospects, and I chose one named Ellen Canary, a dusty blonde with green eyes and a quirky smile who looked like she could be fun. I asked if she was in, she wasn't, so I requested she call me and left the office with a handful of her listings.
My cell phone buzzed before I had the car started. Not surprisingly it was Ellen, telling me she just finished a showing a home and wondered if I was available right now to meet her there. No time like the present.
The house was an old English Tudor, there're hundreds of them throughout Grosse Pointe, but nothing special. Ellen was as advertised--I pegged her about 28 years old--dressed in black business suit and white blouse, probably off the rack at Macy's, blond hair tied back with a black scrunchy. Standard attire for this part of the world. She was slightly more attractive than her photo, and her body, though camouflaged somewhat by her attire, looked trim, with an interesting curve or two.
"Hi, I'm Kirk Reynolds. You must be Ellen."
"Ellen Canary," she stuck out her hand and gave mine a firm, but somewhat disinterested shake.
"Like the bird?"
"Yeah. The couple that just left are 99% sure they're going to buy this home, but there's harm in you looking around, and I could get an idea what you're looking for. "
She was a bit standoffish, as if she was doing me a favor by meeting me. Odd, given she extended the invitation, definitely not the standard M.O. of a real estate agent.
We walked through the first floor, basic dining room, living room, family room, decorated in predictable early American. The kitchen looked like it had been remodeled in the 80's, but would have to be updated.
Ellen offered some token observations about some unique molding, the coved ceilings and the odd nook and cranny. We toured the basement--the man's room—which featured a 50-inch plasma with surround sound, a grouping of four reclining arm chairs and wet bar. I asked if the owners were selling it with the furnishing, they weren't. We were headed to the laundry room when her cell rang. "I need to get this, it's my sale."
She all but sprinted upstairs. I took in the utility room. Basic washer and dryer, no surprised, and headed back to nose around in the cupboards, and the refrigerator behind the bar. It was bare, save a six back of domestic beer and a couple bottles of imported champagne. Perhaps on hand to celebrate should someone buy the place?
After a few minutes I heard "Damnit," from upstairs. I waited a moment, then headed up and joined Ellen in the kitchen. Cold and stern had been replaced by perky and flirty, and she sported a decidedly different look. The jacket had been discarded, and the two top buttons of her blouse were undone, revealing an unanticipated, but welcome cleavage.
This was the decided advantage of saleswomen, the go-to look. Sexy and seductive. Strap on a Wonderbra, loose a button or two, freshen the make-up and move in for the close. Men get to wear a power tie. It's no contest.
"You look a bit distraught," I said. "Albeit, in a rather attractive, do you come here often, sort of way.
She tilted her head and grinned, "That was the people who just left. I honestly thought they were going to buy, they'd been here about six flipping times. But they still want to look around."
"That's too bad. My guess is you really needed the sale. It's a rough housing market, and getting that close only to get shot down can be tough."
"It sucks, big time, and I haven't sold a house in six weeks. So if you want it, it's all yours."
"Whoa, I haven't even been upstairs. Let's look around some more—at least a little foreplay before things get serious."
She shot me a smirk and led me upstairs, her ass moving decidedly more than when I first walked in.
"Tell me something about the house. What makes this place special?"
"It was built in the 1930's, a design engineer for the Dodge Brothers. It's only had four different owners in 75 years. The current owners are divorcing and they're so over extended neither of them can afford to keep the house. The wife got it, but she wants out."
We stuck our heads in a bathroom and a couple of the smaller bedrooms. Ellen brushed up against me in each room. At first it was a hip; then my arm was grazed by a breast. Either appeared accidental. "Come on, let's see the master bedroom." She gave me a quick flip of her blond locks and led the way.
Rule number one: When a woman trying to make a sale says, "Let's go see the master bedroom," you don't hesitate.
The size of the room surprised me, bigger than most rooms of its day. But Ellen told me there was an addition put on in the 1960's, and went on about quality of the workmanship and how virtually no one can tell.
The center piece of the room was a king-sized, four post bed with a crimson comforter set against the back wall. Traditional, cherry furniture was featured throughout, with a small sitting area off the side with a love seat and ottoman.
"Both the owner, her name is Carol Dornbush, that's a picture of her and who used to be husband over there on the dresser, and I were certain we had this place sold to that couple."
What stuck me about the picture was not the fact that Carol was gorgeous, but that I knew her ex-husband, and he was a complete asshole. The kind of guy who wouldn't think twice of cheating on his wife on their wedding day, bang a bridesmaid before and after the ceremony.
"Well, maybe you'll sell this one. I mean, it's an okay house, but I've seen ten just like it this week. How flexible is the owner?"
"I thing Danielle is starting to get desperate, to be honest, so am I. I'm sure she'll go down..."
"In price, or are we talking about something else," I quickly interjected.
"Very funny. God, is that all men think of, sex all the time?" Ellen, who was about six inches shorter than me, moved within a foot, and was looking me in the eyes.
