To echo and alter the wise words of Mrs. Gump, opening my mailbox is like a box of chocolates, only never quite so sweet. I’ve grown accustomed to stink-bombs in the mail. The most recent one came from an attorney who is representing someone that backed out of a contract to purchase the first house I ever owned. That would be the Progresso Park property; the next quadrant of Florida real estate predicted to BOOM that went POOF instead. Mr. Buyer wanted his $5,000 escrow deposit returned. A deposit dating back to August 21, 2008.
“Ooooh, yeah,” I muttered under my breath as I adjusted my eyes on the attorney’s letter. I was remembering how my broker, Daniel Howards, told me that this guy put in an offer on my property and a few others that Daniel represented. Mr. Howards figures that once the transactions had started, the buyer did some research on our beloved broker and saw that he has a record for “domestic violence.” Let me explain that a little further. Daniel (who stands at 6’2”, weighing approximately 190 lbs is Buff Boy thru and thru) and his live-in-boyfriend (is a mere 6’4”; not as solid but very able bodied), just a year before, got into an ugly lovers’ brawl. Teddy, the boyfriend, had some more powerful municipal connections and beat Daniel to the punch (pun totally intended) and pressed charges. Whatever happened, I’m sure neither one of those boys are wearing halos. According to Daniel, that’s why the buyer didn’t want to do business anymore. Also according to him, a buyer losses their deposit when they terminate a contract. Security deposits are the same as escrow. That kind of deposit money, I learned only until reading the attorney’s letter that day, does not rightfully go back to the home owner unless the buyer “executed a release of escrow form.” And of course, my buyer did not do that. Not only that but the buyer was “protected from any rejection of the offer AS PRESENTED to the short sale lender, or if the Buyer cancels the contract prior to any confirmation of short sale from the Lender.”
Have your eyes begun to cross from this jargon yet? Welcome to my world.
The letter demanded I return any of the escrow money that I may have received. Well, that’s easy, I haven’t seen didley from any of my properties since 2005. Daniel swore that he had initiated the process to apply for the escrow money which he guaranteed to be legally mine. He said we would split the money when everything cleared. As stated by this letter, the attorney’s client, Mr. Buyer, had made several attempts to reclaim the deposit, which as far as I can tell, is rightfully his anyway. But then again, my melon gets totally twisted on all this legalese and grown-up speak. Further, the letter gave me a deadline - 8 days to advise the attorney’s office as to whether or not I will “execute this return of escrow, thus demanding that the Howard’s Group to return funds to [the attorney’s] client.” Meaning, I sign this paper saying that I, Tara Shea Ananda, don’t want anything to do with this money. I was further warned that the client was prepared to move forward with a legal action, blah, blah, blah, “PLEASE GOVERN YOURSELF ACCORDINGLY.” So I called the lawyer directly.
He did his best to explain what the letter meant without providing any legal advise. Basically, if I don’t sign this request for return of escrow, I could be personally held accountable for the $5000. (Which is almost laughable. Have you ever heard of blood being drawn from stone?) His only suggestion was to get myself a lawyer. Resourceful as I can be at times, I remembered a yoga friend of mine who specializes in real-estate law. As she reviewed the letter and enclosures, she shook her head, “How do people do that? How can he be getting into the escrow money?” I’m not sure if she was speaking logistically or consciously. “Sign it,” she said referring to the form relinquishing my interest to the monies. “You could contest the demand. But do you think $5000 is worth the stress of a law suit? Save yourself the burden and walk away.” I nodded, “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been feeling too.”
My next stop was to the attorney’s office who generated the letter. He and a witness met me in the conference room to discuss and sensationalize the situation at hand.
A few weeks before the delivery of the most recent stink-bomb in my mailbox, the mortgage broker who had been working on the short sale of a property in Boynton Beach and the Tree House called to let me know that she quit working for Daniel and The Howards Group. Twilah is a soulful, christian woman who has confided in me much about her personal life and her struggle to lose weight and gain respect. “Girrrrl,” she warns, “that Danny boy, he up to no good. I couldn’t take it no moe. I qui.” Twilah often avoided the consonants in her words. “He werk me too hard and don’t pay me enuff. He jus mean. And you know,” she added in a hushed voice, “he be takin escrow money.” You know the cliche....all stories have at least two sides. It’s not that I didn’t believe her, I just needed to investigate a little further on my own. At that moment, I was more worried about where she was going to work next. “I dunno,” she responded to my concern, “I’m jest prayin.” “Please keep me updated, Twilah, okay?” “You got it, Baby Cakes.” I knew it wouldn’t be long for her to find another office to hang her license. She is a short sale miracle worker. Several days before my visit to the attorney’s she called me again, “I gotta place,” she announced. “Can you finish my files?” I asked. “Yeeeaahhh,” was all she said calmly with a little squeak. After some silence she said, “Well, you’ll hafta fill out some papuh werk to release The Howard’s Group.” “Okay, let’s do it,” I was eager to get going on the plans to take my Tree House off the MLS (“market”) for a short sale and apply for a loan modification. In other words, the bank might be willing to adjust my monthly payments and allow me to keep the property. “Lemme call you tomorrah and we’ll arrange a time.” She didn’t call, didn’t answer and never returned my calls. That was, until I was leaving the friend’s office, gearing up for my next destination.”
“Soooo, when can I see you?” I asked Twilah. (I am so slow to learn sometimes.)
“Where you at now?”
“Just west of 441 on Commercial.”
“Oh, girl. You right by me,” she might sound informal, but this woman knows her shit when it comes to working with the banks.
“Well, I’m on my way east. Why don’t I come by now before my next appointment?” I’m juggling a steering wheel, mobile phone and pen and paper ready to write directions.
“Can’t right now. Maybe this afternoon or tomorrah.”
“Okay, Twilah. You just let me know.”
That was it for me. Of course it was several weeks before I heard from her again. Even if she did call me back the next day, I had decided I was not going to work with Twilah. I don’t have anymore time to waste. According to my most recent notice from the bank, I only had 40 days to foreclosure unless I can generate a contract or stop the process by applying for a loan modification.
While meeting with Mr. Attorney I learned that his client is fighting for over $20,000 in escrow money to be paid back by Daniel. “But he backed out of those contracts, didn’t he?” I asked about the buyer. “As the letter states, Ms Hendrick, those funds were never to be released by my client, except to his possession, as he never executed any release of escrow form. In addition, Mr. Howards never fully executed a contract and never returned any phone calls or correspondence after the checks were made out to escrow.” And really, that’s the catch, a contract on the property was never fully executed by my broker. He said, she said, yadda, yadda, let me just sign the flippin paper to release my interest and be done with this. And so I did.
With Twilah no longer working on my files, another mortgage broker, the soft spoken Monica, has stepped in trying to pick up where the other left off. From what I understand, Twilah was making a deeper cesspool of the Progresso Park property and hadn’t touched the other two. *Sigh* What do I know about anything.(?)
I do know this; according to an email that I got from Monica this morning, Mr. Daniel Howards is in the clink. Yeup. Grand theft. “Of what?” you ask. ESCROW FUNDS.
Turns out stink-bombs have gone digital.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Repeat Encounters
“Big city, small town,” is one way to describe our sub-tropical, concrete jungle here in Fort Lauderdale. I often say, “You never know who you’re talking to or who is within earshot,” because again, “Big city....” It can keep you on your toes.
Growing up, my dad would come home from work with some of the most outrageous stories of his clients. Pops owned a pool table and billiard supply business. His clientele ranged from pro sports celebrities to the elite to seedy club owners to upper middle class families. Often, he would get to know the families that purchased pool tables from him. There seemed to be a consistent order of events in this process. The “man of the house,” would wander into the showroom dazed by all the neon and felt and carved wood and start to talk about .... pool tables. Then, the Mr. would come back with the Mrs. for a second look at his favorite floor model, only to return a third or fourth time to kick more tires. Sometimes the kids were dragged along too. Purchasing a pool table was an extravagant expense; rarely a snap decision, so in the evaluation process my father often got to know the whole family before the final install. Some of the stories and their characters, I will never forget. Especially the one of the two psychic boys.
I was 15 at the time when my dad came home and told the story about a customer with two unusual boys.The older son, the 14 year old was “normal,” in appearance and outgoing; and the younger son was showing signs of withdrawal, problems with emotional development and avoided physical contact. What was so sensational was that these boys would see flashes of a person’s life - past and future when they touched someone. How this information was revealed to my father is beyond me; Pops always had a way of getting involved in the most obscure conversations with people. The Mr. was not the biological father of these fascinating boys, but the step father that raised them with a stern hand, customized by the U.S. Marines. Terribly traumatized by this “gift,” the younger boy shunned much interaction with other people. Even though he did not care to experience these visions, the elder son handled them more gracefully and in stride.
The cherry on this feast of a tale was on the day of delivery for the family’s pool table. Pops had two men from his crew do the installation. One of them accidentally left a “special bag,” behind. That evening at the dining room table after a meal, my dad laughed through his cigarette smoke as he retold my mom about how one of his guys left a fresh bag of weed at Mr. Marines and the psychic boys' job site. The weed, never to be found again.
~~~~~~~~~~oooooooo~~~~~~~~~~
Daniel and I developed a friendship from the hours we spent in Pilates sessions together. As superficial as he can be, Daniel also has a very spiritual side. We are both fascinated by the occult and we started to dabble in Tarot classes together. He bought me my first deck. Then he became my real-estate broker, and finally, we became business partners. There were a pool of investors that Daniel worked with, it was almost incestuous. Before I knew it, I was buying property with my immaculate credit and he was bank rolling them if we didn’t fill them with tenants in time for a mortgage payment. I was a design student and Pilates/Yoga teacher - I had no money to float investment properties that were coming up in the red. And they were all in the red. The plan was to put Daniel on the deeds to three of my most recent purchases. Legally, he had no obligation to any of these investments - all I had were verbal promises. Once the equity grew, we would sell the property and share the profits. That was the plan.
The very last property I purchased was in the remaining land of “transitional neighborhoods,” that never transitioned. Major work needed to be done on the house before we could get a tenant in there and Daniel was handling the details. At this point in his career, Daniel was pulling the strings on all aspects of property investment: real estate, mortgage brokering and property maintenance. He was the conductor and the symphony of this (nearly) one-man-show. So, I get into this property and I don’t feel good about it. I just sold a terrible money pit of a house a couple months before and got that burden off my hands. Then, for some ungodly reason, I trusted Daniel on this new purchase. In addition to that, I had two other condos and a house. The house was my first ever purchase, the condos were part of our “partnership,” deal. Things weren’t going according to Daniel’s plan when two months go by and there’s no tenants and mortgage payments are due. Getting him to keep his end of the bargain was getting more and more challenging. Then, one day, he stopped answering phone calls. Finally I called his new(er) boyfriend, Allan, and learned that Daniel was in jail for some violation of his probation from the domestic violence incident. I was totally screwed.
Every property I own(ed) has a nick name. This one was, “Lauderdale Manors.” I was trusting, naive and uninformed when this property was purchased with my minimal involvement. When Daniel went “missing,” I took matters into my own hands and visited the property.
There was a man there - one of Daniel’s goons...er, I mean, upstanding crewmen, doing renovation work - like turning a carport into a bedroom & bath “renovation” work. I might not know much but I was smart enough to deduct that there was no permit, this guy was not licensed and barely spoke English. Thanks to my crude knowledge of Spanish, he was able to understand that I owned the property and wanted him gone. “Shiiiit. Now what do I do?” I assessed the partly completed work and shuffled in the construction dust looking at hundreds of dollars of product from Home Depot. Daniel was paying this guy, although little did our “construction,” worker know that he would not be seeing another paycheck. I knew I was in over my head and sought consult from a friend of mine that did commercial real estate law. “If you do that kind of construction without a permit, then sell the house, and let’s say 10 years down the road something happens - there’s an inspection....you could be liable. It has happened many times before. In other words, Tara Shea, THIS IS NOT GOOD.”
A few days after that conversation, I returned to the house. I am conspicuous in that neighborhood and stand out like an albino. But there was a peacefulness and it was quiet there. Maybe I’ll see something and get some ideas. Instead, I find two huge planes of mirrors hidden in the tall grass of the back yard and an even larger receipt from Home Depot on the newly formica’d kitchen counter. Forty minutes later, the car was loaded with unused bags of mortar, plywood, interior doors and a porcelain toilet. Thank God I work out.
Everything was returnable....for credit. “I’ll take the credit,” I told the cashier.
Two months had gone by since the purchase of Lauderdale Manors, and Daniel had been “away” for a month. There were two lien holders, both local guys. That’s right, not banks, but private individuals. I still don’t understand what THAT was all about. The first lien holder was all up my ass. He didn’t care about my dilemma or charm. Franco wanted a payment.
“You know Daniel is my business partner on this purchase?”
“Maybe so, but it’s your name on the title, lil lady.” I never met Franco before in my life.
“I don’t have anything right now. What are my options?” I was desperate to buy time.
“You’re already two months behind. Make a payment and I won’t default your loan.”
“Gimme a week, Franco. Ok?”
“One week. You got my number.”
I felt like I was dealing with the mob. Especially when I called him back the following week and we arranged a “meeting,” at the Heavenly Hot Dog on Sunrise Boulevard. I paid him $1000, cash; money that needed to pay that month’s mortgage on the Tree House.
With the help of John my commercial real estate law friend, I learned about a “Quit Claim Deed.” Basically, I needed the second lien holder to take responsibility of the first mortgage. Of course “Mobster #1 had to agree to Mobster #2 signing this transference of the deed. Franco willingly gave me Ron Rollins’ phone number. He was the guy I needed to convince to take the mortgage over. I knew Ron and Daniel had history, Daniel worked with the same people several times over. Or was it he worked them several times over? I digress.
After a couple phone calls, Ron agreed. He was willing to sign the “Quit Claim Deed.” It was only two or three weeks after I made my payment to Franco.
I met Ron for the first time at the attorney’s office of his choice. My friend John had drawn up my own legal documents - just to be sure. May 7th, 2007, the papers were signed. I am no longer responsible for the future of property “Lauderdale Manors.” “There’s an attorney’s fee of $500,” I am informed that day. “Ron, when I get it, I will pay you,” I was sincere and uncertain all at once. A couple weeks later, Ron called. “I have some copies that you may want for your records.” He gave me directions to his home; his gorgeous, newly renovated, $25K-brand-new-kitchen home that he shared with his husband of several years and two Yorkie dogs.
~~~~~~~~~~oooooooo~~~~~~~~~~
One day, early in our knowing of one another and after a Pilates session with Daniel, I unintentionally surprised him and touched his left upper arm. He gave a shudder and said, “Don’t do that. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t always do well when people touch me. Especially when I’m not expecting it.” Another time, shortly thereafter, he had his hand wrapped around the foot bar of the equipment and I reached to adjust his placement. Daniel looked up at me and tried to startle me with his insight, “You and your boyfriend will break-up. But that won’t last long.” Honestly, I hadn’t discussed the current issues I was having with my boyfriend. I hadn’t opened up to him that much yet. Our discussions were still mostly about him. Then suddenly, it clicked.
“Did your family get a pool table when you were a teen-ager?” It was a shot in the dark, but I knew he grew up in the area and that he was about a year younger than I, even though he was already going grey.
“Yyyyeesss,” he slowly answered. There was no expression on his face. Now, it was my turn to be the shocker.
“So whatever happened to the bag of weed that installer left behind?”
He was quiet for a moment. "The guy came back, but we had already found it. We denied to our dad that we saw anything. He was gonna kick that skinny guy's ass who accused us of stealing the stuff. My dad would have kicked our asses if he knew we turned around and sold it." He was quiet again. "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU??"
~~~~~~~~~~oooooooo~~~~~~~~~~
It was partly a stalling technique, since the last buyer for a short sale fell through and I was nearing another foreclosure date for my condo, and partly a sincere inquiry.... “Am I eligible for a loan modification?” So, just a few months ago, after lots of water under that proverbial bridge, I was back at Daniel’s office, exploring my options with one of his representatives. Twilah was helping me put together my package to apply for the modification. After knowing each other for less than an hour, we were getting along like old gal pals. Our work for the day was complete and she stepped away for a moment to retrieve my copies that were printed on a machine outside her door. I heard some conversation and Twilah’s voice say, “Yeeeeaah, that her name. You know her?” She returned to me and said, “Hole up. Der be sumbody here dat say he know you.” That always makes me nervous. She gave me a name that I didn’t recognize. I took the papers from Twilah to stuff them in my bag. Before I got up to face the door, my visitor came in for a little reunion, “Hiiiii, Tara Shea,” I heard his sweet voice with a Wilton Manors twang sing my name. It took me a second to connect the dots, “Ron?” Uh huh. Well slap me on the ass.
Growing up, my dad would come home from work with some of the most outrageous stories of his clients. Pops owned a pool table and billiard supply business. His clientele ranged from pro sports celebrities to the elite to seedy club owners to upper middle class families. Often, he would get to know the families that purchased pool tables from him. There seemed to be a consistent order of events in this process. The “man of the house,” would wander into the showroom dazed by all the neon and felt and carved wood and start to talk about .... pool tables. Then, the Mr. would come back with the Mrs. for a second look at his favorite floor model, only to return a third or fourth time to kick more tires. Sometimes the kids were dragged along too. Purchasing a pool table was an extravagant expense; rarely a snap decision, so in the evaluation process my father often got to know the whole family before the final install. Some of the stories and their characters, I will never forget. Especially the one of the two psychic boys.
I was 15 at the time when my dad came home and told the story about a customer with two unusual boys.The older son, the 14 year old was “normal,” in appearance and outgoing; and the younger son was showing signs of withdrawal, problems with emotional development and avoided physical contact. What was so sensational was that these boys would see flashes of a person’s life - past and future when they touched someone. How this information was revealed to my father is beyond me; Pops always had a way of getting involved in the most obscure conversations with people. The Mr. was not the biological father of these fascinating boys, but the step father that raised them with a stern hand, customized by the U.S. Marines. Terribly traumatized by this “gift,” the younger boy shunned much interaction with other people. Even though he did not care to experience these visions, the elder son handled them more gracefully and in stride.
The cherry on this feast of a tale was on the day of delivery for the family’s pool table. Pops had two men from his crew do the installation. One of them accidentally left a “special bag,” behind. That evening at the dining room table after a meal, my dad laughed through his cigarette smoke as he retold my mom about how one of his guys left a fresh bag of weed at Mr. Marines and the psychic boys' job site. The weed, never to be found again.
~~~~~~~~~~oooooooo~~~~~~~~~~
Daniel and I developed a friendship from the hours we spent in Pilates sessions together. As superficial as he can be, Daniel also has a very spiritual side. We are both fascinated by the occult and we started to dabble in Tarot classes together. He bought me my first deck. Then he became my real-estate broker, and finally, we became business partners. There were a pool of investors that Daniel worked with, it was almost incestuous. Before I knew it, I was buying property with my immaculate credit and he was bank rolling them if we didn’t fill them with tenants in time for a mortgage payment. I was a design student and Pilates/Yoga teacher - I had no money to float investment properties that were coming up in the red. And they were all in the red. The plan was to put Daniel on the deeds to three of my most recent purchases. Legally, he had no obligation to any of these investments - all I had were verbal promises. Once the equity grew, we would sell the property and share the profits. That was the plan.
The very last property I purchased was in the remaining land of “transitional neighborhoods,” that never transitioned. Major work needed to be done on the house before we could get a tenant in there and Daniel was handling the details. At this point in his career, Daniel was pulling the strings on all aspects of property investment: real estate, mortgage brokering and property maintenance. He was the conductor and the symphony of this (nearly) one-man-show. So, I get into this property and I don’t feel good about it. I just sold a terrible money pit of a house a couple months before and got that burden off my hands. Then, for some ungodly reason, I trusted Daniel on this new purchase. In addition to that, I had two other condos and a house. The house was my first ever purchase, the condos were part of our “partnership,” deal. Things weren’t going according to Daniel’s plan when two months go by and there’s no tenants and mortgage payments are due. Getting him to keep his end of the bargain was getting more and more challenging. Then, one day, he stopped answering phone calls. Finally I called his new(er) boyfriend, Allan, and learned that Daniel was in jail for some violation of his probation from the domestic violence incident. I was totally screwed.
Every property I own(ed) has a nick name. This one was, “Lauderdale Manors.” I was trusting, naive and uninformed when this property was purchased with my minimal involvement. When Daniel went “missing,” I took matters into my own hands and visited the property.
There was a man there - one of Daniel’s goons...er, I mean, upstanding crewmen, doing renovation work - like turning a carport into a bedroom & bath “renovation” work. I might not know much but I was smart enough to deduct that there was no permit, this guy was not licensed and barely spoke English. Thanks to my crude knowledge of Spanish, he was able to understand that I owned the property and wanted him gone. “Shiiiit. Now what do I do?” I assessed the partly completed work and shuffled in the construction dust looking at hundreds of dollars of product from Home Depot. Daniel was paying this guy, although little did our “construction,” worker know that he would not be seeing another paycheck. I knew I was in over my head and sought consult from a friend of mine that did commercial real estate law. “If you do that kind of construction without a permit, then sell the house, and let’s say 10 years down the road something happens - there’s an inspection....you could be liable. It has happened many times before. In other words, Tara Shea, THIS IS NOT GOOD.”
A few days after that conversation, I returned to the house. I am conspicuous in that neighborhood and stand out like an albino. But there was a peacefulness and it was quiet there. Maybe I’ll see something and get some ideas. Instead, I find two huge planes of mirrors hidden in the tall grass of the back yard and an even larger receipt from Home Depot on the newly formica’d kitchen counter. Forty minutes later, the car was loaded with unused bags of mortar, plywood, interior doors and a porcelain toilet. Thank God I work out.
Everything was returnable....for credit. “I’ll take the credit,” I told the cashier.
Two months had gone by since the purchase of Lauderdale Manors, and Daniel had been “away” for a month. There were two lien holders, both local guys. That’s right, not banks, but private individuals. I still don’t understand what THAT was all about. The first lien holder was all up my ass. He didn’t care about my dilemma or charm. Franco wanted a payment.
“You know Daniel is my business partner on this purchase?”
“Maybe so, but it’s your name on the title, lil lady.” I never met Franco before in my life.
“I don’t have anything right now. What are my options?” I was desperate to buy time.
“You’re already two months behind. Make a payment and I won’t default your loan.”
“Gimme a week, Franco. Ok?”
“One week. You got my number.”
I felt like I was dealing with the mob. Especially when I called him back the following week and we arranged a “meeting,” at the Heavenly Hot Dog on Sunrise Boulevard. I paid him $1000, cash; money that needed to pay that month’s mortgage on the Tree House.
With the help of John my commercial real estate law friend, I learned about a “Quit Claim Deed.” Basically, I needed the second lien holder to take responsibility of the first mortgage. Of course “Mobster #1 had to agree to Mobster #2 signing this transference of the deed. Franco willingly gave me Ron Rollins’ phone number. He was the guy I needed to convince to take the mortgage over. I knew Ron and Daniel had history, Daniel worked with the same people several times over. Or was it he worked them several times over? I digress.
After a couple phone calls, Ron agreed. He was willing to sign the “Quit Claim Deed.” It was only two or three weeks after I made my payment to Franco.
I met Ron for the first time at the attorney’s office of his choice. My friend John had drawn up my own legal documents - just to be sure. May 7th, 2007, the papers were signed. I am no longer responsible for the future of property “Lauderdale Manors.” “There’s an attorney’s fee of $500,” I am informed that day. “Ron, when I get it, I will pay you,” I was sincere and uncertain all at once. A couple weeks later, Ron called. “I have some copies that you may want for your records.” He gave me directions to his home; his gorgeous, newly renovated, $25K-brand-new-kitchen home that he shared with his husband of several years and two Yorkie dogs.
~~~~~~~~~~oooooooo~~~~~~~~~~
One day, early in our knowing of one another and after a Pilates session with Daniel, I unintentionally surprised him and touched his left upper arm. He gave a shudder and said, “Don’t do that. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t always do well when people touch me. Especially when I’m not expecting it.” Another time, shortly thereafter, he had his hand wrapped around the foot bar of the equipment and I reached to adjust his placement. Daniel looked up at me and tried to startle me with his insight, “You and your boyfriend will break-up. But that won’t last long.” Honestly, I hadn’t discussed the current issues I was having with my boyfriend. I hadn’t opened up to him that much yet. Our discussions were still mostly about him. Then suddenly, it clicked.
“Did your family get a pool table when you were a teen-ager?” It was a shot in the dark, but I knew he grew up in the area and that he was about a year younger than I, even though he was already going grey.
“Yyyyeesss,” he slowly answered. There was no expression on his face. Now, it was my turn to be the shocker.
“So whatever happened to the bag of weed that installer left behind?”
He was quiet for a moment. "The guy came back, but we had already found it. We denied to our dad that we saw anything. He was gonna kick that skinny guy's ass who accused us of stealing the stuff. My dad would have kicked our asses if he knew we turned around and sold it." He was quiet again. "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU??"
~~~~~~~~~~oooooooo~~~~~~~~~~
It was partly a stalling technique, since the last buyer for a short sale fell through and I was nearing another foreclosure date for my condo, and partly a sincere inquiry.... “Am I eligible for a loan modification?” So, just a few months ago, after lots of water under that proverbial bridge, I was back at Daniel’s office, exploring my options with one of his representatives. Twilah was helping me put together my package to apply for the modification. After knowing each other for less than an hour, we were getting along like old gal pals. Our work for the day was complete and she stepped away for a moment to retrieve my copies that were printed on a machine outside her door. I heard some conversation and Twilah’s voice say, “Yeeeeaah, that her name. You know her?” She returned to me and said, “Hole up. Der be sumbody here dat say he know you.” That always makes me nervous. She gave me a name that I didn’t recognize. I took the papers from Twilah to stuff them in my bag. Before I got up to face the door, my visitor came in for a little reunion, “Hiiiii, Tara Shea,” I heard his sweet voice with a Wilton Manors twang sing my name. It took me a second to connect the dots, “Ron?” Uh huh. Well slap me on the ass.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
He Was MY Client First
Before I was a dim witted property investor/landlord, I was a yoga, dance and Pilates instructor. And certainly, a late bloomer. Even though I have two completed degrees and another that is perpetually pending graduation, I never had a “career.” That is partly my doing of course and partly, “Divine Intervention,” or sometimes I feel, lack thereof.
I have tried many things over the years and paid my dues, patiently, putting in the effort and hours, waiting for a ship, any ship to sail in. Exhausted by the constant struggle and looming student loans - I was searching for a solution, a way to get out of the “Rat Race.” That’s when I met Daniel Howards.
Body Builders is a private, personal training facility on the edge of Victoria Park, a gem of a neighborhood in east Fort Lauderdale. I had a separate space from the rest of the gym where I would work with clients on the Pilates equipment. Daniel Howards trained privately two to three times a week at Body Builders. Hyper active and easily bored, Daniel has a very busy mind and must know something about everything, so of course, he had to see what this Pilates was all about. He drove sexy luxury cars, talked about extravagant shopping sprees and the houses he lived in. Daniel loved impressing people with his intelligence and money. Gay as the day is long, Daniel is still hot, hot, hot; tall and hunky with pillowy lips and boyish brown eyes. As much as he is intense, he is fuun-ny .... nothing was off-limits for our discussions. My biggest challenge with Daniel was that Pilates takes focus and concentration, he didn’t want to have to think and even said, more than once, “I love personal training, they tell me what to do and I do it. I don’t hafta know what the exercise is for or what weight I’m working with. They even count for me.” As soon as I was foolish enough to think we might have quieted that cacophony of mental activity, he would jump off my machine and say, “I don’t want to do this one any more. Let’s do some of this,” as he made his way, pointing to another piece of Pilates equipment that he knew nothing about. It was like getting a two year old to sit still for an algebra lesson.
He talked about his friend, Kia and how she needs this “Pilates stuff.” “I’m gonna send her over and let her use one of my sessions. She’s a portly woman with a red face,” he explained. “Uhm, is that okay?” I wondered to myself about his choice of words to describe a friend. We made the appointment and Kia came in for her gifted session from Daniel. “Hi,” she shook my hand, “I’m Kia. Daniel’s portly friend.” Oh, I guess they’re cool like that, (cuz she certainly was so). She liked her hour with me and wanted to purchase her own package of sessions. The next week Daniel told me about their conversation, “Can you sell one of my properties?” she asked him. According to Daniel, she was ready to start training with me on a regular basis and also wanted to purchase gym equipment for her home, so she asked him to sell one of her several properties. (*Note and clarification: Not that the cost of my Pilates training packages compared to the price of real estate.) He also went on to explain that they were friends and business partners. Kia’s portfolio made Daniel so much money in commissions that he just gave her one of his cars when he decided to get another upgrade for himself.
Daniel loved to talk, so I opened the door for him to brag about what he did, what it was like being an investor and how he made a whole bunch of money for people like Kia. Finally, one day, I mustered up the nerve....
“Can you do that for me?” I asked.
“Of course I can,” was his answer. “You got any money?”
“Nope.”
“S’okay. Give this woman a call,” he scribbled a name and number on the back of a business card. “She’s one of the mortgage brokers that works with me. Really sweet. Answer all her questions and let’s see what we can do. Piece of cake,” he said confidently.
Almost two weeks passed before I made the call. Too easily, I was intimidated by matters of the “grown up world,” and felt like a stuttering child because I was so green. Successfully, whether intentionally or not, I have avoided any real responsibility and now, just by making this call, I was announcing to the Universe, “I AM READY.” I am ready to play “grown up,” I am ready to be successful, I am ready for a mortgage. “Piece of cake,” I calmed myself as I listened to the phone ring on the other end.
“Sweetie,” Amanda was warm and personable on the phone; I felt like I was talking to an older sister, “I’m a good Christian, Cuban girl. If I put you in a mortgage, I won’t be able to sleep at night.” Well, I guess that about sums it up. “Call me in a couple years when you have a little more stability.” “Okay,” I answered obediently. It didn’t take her long to gather my information and come to that conclusion. My credit score was in the low 700’s, but it wasn’t enough to convince the wisely prudent Amanda that she should present me to a lender as a reliable home owner.
“That’s alright,” Daniel reassured me in our next session, “something will come up. I know these things.” There was a funny smirk on his face. “No Daniel, it’s not gonna happen. Not now,” I was disappointed and relieved. There were moments though, in those two weeks of procrastination when I counted on this real-state thing to change my life. It seemed like everyone else was making money in the boom. It seemed so easy. Daniel explained that in this market, the days of “flipping houses,” was over. “What investors are doing now,” he detailed, “is fixing up the properties just enough to get renters, waiting for equity and cashing in.” It sounded like the Golden Ticket to me. I envisioned my student loans and credit card debts paid off, a dependable car and maybe even a surf adventure somewhere. I put all my eggies in that basket, because I had nothing else to hope for - or so it seemed. “How am I going to rise above this hand to mouth lifestyle?” was a frequent, gloomy, desperate thought. “Something else will come up,” Daniel re-iterated and paused, “I know these things.” All I knew was that I had another 45 minutes to get him to focus and find his core. “Breathe in, lengthen the spine .... breathe out, engage your abdominals and press......”
I have tried many things over the years and paid my dues, patiently, putting in the effort and hours, waiting for a ship, any ship to sail in. Exhausted by the constant struggle and looming student loans - I was searching for a solution, a way to get out of the “Rat Race.” That’s when I met Daniel Howards.
Body Builders is a private, personal training facility on the edge of Victoria Park, a gem of a neighborhood in east Fort Lauderdale. I had a separate space from the rest of the gym where I would work with clients on the Pilates equipment. Daniel Howards trained privately two to three times a week at Body Builders. Hyper active and easily bored, Daniel has a very busy mind and must know something about everything, so of course, he had to see what this Pilates was all about. He drove sexy luxury cars, talked about extravagant shopping sprees and the houses he lived in. Daniel loved impressing people with his intelligence and money. Gay as the day is long, Daniel is still hot, hot, hot; tall and hunky with pillowy lips and boyish brown eyes. As much as he is intense, he is fuun-ny .... nothing was off-limits for our discussions. My biggest challenge with Daniel was that Pilates takes focus and concentration, he didn’t want to have to think and even said, more than once, “I love personal training, they tell me what to do and I do it. I don’t hafta know what the exercise is for or what weight I’m working with. They even count for me.” As soon as I was foolish enough to think we might have quieted that cacophony of mental activity, he would jump off my machine and say, “I don’t want to do this one any more. Let’s do some of this,” as he made his way, pointing to another piece of Pilates equipment that he knew nothing about. It was like getting a two year old to sit still for an algebra lesson.
He talked about his friend, Kia and how she needs this “Pilates stuff.” “I’m gonna send her over and let her use one of my sessions. She’s a portly woman with a red face,” he explained. “Uhm, is that okay?” I wondered to myself about his choice of words to describe a friend. We made the appointment and Kia came in for her gifted session from Daniel. “Hi,” she shook my hand, “I’m Kia. Daniel’s portly friend.” Oh, I guess they’re cool like that, (cuz she certainly was so). She liked her hour with me and wanted to purchase her own package of sessions. The next week Daniel told me about their conversation, “Can you sell one of my properties?” she asked him. According to Daniel, she was ready to start training with me on a regular basis and also wanted to purchase gym equipment for her home, so she asked him to sell one of her several properties. (*Note and clarification: Not that the cost of my Pilates training packages compared to the price of real estate.) He also went on to explain that they were friends and business partners. Kia’s portfolio made Daniel so much money in commissions that he just gave her one of his cars when he decided to get another upgrade for himself.
Daniel loved to talk, so I opened the door for him to brag about what he did, what it was like being an investor and how he made a whole bunch of money for people like Kia. Finally, one day, I mustered up the nerve....
“Can you do that for me?” I asked.
“Of course I can,” was his answer. “You got any money?”
“Nope.”
“S’okay. Give this woman a call,” he scribbled a name and number on the back of a business card. “She’s one of the mortgage brokers that works with me. Really sweet. Answer all her questions and let’s see what we can do. Piece of cake,” he said confidently.
Almost two weeks passed before I made the call. Too easily, I was intimidated by matters of the “grown up world,” and felt like a stuttering child because I was so green. Successfully, whether intentionally or not, I have avoided any real responsibility and now, just by making this call, I was announcing to the Universe, “I AM READY.” I am ready to play “grown up,” I am ready to be successful, I am ready for a mortgage. “Piece of cake,” I calmed myself as I listened to the phone ring on the other end.
“Sweetie,” Amanda was warm and personable on the phone; I felt like I was talking to an older sister, “I’m a good Christian, Cuban girl. If I put you in a mortgage, I won’t be able to sleep at night.” Well, I guess that about sums it up. “Call me in a couple years when you have a little more stability.” “Okay,” I answered obediently. It didn’t take her long to gather my information and come to that conclusion. My credit score was in the low 700’s, but it wasn’t enough to convince the wisely prudent Amanda that she should present me to a lender as a reliable home owner.
“That’s alright,” Daniel reassured me in our next session, “something will come up. I know these things.” There was a funny smirk on his face. “No Daniel, it’s not gonna happen. Not now,” I was disappointed and relieved. There were moments though, in those two weeks of procrastination when I counted on this real-state thing to change my life. It seemed like everyone else was making money in the boom. It seemed so easy. Daniel explained that in this market, the days of “flipping houses,” was over. “What investors are doing now,” he detailed, “is fixing up the properties just enough to get renters, waiting for equity and cashing in.” It sounded like the Golden Ticket to me. I envisioned my student loans and credit card debts paid off, a dependable car and maybe even a surf adventure somewhere. I put all my eggies in that basket, because I had nothing else to hope for - or so it seemed. “How am I going to rise above this hand to mouth lifestyle?” was a frequent, gloomy, desperate thought. “Something else will come up,” Daniel re-iterated and paused, “I know these things.” All I knew was that I had another 45 minutes to get him to focus and find his core. “Breathe in, lengthen the spine .... breathe out, engage your abdominals and press......”
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