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.