From Quarterback to Cheerleader

I have no luck. Not one ounce. Let me demonstrate it to you.

Markets go up and down. Peaks and troughs. That's normal. They teach you that at the course. Just ride it out. Well, I graduate from the course and begin my career as a real-estate agent at the lowest point of the biggest tsunami that has ever hit the industry.

Now, they teach you something else when they prepare you to become an agent: they teach you that you're paid on commission. You sell a bunch of apartments, you eat this month. You sell a house too, that's even better. You sell a mansion, you can buy yourself a nice car or ship yourself to Hawaii for the holidays.

Of course, because of the commission system, the whole industry is rigged in favour of senior managers who never lift a finger but are somehow always cut in on the deal. So, the junior scampers through town to open up the properties on the portfolio, to take down phone numbers, to call prospective buyers back, but the manager is always part of the deal, and you're lucky if you get a sliver of what you have earned.

Well, as unfair as that is, that would be preferable to what I'm faced with now, that is that nobody is buying anything. Poor people have no money. Rich people go bust, and those who are left are scared of spending money unnecessarily.

At least, I got a job.

I still haven't figured out what happened there, but I did.

Selmer & Faulkner is the agency. A small boutique firm owned by a couple, the Selmer and the Faulkner whose names are stencilled on the shop window in cursive. He's rarely there. I suspect he's one of those entrepreneurs who owns a bunch of businesses and doesn't get involved. She's an icy lady who I saw once for my interview. Somehow, she liked me, so I'm here.

Who I see on a daily basis is the various agents who occupy the desks in the main room. At the moment, they oscillate between rabid fervour to show what they have to offer to everybody, ready to entertain any offer, and despondency when they see that no fish will ever bite in this climate.

I get the call.

I get it because today nobody thinks that picking up the phone is anything more than a waste of time.

I note down the number, the name, and the details, trying to look casual.

'Yes, it's on the market,' I say, trying to hide my excitement from curious ears. 'Noon today is fine.'

One of the agents tilts her head to peak past the partition.

'Which one?'

'37 Long Drive,' I say but quickly add: 'But doesn't sound serious.'

The other agent yawns and disappears behind the partition.

I make myself a cup of tea and wait. The phones are not ringing. There's nothing to do. I feel fidgety, but I know I need to keep the excitement at bay.

Finally, at 11:05, I announce: 'I'm off for a couple of hours.'

Someone yawns.

The house at 37 Long Drive has been shown. Many times. The price has been dropped. Many times. Still no buyers.

I drive the winding road that takes me to the hills. Only mansions here, but the landscape is somewhat off: many houses look empty; the grass on the lawns is high and yellow in patches; there are for-sale signs everywhere.

I moved out of my parents' house after highschool and lived in a rental, which I could barely afford waiting tables while I studied to become a real-estate agent. Now that I've joined Selmer & Faulkner, that stream of income has dried out, and, unless I begin to sell something, I may have to move back in with mother and father.