“The Walk-in”

The Accidental Realtor by Victoria Hall

He sauntered into my Georgetown Office Lobby an on a Wednesday morning in early September – all tall, thin and cool in his $500 designer jeans and black Converse shoes – a hip, 40-something kind of guy.

No one was on floor duty or available when I got the call. “Victoria, there is a client here who says he wants to speak with an agent.” In the office we describe them as “walk- ins”. These are generally un-qualified shoppers curious about what a cool million will get you in a D.C. neighborhood with the most cache’.

Generally, these walk-ins have no intention of buying and just want something to do while strolling alone down the historic cobble stoned streets of Georgetown. Or, they could be a “bottom feeder” — someone with no intention of making a reasonable offer on any property but rather is just looking for amusement in the company of a savvy real estate professional, commonly referred to as a realtor. And there are the ones who will submit low-ball offers, until they find someone weary or desperate enough to take the bait.

This potential walk-in client however, held a little more promise. “I own a $1.5 million place down the street that I bought with my ex, but we live in L.A. and we need to sell this house. We also own a couple of properties in LA as well and in Seattle and then on the Gulf.” The list of expensive properties he claimed to own went on and on.

“But we need the cash and want to buy a fixer- upper because DC still has some neighborhoods where I can do that right?” He asked me this question with a somewhat imploring and pained expression on his face. His request seemed at odds with his ownership of other expensive properties. Was this guy a “house flipper? Or someone looking for a quick hit, and or an undervalued home he could resell at a higher price? In any case, I was intrigued.

Not waiting for my answer he continued in a rapid-fire delivery in a manner generally associated with someone on amphetamines or some other kind of mindaltering substance.

“I’m just here for the month to take care of all of this, can you help me? Can we take a look at say some say, half-a-million-dollar rehabs? Then can you pull some COMPS (short for comparable properties) to see if I’m right about the price we could get for our house?”

His saga continued, “She’s (his alleged current or soon to be ex-girlfriend of seven years) got a drug problem and we are probably breaking up and her kids are all on heroin or crack or opioids or something depending on the day of the week. They’ve totally destroyed the place (his alleged Georgetown home) and will keep on doing that if I don’t take this baby by the horns.” And then he stopped suddenly and looked at me directly and intensely for the first time, while smiling devilishly.

Then he takes a deep breath and for some reason I expected him to drop to the floor and do a few yoga sun salutations. He didn’t, so I just looked at him awaiting the next round of revealing commentary.

“Okay, so where would you like for me to start?” He looks at his watch, “Oh no I’m gonna be late for my business lunch down the street, I also own a few businesses. Can you pull those COMPS while I’m gone and then take me out and show me some properties that I can rehab, do you have time for that later today?”

And then he dangles some real estate-bate in front of me. “I will give you the listing, for some reason I feel comfortable with you, I like you, you seem like a very honest real estate agent.” He delivered all of this without taking a breath but again looking me directly in the eye, of course I was now rapt with attention.

I agreed to get together a tour and some COMPS. “I’m also in the movie industry,” he noted as he continued summarizing his alleged resume. Then he started throwing the names around of some big LA hitters and mentioned he was “well known in the industry” and hangs out with a lot of “sober celebs”.

And then he dropped a few more names of those celebrities who had had their alcoholic anonymity broken by the press during embarrassing relapses and or who willingly opened their emotional kimonos to reveal to the world that yes, they were indeed alcoholics.

Oh, good I thought at least he’s not a drug addict or active alcoholic like the soon to be ex and all of her spawn. So he showed up a few hours later, an hour past the 3 3 p.m. agreed to time that we were to meet. He waved away his tardiness with a vague “Hey, sorry we had champagne for lunch and things got a little delayed”. My hopes for a somewhat sane and sober client were immediately dashed.

After looking at a few possible homes in northwest DC and after I informed him there were no more “half a million-dollar rehabs left in Georgetown”. I began our tour by taking him to the neighboring areas of posh, upscale, Glover Park and North Cleveland Park.

He said he wanted to take me to the house he allegedly owned with his girlfriend, but I had already pulled the tax record, only to discover her name and hers alone was on the deed. I was beginning to have serious doubts about this man’s character and veracity.

The phrase “buyers are liars,” is not one that I like to subscribe to, being a woman whose metaphysical beliefs include, “You bring about what you think about”, and not wanting to manifest this type of negativity. However, this guy was challenging me to continue to believe the old adage.

Now, he was down for two: Not sober and he didn’t own a single square foot of the million dollar plus property in DC or probably anywhere for that matter. And for all I knew, his other property ownership claims – from Los Angeles to the Gulf to the Virgin Islands — were equally figments of his rather fanciful imagination.

And yet I continued to indulge him, in part because the whole situation had become quite entertaining. We pulled up to our third house of the afternoon. A red brick bungalow with a sorely overgrown yard and garage in North Cleveland Park. The interior condition seemed sound but was rough and needed a new kitchen and probably all new electrical, plumbing, and HVAC systems.

“This one will work. I want to write an offer and my brother who is flying in on his private jet to Reagan National tomorrow will sign the contract with me. Can you draw a contract up?”

Then glancing in the mirror on the passenger side of my car he stroked his forehead then asked , “Hey I’m thinking about getting some hair plugs you know to even out the ole hair line, what do you think?” “It’s really not my area of expertise,” I quipped but “I think you look fine.” “Really?” he says. “So you do think I’m hot don’t you? I knew 4 it, I can tell you dressed totally differently than yesterday when I met you.” He was a relentless flirt with an overgrown ego.

The house he wanted to put an offer on wasn’t falling down but was very neglected. The following morning I prepared the offer and called him to remind him of our 1 p.m. appointment but again he was a “no show”. Then, without warning at 3 p.m. he called. “I’m just around the corner so can I come to your office to sign?” “Of course,” I said surprised that he even remembered.

PART 2

So in he walks, left hand all bandaged and sporting an impressive black eye. My first thought was “drunken bar-fight” and by his looks he was on the losing side. But such was not apparently the case. As he explained. “I locked myself out of my house last night after an all-night bender and busted through the plate glass to open the door and then ended up in Georgetown Hospital.” My second thought was the irony of the entire episode; he was looking to score on one home while another home had scored on him!

“My driver fortunately waited for me to get inside and so when I couldn’t, this happened,” he said holding up the bloodied bandaged hand, “Well I, ah, never mind.” He left the question of how he had obtained his black eye unanswered and I was not about to ask. Maybe, I concluded, it was a bar fight after all followed by a house fight.

My client had one redeeming grace I was aware of; he had a killer sense of humor in a “shock-jock” kind of way, always keeping me off guard and thinking, what is he going to say or do next? And with every encounter he would tell me how more and more he was “becoming very attracted to me “.

I would respond by saying, “Thank you very much but it sounds like you have enough going on right now,” adding something along the lines of “And besides I only date clients after they are no longer clients.” He laughed and replied, “God I really like you.”

“You know what, my brother is in town, but he’s been delayed, and I really want to have him look at this property before we submit an offer, we’re business partners in real estate and in the club we own together,” and in unison we both would say, “In Hell- A” (LA in hipster translate).

“It’s called “Cougars”, he says. “Right.” I say thinking he’s still joking. “No, I’m serious,” he says, “There are lot of hungry ex-strippers, 40-and 50-somethings out there. They’re beautiful they’ve all had work done (meaning plastic surgery) and need the cash”, he said as a point of pride. “I’m really a serious business man.” No doubt, I thought.

The next evening I saw him walking almost horizontally, tipping like an inverted letter L, down the streets of Dupont Circle, one neighborhood over from Georgetown, so drunk and or drugged up, or both, that he barely recognized me.

“Victoria hey, come to dinner with us,” he slurred. “God, you look hot, come on I’m meeting my business partners,” he said grabbing the nearby railing to keep from toppling over to an upside-down letter “V” or a “downward facing dog” in yoga-speak.

“Well, thank you that is so generous of you but really, I have an engagement,” I lied. “Hey, I still want to sign that contract tomorrow he wails,” as I hurry away down the street as fast as I can, waving good bye and saying, “Okay, great, I will see you tomorrow!” Never expecting to hear from him again.

The next day, as I suspected, he’s a no show; no calls, no emails, nothing. So I think, another quasi “Hell-A” celebrity bites the dust. Or that maybe his big brother did indeed fly in from Utah, tasered him and then carted him off to rehab somewhere, where, where Hell-A celebrities go to dry out.

Or maybe he was now residing in a different kind of resort island, not his alleged Virgin Island home get-away, but rather like the rehabilitation center, like the one that Eric Clapton funded and built in Antigua.

Three months later he called and validated my suspicions “Hey, how’s my favorite DC Relator?” “I don’t know, how is she?” I’d respond. He laughed and proceeded to tell me about his 90-days in rehab and how he still wants me to list “his house” in Georgetown and that he really bottomed out financially.

“Yep I’m down to my last $7 Million.” “Right,” I said, “But that doesn’t sound like much of a bottom”. To this day, now 9-years later, I still get calls from “Hell-A” David, now allegedly 9 years sober and developing real estate projects. The conversations always start with something like, “Hey hot stuff, how’s the DC Market and how’s my favorite real estate agent?” And then a report of the latest girlfriend or sober celebrity 6 he now has in his cell phone. We laugh and I tell him I’m glad he’s still alive and sober and that he still owes me a deal, however, I’m not holding my breath!