Classic risk aversion for the liability-phobic mandates that an agent make no actual referral to an auxiliary service provider in the course of a Real Estate transaction. Need a lender? Here are the names of three professionals. Need a home inspector? Sift through this stack of business cards and let me know who you choose to hire. The very thought of shimmying out on a limb to recommend a capable practitioner sends shivers up the clenched backside of some in our ranks. Cold anticipation of the potential commissionectomy that attends a referral gone bad trumps the tug of responsibility.
No businessman walks around looking for a financial colonic, but the very real potential for having his inner sanctum legally hollowed out exists in each and every transaction he undertakes. As such, it has become customary for many to simply ward off as much exposure as possible by abstaining from any form of guidance that can later be labeled malfeasance or conflict of interest. Heaven knows, if the contractor you recommend for repairs screws the electrical pooch, any rabid attorney worth his salt will gleefully encourage the client to pursue the deep pocketed brokerage (and agent by proxy) as well as the contractor for damages. Why put yourself on the line by recommending a home inspector when the potential for blow-back on a balky A/C unit can put you directly in the cross hairs? For that matter, why even bother to attend the inspection if the due diligence can be misconstrued for interference? Why attend closings if your review of the documents places increased responsibility upon your shoulders for their accuracy?
Because risk deflection is not my job.
My job is to fulfill my fiduciary obligations to my clients to the very best of my ability. That means recommending pros who have proven their worth to me countless times in the past, rather than crossing my fingers and hoping my clients receive competent service. That means attending inspections to physically see any defects, so as to better advise my clients and argue their cases. That means attending the closing to ensure that the settlement statement jives with the negotiated terms of the contract.
Doing the eeny-meeny-miney-mo thing with a referral does not serve the client, and neither does calling in “neutral” to the appointments that demand an ally. Such laissez faire Real Estating is designed only to mitigate the agent‘s risk. While it is understandable, given the litigious nature of our culture, it’s just not how I roll. You need a lender, I give you the name of the best lender I know. You need a home inspector, I give you the name of the most thorough one in the rolodex.
I would argue that recusing oneself from the crucial junctures and decisions of a transaction is not only negligent, but self-defeating. As the surest invitation for catastrophe is to stand aside and watch the transaction happen, the best defense is, and always will be, a good offense. Fixing potential problems, rather than hiding from them, has kept my clients happy, and me out of legal hot water to date. Active involvement serves the interests of all parties.
I wear my big boy pants to work every day. I put them on with the knowledge that certain forces will always be beyond my control. Secure in that understanding, I’d much rather stand behind the repercussions of my actions than my inactions. Standing on the sideline, not attending inspections & closings, carefully avoiding opinions … seems to me that ascribing to the Caspar Milquetoast model of risk avoidance is, ironically, the surest route to the ruin that one would desparately scramble to avoid. Decreasing the standard of care for the client is akin to an RSVP for trouble.
And trouble never sends its regrets.
Need a Referral to a Local Professional? Give me a ring. I’m not afraid of my own recommendations.
11/23/1881 – The first Real Estate disclosure laws go into effect for the young territory on the heels of the sale of a corral in Tombstone with a non-disclosed stigma. Claiming he would have paid considerably less for the property had he been aware of its recent history of people getting shot in the face, Jebediah Tippins also holds the distinction for the first ‘For Sale By Owner’ purchase in the Southwest.
11/23/1912 – Edward Reems of Copper Crest Realty & Insurance double-ends the first sale of a covered wagon park in state history. He is later found hanged by a fellow agent for alleged ‘buyer rustling’.
11/23/1937 – Eli Smokes invents the lockbox in Prescott, AZ and immediately gives out the combination to the town drunk.
11/23/1974 – The Arizona Association of Realtors introduces the Arizona Regional Multiple Listing Service, responds to immediate consumer demands for full online access to the raw listing feed by noting that the internet has not been invented yet.
11/23/1987 – Timothy Barnaby of Tucson is the first to cross out ‘7%’ in the boilerplate of a listing agreement, sparking a revolution against Real Estate fees that would be a boon for consumers in their pursuit of affordable, crappy service.
11/23/2004 – Arizona Real Estate buyers lose their collective minds.
11/23/2007 – The party’s over as lending institutions turn out the lights on all programs geared towards borrowers with sub-eight hundred FICO scores who earn less than seventeen million dollars a month.
11/23/2011 – Paul Slaybaugh with Realty Executives prepares to give thanks to his faithful clients for helping him successfully navigate another crazy year in the ever-changing waters of the Scottsdale Real Estate scene.
Thank you, Arizona. Looking forward to another year of firsts, both real and imagined.
Joyce DeMannon traced a white glove-encased fingertip over a lamp shade and inspected it for residue. Satisfied, she gave a curt, reluctant nod to the head of the maid staff.
“Turndown service every morning, of course,” the chambermaid informed her dour guest. “Standard mint on the pillow, or you can inform my staff of a particular preference.”
She turned on a smartly polished heel and led her charge to the master bath.
“As our baths have all been retrofitted with steam settings, you needn’t leave your own room to indulge in a full, luxurious spa experience. Complimentary hot rocks, cucumber water and sea salts are all available through the concierge’s desk.”
Joyce inspected the facilities in silence with hands clasped behind her back.
“Towels on the floor or in the hamper to indicate you wish them laundered, please,” the chambermaid continued in a clipped, practiced cadence.
“And the minibar,” Joyce rasped in a voice as dehydrated as her sloughed, bronze skin.
“There is absolutely nothing mini about it, madam,” the chambermaid responded on cue as they made their way back into the hallway. “Our bars are full-sized and fully stocked with the finest spirits and liquers. Hand-rolled cigars are located in the adjacent humidor. All complimentary, of course.”
“Virginia Slims are available through the concierge,” she quickly added, well-adapted to intuiting the unique needs of her guests.
“Cable or satellite,” Joyce croaked.
“Both, of course,” the chambermaid replied, mildly offended. “Along with movies on demand, video games and unlimited wi-fi access.”
The chambermaid slid open the glass arcadia door in the living room and stepped out onto the patio.
“Landscapers come at one o’clock on the dot every afternoon, so as not to disrupt your sleep.”
Joyce looked down the sharp ridge of her eroding nose at the khaki-clad laborer with a leaf-blower strapped to his back. He was dripping sweat under a ratty straw hat that made her itch.
Another curt nod indicated her appeasement.
“The fitness center and pool are open twenty four hours a day,” the chambermaid informed her upon reentering the living room.
“Every guest is assigned a personal superintendent for any and all repair needs,” she continued. “Simply call me at any hour of the day, for any reason whatsoever, and I will have him here within five minutes.”
“And group activities,” Joyce prompted. “I presume there to be outings and entertainment available nightly?”
“Certainly, madam,” the chambermaid responded. “There are shuttles on call to take our guests to and from sporting events, theater shows, restaurants and nightclubs. We also have nightly luaus, bridge tournaments and countless other activities for our guests to enjoy.”
A knock at the door interrupted them.
“Ah, that must be Javier,” the chambermaid surmised, a faint smile touching her lips.
“Javier?”
“Your cabana boy,” the chambermaid replied, adjusting her costume-like uniform and crossing the fifteen steps to the door.
Joyce felt her hands move to her head, smoothing her bobbed, bottle-blonde hair of their own accord. Her formerly lifeless gray eyes flashed in nervous anticipation. Many years had past since she had last held the undivided attention of a handsome, young man.
The chambermaid cast a devilish grin over her shoulder as her slender fingers wrapped around the door knob. Slowly, ever so slowly, she twisted, reveling in her charge’s evident discomfort. At last, when the knob would turn no further, she paused, and tugged open the door.
A khaki flash accompanied the deeply-tanned figure that entered. Joyce only realized she had been holding her breath when she blew it out in disgust.
“This,” she spit. “This is Javier?”
She jerked an indignant thumb at the same rumpled, middle-aged landscaper who had been working in the backyard moments earlier.
“Yep,” the chambermaid answered. “And he’s here to plunge the hall toilet.”
“I, I don’t understand,” Joyce stammered.
“It’s really quite simple, Ms. DeMannon,” the chambermaid replied. “Javier here is the landscaper, plumber, electrician, A/C tech and general handyman. When stuff breaks, he fixes it.”
“But what about my cabana boy,” Joyce wailed.
“There is no maid service, Ms. DeMannon,” the chambermaid continued, removing her “Beatrice” name tag and dropping it into a blouse pocket. “There is no 24 hour gym. There is no Olympic pool. There is no mint on the pillow, and there is, most assuredly, no cabana boy.”
“But, but,” Joyce sputtered.
“This is a rental townhome, Ms. DeMannon, not the Hyatt,” the listing agent informed the stricken tenant.
She withdrew her Planet Real Estate pin from another frilly pocket of the ridiculous blouse and affixed it where the other had been, effectively ending the ruse.
“Your agent would have done well to direct you to one of our wonderful local resorts if you require concierge service,” she chastised. “Perhaps, those accommodations might be a bit more to your liking than our modest eight hundred dollar a month condo.”
“I get it,” Joyce sneered. “This is about my walk-through list, isn’t it?”
She produced and unfolded a multi-page document from her imitation Coach purse.
A gurgle, followed by a full flush, emanated from the hall bath.
“Ah, yes,” the agent answered. “Your list. From the sound of things, I’d say Javier just took care of it.”
“But there are two hundred and thirty seven items that require immediate attention!”
“Two hundred and thirty six,” the agent corrected. “And we will not be repainting the hallway to a ‘more appealing tan,’ stripping the wallpaper border in the breakfast nook, replacing the vertical blinds with shutters, installing ceiling fans or addressing any of the other assorted nonsense erroneously deemed deficient.”
With that, she turned for the door at the same time the handyman emerged from the bathroom. She paused and looked back at the forlorn tenant before the pair slipped out into the midday sun.
“But if the sh*&^%r backs up again? We’ll send Javier right over.”
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“Three fifty? Are you out of your freaking skull,” the rotund, little man bellowed beneath a reddening bald pate.
“You disagree with my analysis,” Maxwell Listers surmised. He was not unaccustomed to the question, though twenty six years of patient rebuttal had him rethinking the answer some days.
“You call that an analysis,” Ollie Meanders dismissed. “Even my senile mother in law could tell you this house is worth five hundred grand, and she thinks you can still buy a ticket to a picture show for a nickel.”
“I see,” Max replied, organizing the stack of comparable sales he had spent the past half hour explaining in excruciating detail. “Your mother in law would no doubt be swayed by the thirty two hundred square feet you claim to possess.”
“Damn straight,” Ollie confirmed, puffing his hirsute chest beneath an overmatched, crumpled white undershirt.
“Why, that three thousand square foot house one block over just sold for four eighty after all, and it didn’t even have a fireplace, did it,” Max agreed, leafing through his stack to the appropriate property listing.
Ollie stared at the agent with suspicion roiling in his beady eyes. He knew he was being taken for a ride, he just didn’t know where.
“Of course,” Max continued, “that was all original square footage …”
“So,” Ollie challenged.
“So original square footage is more valuable than added square footage,” Max concluded on cue, his silver hair lending more credence to the proclamation than the dirty blonde it had crowded out a decade earlier.
“What the hell is the difference,” Ollie pressed. “Thirty two hundred feet is thirty two hundred feet!”
The cords in Ollie’s sausage forearms rearranged themselves into angry knots beneath his taut, freckled skin.
“Think so,” Max asked, his arched eyebrows issuing a direct challenge.
“Well, sure,” Ollie sputtered. “Who cares … I mean, what does it, uh, matter if it, um …”
“Remind me, how many bedrooms do you have, Ollie?”
“Four,” the homeowner boasted, jutting his chin at the listing in Max’s hand. “Same as that one!”
“And did I miss the formal dining room somewhere when you were showing me around?”
“No,” Ollie said with slightly less confidence. “That’s where I added the fourth bedroom.”
“And how many baths?”
“Well … still just the one and a half,” Ollie admitted.
“How about parking,” Max asked.
“I, um, enclosed the garage to make the game room.”
“And this kitchen,” Max continued, looking about the small galley.
“Installed the granite counter tops myself,” Ollie crowed.
“And they are stunning,” Max allowed. “But does this room strike you as the hub of a thirty two hundred square foot home, or would you agree that it more closely embodies your home’s former life as a seventeen hundred square footer?”
“It might be a bit on the small side,” Ollie acknowledged. “But I converted the laundry room to a pantry for extra storage.”
Max scribbled something on a manilla folder marked “Meanders, Ollie.”
“These low ceilings ….”
“No, I don’t have the big, fancy vaults that some of my neighbors do,” Ollie ceded. “But do you have any idea how much it costs to cool that extra space?”
“And the back patio … wait. Where is the back patio,” Max asked, craning his sinewy neck to look past the homeowner.
“I enclosed that, too,” Ollie replied, slowly being sapped of his pugnacity.
“Ah yes, I see,” Max nodded. “That would explain the step-down and the funky slope to the roof line. A shame how it darkens the family room and eats up the backyard.”
“Should I put in some skylights?”
Max shook his head.
“You’d just be throwing good money after bad,” Max advised the crestfallen homeowner. “I’m afraid you have a Frankenstein house, Ollie.”
“Frankenstein house?”
“A Frankenstein house,” Max confirmed. “You took a perfectly good little home and created a monster – a big, sprawling octopus of a property, one incongruous addition at a time.”
“But the bigger, the better, right?”
“No, Ollie. Not necessarily,” Max corrected. “Your house doesn’t fit the needs or expectations of a larger family despite the raw square footage, nor does the new layout fit the single or couple to whom it would have originally appealed. You are stuck between buyer demographics. Homeseller Purgatory, if you will.”
Ollie buried his head in his hands.
“You just can’t juice a little house into something it isn’t,” Max added for good measure.
“All that work,” Ollie moaned. “All those trips to Lowes.”
“Wish you’d called me in sooner,” Max lamented. “Would have aborted Rosemary’s Baby here before it was ever conceived.”
“Hey!”
“My apologies,” Max offered.
“Well,” Ollie breathed with a heavy sigh. “I need to move, but I’ve put way too much into it to sell it for three fifty. What do I do?”
Max took a moment to ponder their options.
“How’s your insurance,” he wondered.
“Insurance,” Ollie parroted with evident confusion. “Full replacement cost, why?”
“Fire bad,” Max suggested with a conspiratory wink.
The agent stood and lumbered out of the cramped kitchen with arms extended out in front of him like the monster fleeing an angry mob of torch-bearing villagers.
