Selling a house is for the birds. Shit. For real.
We interviewed our last realtor on Friday night. We thought a good round number of three would do the trick, and we were hemming and hawing over the first two. We had a third one picked out and she never returned my call. Thanks for doing that early in the game, lady. You saved me a lot of trouble down the road. Then, lo and behold, one of Nathan’s coworkers gave us the name of a guy he uses for all his investment properties. By the way; the term “investment property,” here in Youngstown, means “shithole you never would want to live in, but some poor soul can’t afford anything nicer.” That should have been a red flag.
I left this guy a message (he had not set up his voicemail, which I thought was kinda weird and didn’t know if I left a message for the right person). He called right back, which was nice. Then I looked him up online, and I was greeted with the most ridiculous photo I have ever seen… It actually spoke to me. It said “I am a douchebag, don’t waste your time. Just go with one of the other agents you interviewed.”
Real estate agent photos are a bit of a joke, anyway, in my limited experience. Very few of them look like the actual person who shows up at your door; which is likely due to the fact that they were probably taken twelve years ago. I looked a helluva lot better twelve years ago, too, so I can’t really blame them. The ones that really crack me up are where the agent is holding a clipboard or a set of keys or something. Yeah! I can’t get enough of staging houses! Watch this! I can even stage MYSELF!! But this guy, Ricardo (names have been changed to protect the delusional); he’s in a league all his own. No, I’m not going to smile. I’m not going to pretend I am friendly, because I’m not. See this ring on my finger, propped up jauntily up by my chin? Oh yeah, I’m married. She’s hot.
Here, take a look and judge for yourself, from his business card:
We looked past all of this, made a few jokes about it, actually, but soldiered on because he came so highly recommended.
He shows up, walks into the house like he fucking owns the place, and then proceeds to make the worst pitch in history. Here are a few
highlowlights. I am not hamming this up at all; this is all shit he actually said. Verbatim.
“What was your name again?” Seriously, dude. I left you a voicemail. With my name. Recorded for posterity. Even the tiniest amount of effort could have put one point in your column. The other agents came to the house knowing my kids’ names.
“Here, you can just read this later, it’s a lot of numbers.” That is what I am hiring you for, is to go over numbers with me. And this nifty little booklet containing your proposal doesn’t even have our first names on it; it just says “Mr and Mrs” with NO PERIODS AT THE END. This should have been the final straw for me.
I had to ask him point-blank; “Are you going to tell us what you think our house should go on the market for, or not?” He just rifled through the booklet and told us to read it.
“Hold on, let me get this call real quick. It might be an emergency.” No, it was your fucking wife. I could hear everything she was saying because your phone is set so damn loud and she just wanted to know if you wanted her to pick up anything for dinner.
“We’ll try setting the price at what YOU want, but if that doesn’t work in a couple of weeks, then we do it MY way.” Whaaat? Your way? You stand to make a lot of money here, and if I am going to hire you, it is for your advice and experience. We will not be doing it YOUR way; I am paying you to make MY WAY the RIGHT WAY.
And there was this nugget: Let me explain this thing that is legal here in the state of Ohio. Dual Agency is where the real estate agent can represent both the buyer and the seller. He will make all the commission; and I’m not entirely sold that he can get the best deal for both parties involved. Yeah, Ricardo is totally fine with this, because his license is on the line. (The agent we are going with told us flat-out that she does not do it. At all.)
“You have to let me know right away if you are going with me.” Nope, I don’t have to let you know anything. You work for me, sir. And just for that, I am not calling you for at least a week and a half to let you know that we are going with someone else.
“Normally my rate is 7%, but for these larger homes I only charge 6%.” He was a total bullshitter. I’m not sure what this guy’s normal clients are, but he must have thought that he is the only agent we have or will talk to (even though we told him otherwise). Every other agent I spoke with – all five of them – told me that in this area, standard commission is 6%, some go lower, but almost everyone is right at 6%.
This was the best one, only because he kept repeating it OVER AND OVER:
“I don’t want to waste MY time.” I get it, I do. You can go ahead and think it, but don’t tell me about wasting your time. It is my livelihood that dangles at the end of this paycheck of yours. To you, I am another sale. But this is my HOUSE. If I can’t sell it; I AM FUCKED. Royally and totally.
This guy was a first class D-bag, and neither Nathan or I could get him out of the house fast enough. Though I totally would have looked past it if I had really liked him, he showed up wearing jeans, a very dressy shirt, unbuttoned to show his icky chest. Really?
I suppose none of that matters now, but I’m thinking I’m going to call him and NOT tell him what my name is since he doesn’t remember it anyway, but that there is a snowball’s chance in hell that I would ever hire him.
And just like that, I totally wasted HIS time. So there.