by Paul Slaybaugh | Dec 9, 2010 | This & That
“Did you get a look at your attacker?”
Gertrude looked down at her bare feet before responding to the patrolman.
“I told you, it was dark. And bright,” she explained. Her matted, grey hair clung to her scalp in incongruous clumps.
“Dark and bright. Got it, ma’am,” Officer Page replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. He was at the tail end of a double shift, and no loony old bat was going to cost him the first five minutes of Glee. SVU was going to give him eight kinds of hell for calling this one in, but they could kiss his wide Welsh keister. She would be their problem as soon as he finished up his incident report.
“How about height? Tall, short or average?”
“How would I know what’s little for a little, green man,” Gertrude asked.
“Okay, I’m just going to put down average,” the officer noted. He did the same for weight and listed race as other.
“And you say this little, green man … he, uh … probed you?”
He regretted the question before the words were out of his mouth. Sure as the crazy in this hag’s milky, hazel eyes, he’d just forfeited the title sequence.
She stared off into the night, appearing to see nothing and everything all at once.
“Yes, that animal probed me. In all my years, I’ve never been so mistreated. Not even that weekend in Puerta Vallarta when Harold, God rest his soul, mixed up his blood pressure medication with the Spanish fly that Marvin from the bowling league gave him as a gag gift for his seventy fifth birthday.” A violent shudder wracked her entire being. “I’ll never get that smell out of my nose. Like burning tires in a snowcone factory. Cold as ice, and scalding hot.”
“Cold and hot, got it. How many times have you been abducted, Ms. Gunderson?”
“Counting this time? Once,” Gertrude said. She began fiddling with the hole in the knee of her pantyhose.
“Let’s get back to the actual abduction. You say there was a bright light and tractor beam,” the officer asked, turning to wink at the dashboard camera in his cruiser as he did so. The fellas would eat this up, especially Pennington.
“I already told you all about that. One minute I’m sitting on the sofa watching my program, then before you can say Here’s Johnny, I’m flying through the bay window. Harold, God rest his soul, was always on me about leaving it open, but it was such a pleasant evening. Now are you going to sit here and ask questions all night, or are you going to catch the monster that had me spread out on that table like a fish,” Gertrude demanded.
“And what else did this … processor, you called him? What else did this processor do to you, ma’am,” the officer asked. He hazarded another glance at the camera, crossing his eyes and twirling his index finger near his temple in the universal pantomime for crazy.
“Are you having a laugh at me, sonny?”
“No, ma’am,” he replied, stiffening and turning back to find the galactic traveler eying him with evident suspicion.
“You look here, young man,” she began, wagging a crooked finger at the officer, “that thing is getting away while you have yourself a gay old time at my expense, and I won’t stand for it.”
“We need to make sure we get the right one is all, ma’am,” Page responded, suppressing a grin.
She continued to scrutinize him under a furrowed brow.
“He took my blood,” Gertrude said at last.
“You mean he drew some blood, like a sample?”
“No, I mean he took it. All of it.”
Page stared at the translucent face in front of him and suddenly felt pity. Nutter or not, this was someone’s mother, someone’s grandmother. The panicked family was probably canvassing the streets right now, wondering where she had wandered off to this time. He thought of his late Uncle JJ.
“How about we get you a cup of soup back at the station,” he suggested. He grasped the radio on his belt to call off the special victims unit. The lark had gone far enough.
“There’s no time,” Gertrude objected. “It could be violating somebody else right now! You have to stop it!”
“I understand, ma’am,” the officer began before she cut him off.
“You don’t believe me. Here, I’ll show you,” she interjected.
Before he could stop her, she withdrew a plastic spork from her purple, zebra-patterned handbag and plunged it deep into her forearm.
“Christ,” the officer shrieked, lunging for the makeshift shank.
He yanked it out by the white plastic handle, the beefy fingers of his left hand disappearing into the spongy folds of her triceps.
“Told you,” Gertrude boasted, extending her arm into the pale moonlight for him to see. Not a single crimson drop of blood arose from the fresh wound.
“What the hell,” Page exclaimed, directing the beam of his maglight to the mottled appendage. Three holes connected by a semi-circular gash, completely free of gore.
“It took my identity,” she informed the incredulous officer. “Poked me, prodded me. Stole my DNA and credit information.”
“Hold on,” Page objected, willing the jumbled thoughts in his head to coalesce. “Credit information? What would an ET want with your credit information?”
“I can’t rightly say, but it made me provide my social security number, date of birth and proof of employment on three separate forms. It also demanded bank statements for the past three months.”
The officer stood in slack-jawed silence. His eyes remained fixated on the bloodless wound.
“That’s the only reason it let me go, you know,” she continued. “I’m supposed to fax all of my documents by the end of the week.”
The patrolman’s radio squawked to life, startling him.
“Dispatch to one thirty eight,” a non-inflected voice croaked.
“One thirty eight, go, dispatch,” the officer responded.
“Are you still with the 13-1202, Page?”
“Affirmative. And look, this is going to sound crazy, but,” Page began.
“Hold fast, officer, a black and white is on its way to your location,” the voice interrupted.
“Copy,” Page responded, holstering the radio as a pair of headlights swung around the corner, bathing the pair in halogen light.
“It’s back! Oh, lord help us, it’s back,” the woman squealed.
Page had to physically restrain her as the driver side door opened.
“Got a guy in the back who thinks your lady might belong to him,” the approaching officer announced. “He’s been out looking for her all night. Found him talking to a cat over on twelfth.”
The rear door of the squad car swung open. All six eyes squinted against the glare at the form that stepped out.
“Gertrude,” an uncertain voice called.
“Harold?”
An old man shuffled forward with a hurried, laborious gait. Page released his hold on the woman, who lurched to meet the newcomer. The couple cast an enigmatic two-story shadow on the warehouse behind them as they shared a fierce hug, the officers looking on from just outside the glow of the headlights.
“What’s your guy’s story,” Page asked his colleague, checking the name on the badge.
“He’s not much help,” Officer Davies confessed. “Until dispatch put it together with your call, I figured the old coot was just confused.”
The two watched the couple in silence for a moment.
“Only thing he said that made any sense was that they were signing papers on a house this afternoon. From the sound of it, they haven’t taken out a new loan in damn near forty years,” Davies continued.
Page let out a low whistle.
“Poor bastards,” he acknowledged. “They wouldn’t have known what hit’em.”
“Apparently, the missus went outside to grab some air around the time they were redoing the affidavit statement because the signatures were outside of the margins. She never came back in,” Davies concluded.
“Ah, I get it now,” Page said.
“Come again,” asked Davies.
“When I first found her, she was mumbling weird numbers and trying to snatch something out of the air. Four point three five, two points. Four point eight, no origination … must have been the terms that finally made her snap.”
“You wanna deal with this, or should I,” Davies asked, taking a half step back from the scene.
“Ah hell, I’ll do it,” Page answered. “I already missed the Cardinals’ tip-off.”
“You mean the Suns?”
“Yeah, the Suns,” he acknowledged, feeling his face flush. “Besides, I’m refi’ing my house right now.”
“So?”
“So I want to see where they put the microchip.”
by Paul Slaybaugh | Nov 25, 2010 | Home Selling, Scottsdale Real Estate
If only it were that simple. I’ve had this pearl lobbed across the kitchen table by a would-be Scottsdale home seller in denial more times than I can count, and I can count all the way to eleven, thank you very much. After all, it’s self-evident that the single most effective way to combat the potential deal-killing reality of a third party evaluation is not to have one. Thus, it never comes as a surprise when a homeowner objects to the recent sales data by flipping the script on my argument that there is no way on God’s green earth that the home would appraise for the lofty number in his/her head, even if some foolhardy buyer would prove willing to plunk down greenbacks well in excess of true market value.
“You need to find us a cash buyer so there won’t be an appraisal, then.”
While rummaging through my briefcase for the ready supply of cash buyers I keep on hand in case of emergency, I’m dismayed to find that there appears to be a hole in the bottom. All those investor whales who bleed money from their blowholes must have fallen out as their portfolios shrank to guppy size over the past few years.
There are cash buyers out there, but times have changed, people. This is not 2005-2006 where many “cash” buyers were actually relying on draining a HELOC to close. Or those others who have been bounced from the pool by decimated 401k’s and suddenly nonexistent pensions. The cash buyers who are still around in 2010 are genuine Daddy Warbucks types and professional investment syndicates.
Genuine. Cash. Buyers.
And you know what? Those with the coin to be players in the current market are not interested in overpaying for your, or any other, property. The only people buying homes at present, regardless of whether the property is a need or a want, are those intent on a modern day train robbery. When even the value-priced properties linger on the market as the slap-your-momma-value-priced properties are the ones being snapped up, the game plan is to grossly overprice your home in hopes of landing one of these cash buying makos? Seriously? Because they are so darned cute and cuddly, I gather?
As strategies go, I’d sooner advise trick or treating at Dick Cheney’s house as a pheasant hunter.
Happening upon a cash buyer is one of those fun eventualities that is largely determined by price point and fate. Those fortunate enough to have such a creature fall in their laps quickly learn that the cash comes with a steep price: negotiating disadvantage. If you are overpriced, your home won’t even be a blip on Mr. Moneybags’s radar. If you are priced in line with values, he will lowball you. If you are priced significantly under market, he still might attempt to haggle a little. After all, he has cash, and cash is king, right? You aren’t the only one who knows it.
While a cash offer may represent the panacea to the appraisal conundrum, the actual cash buyer is not a willing participant in the “I’m willing to spend whatever it takes, because I simply must have THIS HOUSE” game. He goes across the street and buys the ugly one for 100k less.
Don’t believe me? Let’s try a quick role-playing exercise.
You are a homebuyer in 2010. Through shrewd investment strategy, you have managed to not only hang on to your capital, but to actually amass a larger fortune during these lean economic times. Sensing that opportunities abound in Scottsdale Real Estate at present, you are in the market for a house or two. You might even live in one when you are not at the penthouse in Manhattan, the chalet in Brussels or the flat in London. You’ve studied the market, read all of the stories and spoken with your most trusted advisors. Putting to work the analytical mind that has served you so well in critical financial decision-making to this point … what are you going to buy?
Are you going to spend all day making doe eyes at some overpriced turkey playing hard to get, or are you going to fill your tag by blasting the one with a limp?
Thought so.
by Paul Slaybaugh | Nov 12, 2010 | This & That
As I prepare to place a new business card order for the first time in forever, certain aspects of its predecessor can stand some revision. After years of template neglect, for instance, I’m humiliated to admit that my email still reflects the AOL address I acquired in college. While not amongst the technology snobs (you know who you are) that mock those still utilizing the America Online paradigm, I made the switch to a branded gmail account several years ago. I’d say I never looked back, but that would be a gross distortion of the truth as I have to log in sporadically to ensure I haven’t missed any correspondence from a holder of one of the 3″ x 2.5″ instruments of disinformation I continue to dispense with impunity. Or for confirmation of my Nigerian lotto winnings (funny, I don’t recall purchasing a ticket …). While ironing out such inconsistencies, it’s probably not a bad idea to include passing reference to the website to which I’ve devoted THE LAST TWO YEARS OF MY FREAKING LIFE either.
So I can be somewhat resistant to change, sue me. One person’s hoarding is another person’s preparedness. Roll your eyes if you must, but don’t come looking to borrow my red parachute pants when breakdancing comes back.
Amongst the myriad changes that Business Card 3.0 will entail, I figure it’s time to roll out a new tagline. You know, like Hasta la vista, buyer, or I’ll be back … with a standard AAR purchase contract. Just updated to have a relevant, modern edge. Given the changes in the industry over the past few years, I need a blurb that tells people I am hip to the new jive. Let’s try a few out.
Transparency, it’s all the rage in modern internet marketing. With that in mind, we could always cut straight to the quick with, You need a house. I sell houses. Boom, done.
Post-Bubble Apocalyptic: Leg stuck in a negative-equity bear trap? I have a saw.
Partisan: Freaking Obama. (alternate version: Freaking Boehner)
Short Sale Negotiation: Don’t call me, I’ll call you.
The Foreclosure Specialist: Predators, Incorporated. You need’em, we bleed’em.
The Roger Waters BPO: Hello, is there anybody in there?
The Lawrence Yun: It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia
The John Merrick: I am not an animal, I’m a licensed Realtor!
The Full Monty: I’m broke. Buy something!
The REHarmony.Com: Deep Levels of Compatibility with Your Money
The Ike Turner: Slapping the taste out of value’s mouth since 1999!
The British Petroleum: Your guide to housing values that have fallen by 2%. Okay maybe 5%. 15% tops. Alright, 60%, but it’s not like you can’t go commune with a cactus in the Gobi, you bunch of moisture-starved jawas.
The Chilean Miner: Trapped in an underground mortgage since 2006, and I all got was this lousy t-shirt.
The Baby Jessica: Posers.
The Max Von Sydow: Your REO Hellhole Exorcist
The B of A: Your One Man Foreclosure Moratorium
The FED: Going Out Of Business Sale, All Rates Must Go!
The Realist: Paul’s House of Puppeteering, Magic and Real Estate
The Obscurist: When your donkey brays in fiscal agony, don’t let it bleed out on the berber carpet
The Serial Market Killer: Have you checked the Zestimate? (alternate: It puts the charge-off on its credit)
On second thought, maybe I should just let the marketing talent at HA Media save me from myself.
by Paul Slaybaugh | Nov 11, 2010 | Scottsdale Neighborhoods, Unique Architecture Series
Continuing the Unique Architecture in Scottsdale series, this edition focuses on the mid-century modern designs of famed local architect Ralph Haver. If you enjoyed the style of the Frank Lloyd Wright inspired homes of Mountain View East in McCormick Ranch, but are operating with a lesser budget, the South Scottsdale subdivision of Town & Country Scottsdale might be for you.
A small neighborhood of 62 homes, Town & Country Scottsdale is coveted as much for its downtown Scottsdale location as it is for its classic lines. Featuring the clerestory windows and sharp angles that make enthusiasts of contemporary design swoon, Haver homes are always in high demand. There are other Haver subdivisions scattered throughout Phoenix, but Town & Country Scottsdale is the only Haver neighborhood that has been designated “Historic.” Besides, it’s as Old Town Scottsdale as it gets.
These homes range in size from just under 1400 square feet to nearly 2400 square feet, and were constructed between 1952 and 1960.All properties are single-level and feature block construction. 35 have private pools.Some remain virtually untouched by time while others have been renovated from top to bottom.As such, the prices can fluctuate wildly between the upper $200,00s and the low $400,000s (as of the time of this posting).
For those who want their unique architecture on a budget, it is tough to beat this charming neighborhood. While this older area of Scottsdale has less flash than the new developments further north, it makes up for it in character. With the direction the cost of gas is heading, it’s hard to argue with the central location which allows residents to walk or bike to all of the downtown attractions (restaurants, nightspots, art galleries, etc).
South Scottsdale is typically thought of as entry-level housing to our community, but that doesn’t mean it has to entail a small, boring shoebox of a home. Town & Country proves that. With a resurgence of appreciation for this mid-century modern design, the future is bright for this neighborhood.
View homes for sale in Town and Country Scottsdale
Contact us to find the Scottsdale home that is unique as you are.
