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 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 9, 2010 | This & That
“I’m not going to GIVE my house away!”
Blaine leaned back in his seat, laced his fingers behind his head and closed his eyes. This appointment was over. It was over before it started, in fact. A humorless smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“Something funny,” the would-be seller demanded.
“No, Mr. Davis, nothing funny. It’s just been awhile since I’ve heard that one,” Blaine replied.
Opening his eyes, he was surprised to find his red-faced counterpart had gone an even angrier shade of crimson. The lone stop remaining in the color palette of denial was purple. He’d only seen purple once, and that poor bugger had stroked out right in front of him while discussing the merits of a leaky faucet in an inspection report. One more comparable sale placed upon the glass top of the breakfast table between them and he’d be calling Mr. Davis an ambulance.
“Goddamn Realtors. I was dealing with guys like you before you were born. You just want to slap the lowest price you can on a house so it sells fast,” the now twitching homeowner spat.
“I’m just showing you the data, Mr. Davis. Do you want to see the rest of it,” Blaine asked.
“Waste of time, I can see where you’re going. You want me to list my house at the same price that all of those bank and short sale properties sold for, but my home IS NOT DISTRESSED, you nitwit,” Mr. Davis railed.
“It’s awfully hard to propose an opinion of value without first presenting the background data, Mr. Davis,” Blaine countered. “I put two days into the analysis, but if you want me to cut straight to the chase, I will.”
“About time,” the seller scolded. Even his hair looked pissed.
“Five hundred thousand.”
“FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND?! I paid five fifty for it!”
“Yes, you did. Two years ago. In a declining market,” Blaine finished.
“But, but …,” Mr. Davis sputtered, “but then I have to pay commissions and closing costs on top of that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Blaine looked at his watch and fiddled with his briefcase. He knew exactly what was coming.
“Well, I’m not paying you to sell my house at a loss! Your commission will be whatever we get over five hundred,” Mr. Davis decreed.
“You don’t understand, Mr. Davis. Five hundred thousand is my recommended list price. I anticipate you will actually sell closer to four seventy five,” Blaine answered.
That did it. Mr. Davis turned purple.
“FOUR SEVEN- you want me to sell seventy five k below what I paid, and to pay you for the f&%$ing privilege,” Mr. Davis bellowed.
The sudden rise in octave caused a stirring behind one of the barnyard-themed curtains in the adjoining bay window. A black form exploded past Mr. Davis’s shoulder, leaving a tornado of paperwork in its wake as it shot across the table and out of the room.
“What the hell …,” Blaine mustered, absently pawing his face for blood.
“I guess Mordor doesn’t like your price, either,” Mr. Davis opined, cracking his first smile as he gestured in the direction the previously unseen cat had fled. His face receded to an animated pink, and the whites of his eyes returned, liberating the inquisitive green irises that had first greeted Blaine at the door. A deep sigh punctuated the sudden shift in disposition, and resignation washed across his creased features.
“List at five and sell for four seventy five, you say,” Mr. Davis asked.
“Yes, sir. That’s the best we can possibly hope for.”
“I suppose you have something for me to sign?”
“I do,” Blaine confirmed and withdrew the listing forms from his briefcase. He stooped to gather up his strewn paperwork while the seller signed the agreement, but was stifled by a light palm across his chest.
“It’s my mess, son. I’ll clean it up.”
———— <BEEP> <BEEP> <BEEP> <BEEP> <BEEP> <BEEP> ———–
Blaine blindly groped the nightstand for the shrieking alarm. Finding it, he pressed random buttons until the dark room returned to silence. Once fully immersed in the wakeful world, dread began forming in the pit of his stomach. Yet another day of unlistable listing appointments. A quick shower and quicker breakfast, and he was out the door, for once hoping to cross paths with a few black cats.
by Paul Slaybaugh | Jul 26, 2010 | This & That
Man was not meant to live on plants alone. It’s true. For the fruit and nuts enthusiasts in our midst, I point to the presence of your canines as proof that you are doing it wrong. While your squeamish frontal lobe may prevent you from supping on our furry friends, your crocodilian brain never stops sizing up the risk/reward of skewering the neighbor’s yipping mini-pin.
Rather than shy away from that which places us atop the food chain, we here at the Scottsdale Property Shop embrace our inner predator. As a matter of fact, you need to sharpen those base instincts before entering the Real Estate market in pursuit of housing prey. Let’s augment that testosterone deficiency and get you ready for the negotiation dining table.
List your home with the Slaybaughs prior to August 1st, 2010 and you’ll receive one complimentary membership to the Endangered Species of the Month Culinary Club! That’s right, enjoy the legally frowned upon Spotted Owl Stir Fry or the Komodo Alamodo from the privacy of your own barricaded domicile! Got a hankering for a Hairy-Nosed Wombat? A craving for a California Condor? We’ve got you covered … but only until August 1st!
*Promotion limited to one membership per depraved household. Antivenom and clandestine courier fees not included. This offer is patently absurd and excluded in all 50 states, US territories and pretty much everywhere else outside of Kuala Lumpur. Winning entrants will be placed on several watch lists and subject to possible excommunication from humanity.*
Bon Appetit!
by Paul Slaybaugh | Jun 28, 2010 | Scottsdale Real Estate, This & That
“You mean, it’s ours? It’s really ours?”
They were so excited. Even after I handed them the keys, they were slow to believe that the modest Spanish bungalow was now in their adoptive custody. Over the course of four exasperating months, we must have seen and dismissed close to a hundred homes. This one needed too much work. That one had a poor kitchen layout. Yet another sat on the “t” of a subdivision’s entrance: bad feng shui, or so I was told. Before the market skies parted and yielded the seventeen hundred square foot, clay tile miracle that appeared to have met extinction in their price range, our flagging spirits were all but ready to pack it in. The May 5th, 2005 discovery saved them from another year of apartment living. A challenge, at best, with a ten year old daughter, let alone with a half-baked bun in the oven.
“Can we go in,” the wife asked in a small, cautious voice.
“Of course,” I responded. “It’s your house, Liz, you can do whatever you please.”
She ignored my extended hand and engulfed me in a fierce hug. Her husband clasped my shoulder in a vice grip which betrayed an adolescence spent laboring on the family farm in Iowa. His curt nod spoke volumes.
“You’re welcome, Mel,” I replied.
“Thank you both for hanging in there with me. I know it hasn’t been easy, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the patience and trust you’ve shown. It’s been a long, tough slog, but I think we got it right.”
“Yes, we did,” Mel said, breaking his silence for the first and only time that morning.
“We would like to have you and your wife over as soon as we get settled,” Liz added.
“I’d like that,” I told her.
I meant it, too. I like just about every client I take on, but felt a special kinship with this couple for reasons that surpassed the extended time spent in each other’s company. After bidding the happy couple farewell, I glanced in the rearview as I navigated my way down the tree-lined street. Instead of going inside, they remained rooted in place, holding hands and staring at their new home.
I received a phone call from Liz this morning. Turns out that Mel has been out of work for some time now, and they cannot afford to keep the house. Might have to move back to the Midwest and look for a position on the farm. See just what kind of life is left in those gnarled, old leather hands.
I hate this job sometimes.
by Paul Slaybaugh | Jun 14, 2010 | This & That
Last week’s stint in the frozen food section didn’t cool you all the way off, you say?
That’s the thing about summer. It’s still summer when you go back outside. What if I were to up the ante and solicit your business with the promise of something a bit more lasting? For this week, and this week only, any lucky consumer who purchases or sells a home through Ray & Paul Slaybaugh will receive one complimentary autumn! That’s right, The Bogus Sales Gimmick of the Week is one completely FREE fall season, redeemable upon the cessation of summer! Can’t choose your favorite month amongst September, October and November? You don’t have to! Act now and you get the entire Autumnal Equinox collection at absolutely no charge! And if that isn’t enough, if you call now, we’ll even extend this offer to include the winter solstice by throwing in one complimentary December!
Are you kidding me?
I never kid about savings.
Better hurry, though, folks, deals like this won’t last forever. Don’t be the only one on your street still sitting on a block of ice and suffering through 115 degree temps while you carve the Thanksgiving turkey! Don’t delay, call today!
Operators with calendars and highlighters are standing by.
*This offer is patently absurd and good for a limited time in a parallel dimension only
