No Agent -That’s Me Too

When last we delved into my secret agent past, I was enrolled in Floyd Wickman’s (His name just came to me and I know; he sounds like someone from Second City- right?) “Sweathog” programme.  At that time, some 30 years ago, I really was somewhat of a secret agent.  No one really knew me.  At least not as a real estate agent. So when no one really knows me, much like most of my team/classmates and I have already contacted all I knew – what’s next?  Well, we are told to contact our wedding list, but those people don’t live here. Next, contact people I don’t know.

The manner in which we find these, unknowing and unknown, patrons of our vocational services is, what is commonly recognized and dreaded – by both sides of the experience- as COLD CALLS.  Telemarketing, you say. O.k…that could be another term for what comes next. 

Here is what we are told. 

It is another typical day in the lives of our unsuspecting homeowners.  They have been sitting around the dining room table ruminating about the “for sale” signs that some of the homes in their neighbourhood are sporting. “Gee, I wonder what our house is worth”, they might be saying.  Or, “Maybe it’s time for us to look at making a move.” 

Then, coincidentally, as if lightning knows just where to strike; we – the near-psychic, professional real estate sales representatives – call.  What are the chances?  Well, I don’t recall the ratio exactly, but I think it was something like 1 in 100.  We need to call 99 angry, impatient, bothered, hang-up-the-phone people to get that one “qualified” prospect.  Am I telling secrets out of school? Yes. That’s the point. Right?

The second, more reliable resource – FSBO’s (pronounced: Fiz-boe’s. I, affectionately, call them “Fiz-boings” ) The acronym for “For Sale By Owner”.  These are often, we are told, expired listings (former MLS sellers)  gone mad, in all senses of the word. What we know about these people is that they do want to sell their home.  We find them by the handcrafted sign, leaning to the left, on their lawn or by the sparsely worded ad in the newspaper.  Often both of these fine pieces of marketing entrepreneurship include the by-line “No Agents, please!”. (Some won’t pay for the characters it takes to add the “please”).  Sometimes they include an “Open House” notice.

I opt for the FSBO route.  It will only hurt for a minute. I arm myself with all the paraphernalia including listing forms.  Oh…those listing forms, by the way, were carbon-copied.  The Glengarry Glenross ABC (Always be Closing) line that goes with them was- as you hand the prospective client the pen for the third time – “press hard- cheap carbon”.

I tentatively approach a FSBO with the hand scratched “Open House” sign on his lawn and broad smile on his face.  Well, actually, that smile makes a quick-change frown expression when he sees my file folder and briefcase. My “hello” is greeted with a rudimentary English lesson.  “My sign/ad says ‘NO AGENTS’ ” are the accompanying words to transitioned facial expression.  I’ve been prepped for this. The truth will set you free.

I deliver,  “Yes, sir; but I’m the closest to No Agent that my  office has.”  Like a rainbow at the end of a storm, that smile should reappear, at this point.  If it doesn’t, well, it could get ugly. Fortunately, I was able to see a few rainbows.

My first listing is from a FSBO advertised in the newspaper.  They live on the outskirts of Gananoque and have just sold their campgound to the conglomerate competitor.  Now they want to sell their house, immediately adjacent to recently parted land. I meet with them and get it all signed up.  We’re good to go. Newspaper advertising is relatively inexpensive in this town, in those days, so I take advantage of that medium. I advertise on the grocery store specials days; I believe Wednesdays and Saturdays. I get a bite.  I young couple call.  They are renting in Gananoque and are interested in this “charming, older home”.  I pick them up and off we go down the highway to this home on the hill in the country. 

I knock.  “Hello” comes from inside the house and a dog is scantering to the door barking all the way. “Hello, it’s Mark”, I return and I am aware that the inside door was left open with only the screen between me and their greeter, a large barking German Sheppard.  Showing confidence as an agent and establishing that I have a great rapport with the owner,   I offer a knowing smile to the prospective buyers and open the screen door.  The dog – who know its name, but “Cujo” sounds right- sinks its teeth into my offending arm, which is sheathed with the leather my fall jacket is made up of. Mr. and Mrs Buyer have grabbed my waist and are pulling me back to land of the free; while Mr. Seller has finally reached the door and is coaxing the dog to release his doggy snack, my arm.  Though one could do a connect the dots from the indications on my arm; my pride had the bigger bite out of it. 

“Why did you open the door when the dog was there”, inquired Mr. Seller. 

“I thought you sent the dog to greet us”, I responded. 

Solving the mystery of the experience, Mr. Seller concluded, “Well, I didn’t.”

Wounded but restored to by budding professionalism; I saw the experience through to the “sold” sign planted in the front yard.

And “sold” is a good place to fold..and I will do so here and now.