This broker rides my ass for two weeks. Leaves long messages, keeps me on the phone chatting. I try to be polite, but soon enough I am dodging her calls. I tell her not to call me; that I’ll call her. Which is fair enough . . .I don’t yet have access to the space she claims her client is so eager to see. So there’s no reason for us to talk until I do have access.
It’s not like I enjoy talking to her, plus there is absolutely nothing to say until I have keys and can make an appointment for her and her client. She sounds like the stereotypical New York City Broker: thick local accent, a bit abrupt, very pushy and probably well over 40. I’ll be she smokes, too. I could be wrong, but she just sounds that way.
She gets snippy with me when I don’t call her to tell her there’s no news. Apparently she feels that leaving me multiple messages will change things, which it won’t. Finally I get access to the space. She’s very insistent on a morning appointment—the earlier the better because this "wonderful" client can only see things in the morning. Thinking to myself that I don’t get out of bed for early appointments, especially not for pushy a-holes like this broad, I offer her 10:30 one morning and she says fine. I’m glad this place is only about a seven-minute walk from my apartment.
So I get there. Soon enough I’m wishing the super would hurry and show up. It’s a cold morning. This place is in between a church and a liquor store in Harlem. Apparently the church has some outreach program, and all of its recipients are milling around outside waiting for the doors to open. Some of them cruise by me and get a bit too close as they’re asking for my spare change. Some of them start arguing loudly with each other. Uncomfortable, much?
Five minutes pass, then ten. Nobody but me and the locals in front of this storefront. This woman who was so “generous” with her phone calls to me before doesn’t bother to call me and say she and her amazing client are running late. I call this broker. She doesn’t pick up.
The super shows up. We look at the place, and still this winner of a broker hasn’t shown up or even bothered with a “Sorry, we’re running late” type of courtesy call. I call again. No answer. Fine. It’s been well over 20 minutes, so I bid the super farewell and head off to start the rest of my day. I leave her a message telling her I’m leaving and that it’s really too bad—it’s a nice, roomy space and she won’t get to see it. I wish her good luck.
A couple of minutes later, she calls. They’re on Broadway, which is quite a few avenues from where I am. She asks again where it is. I’ve already told her the exact location, down to “it’s between a church and a liquor store on the west side of the avenue—you can’t miss it” a dozen times. She says they’ll be right over. No apologies, mind you. So I start walking back to the spot, and who should call just as I get there? Yes, it’s her. The client doesn’t like the neighborhood, so we can just call the whole thing off, she tells me.
The first time or two something like this happens to you in real estate, you’re surprised, or at least I was. I was raised to value common courtesy and other people’s time, but apparently not everyone was. OR, common courtesy and time are only valuable if it’s THEIRS being called into question and/or violated in some way. I decide to call this bitch out on her behavior.
When she tells me they won’t make it, I start laughing at her. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You made such a big deal of this, called me all the time, getting upset when I didn’t call you back immediately, and now you couldn’t even be bothered with a call to let me know you were running late. I’m sorry, but I just find that funny.”
She doesn’t have much to say besides a lame, “Sorry.” The fact that I practically had to force it out of her speaks volumes.
“I’ll call you later?” she offers,
“No, thanks,” I say. “In fact, please don’t.”
Thankfully, she never did.
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