I

It’s Not like I Didn’t Tell You

“We got one of two things going on here. Either they can’t afford it, and there’s nothing we can do about that but wish them all the best because living at the top of the hill isn’t for everybody, and if they don’t have the resources this year, well, maybe they’ll be able to step up in the next few years. We’ll be pulling for them.

“Or it’s a lowball. A lowball isn’t just a low offer, over and out. A proper lowball follows a setup, like they’re doing right now. Yeah, they found another place for only a million nine ninety; it’s a shitbox levitation act, cantilevered out the cliff face and hanging in thin air on four-by-fours. If it doesn’t slide down the hill, it’s still a dump. That’s efficient. Isn’t it? It has what they call ‘bang for the buck’ in your economy-minded market. It’s a three-bed, two-bath Cracker Jack that’ll suit six adults with teenage kids about as well as Victoria’s Secret would do for a hippopotamus. You ever see a hippo take a shit? I have. They had one on TV a few nights ago. Underwater. Jesus … For a weekend beach retreat? Get the fuck outta here. What happens when the prunes and bran kick in? That’ll make for some great beach weekends. They can drive up here to sunshine country and have a lovely fucking time. When the toilet clogs they can just cut a hole in the floor. Why not? Shit rolls downhill, Marylyn! Haven’t you heard? Let ’um buy it for chrissakes. They’ll only boost the market.”

“We shouldn’t have to worry about them much longer. Nick promised they’ll do something in the next two days.”

“Worry? Fuck ’um. You tell Nick to tell his clients that the seller knows they got the cash. Or the borrowing power or whatever. We are well within their budget. They’re shaking me down on a desperation check, to see if they might steal some money the old-fashioned way and really have a great weekend. I saw it coming. I sense this shit in my bones. I know this stuff. It comes out my pores. I feel it on my skin. They’ll come in around two point two.”

“That would be nice.”

“Nice? What would be nice about it? It won’t fly!”

“Once they put an offer on the table, people are usually willing to come up a little bit. I always think it’s nice to get them emotionally involved.”

“Emotionally involved? Give me a fucking break. I know these guys. I grew up with these guys. You want to talk emotional involvement? Line up a couple three strippers, outcall, with some decent liquor, and a bag of buds. Make it a playoff weekend and leave the wives at home. Now you’re into touchy-feely country. Emotional involvement? Fuck. These guys need to come up a whole lot more than a little bit to get me emotionally involved.”

“You sound emotional to me.”

“Yeah, well, I got this pounding sensation in my asshole. Okay? So I get emotional. Call it self-preservation instinct. You want me to get lovey-dovey on a so-called deal? We need fair market value instead of what we got, which is zip. This … Is … A lowball. I could take it in the ass, but I think I won’t, if that’s okay with you. That leaves me to counter, and the deal will die if I do because we’re starting too low. You know what happens. With too much gap between the ask and the offer, the negotiation goes on too long. It breaks down to personalities clashing. It gets personal and it goes past money and value, and people take it personally. They get pissed off. Too much friction. The deal dies. They need to come in closer to two point seven five, or we’re looking at a long slog across a frozen fucking tundra. I know this game. The deal will die.”

“Let’s just see what happens.”

“Yeah, right.”