The agent's question, "When do you need to move?" translates into "how hastily will you buy any crap I show you?" The minute we say we have no deadline we're flexible and willing to wait for what we want they fall back like vampires before the cross.
No matter what we tell the agents, they pay no attention anyway. They send us listings in our price range, and that's it. Because our range falls between "urban pioneer" and "handyman special," our basic requirements adequate storage, two toilets, low crime neighborhood are ignored.
The Internet may be a blessing to agents, but in a seller's market, it's a pox for buyers. You know that all the new listings are being simultaneously received on office and home computers across the city at the same time. Hundreds of people know the minute a house goes on the market. Many times I have rushed out at lunchtime to check out a house brand new to the listings, only to find several other cars suspiciously driving slowly down the same block, stopping in front of the same house. By the time I get back to work, the "Active" on top of the house's picture in my listing has already changed to "Pending."
Pre-Internet, the agents had to make individual phone calls, so they probably called the customers most likely to buy the houseones who expressed a specific desire for particular features. You had limited competition. Maybe you were the first one to receive the call, and the agent wouldn't even call a second person until you had decided. What a wonderful time that must have been!
Listings are a curious thing, most notable for what they don't tell you. I've learned to stalk neighborhoods, peek through windows, sneak into backyards while no one is home. In this way, I've solved the mystery of the great house at a great price in a great neighborhood but still on the market. It is: a pit bull next door.
These houses are always vacant. The owner didn't wait to sell before fleeing. The better the house and the more reasonable the price, the louder and more snarling the dog next door. At one house, there was no resident dog, but a pool all the neighborhood dogs were using as a day spa while the owner was at work. When I pulled up, the dogs got out of the pool, gave me sheepish looks and trotted off down the street. At least they seemed friendly.
I hate seeing basketball goal posts in the streets, but some subdivisions have more of them than trees. Cul-de-sacs often sport two. You have to wonder about neighbors who decide the street is part of their property. I envision evenings and weekends full of the relentless thudding noise of basketballs and kids yelling and cursing at each other. My first house was a condo where a dozen little kids and their Big Wheels lived. The rumble of plastic wheels on driveways still haunts me.
So I cringe at the sight of playsets, doghouses and yards strewn with toys. If there are too many men of working age sitting on stoops in the middle of the day, that's another bad sign.
My husband cringes at Confederate flags or No. 3 banners waving from porch rails and junked cars in yards, although for our price range, this is the norm. "This is our socioeconomic peer group," I tell him. But NASCAR flags and cars on blocks mean dogs running loose to him, eating his cats like cheese biscuits. Real estate agents don't understand when we tell them what we're looking for is a nice cat house.
Are we being unreasonable? After all, this is where we will live, and at twice the cost we're currently paying in rent. Equity is the Holy Grail, we're told. You're nothing without equity. But how much do we have to sacrifice, how much discomfort do we have endure, how many more weekends do I have to spend running from dogs just to have equity? S
Mariane Matera is a writer who lives in Richmond.
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