Not So Model Home

CHAPTER 5


I’ve Got A Funny Feeling About This

“So how was my movie star’s first day?” Alex asked as I walked into our decoy office at the real-estate firm where we routinely gave too much of our commissions to our do-nothing brokerage. We mostly operated out of our home offices but used this one to store our huge files, make telephone calls, and more importantly, color copies.

“There’s less tension at a Palestinian-Israeli summit meeting.”

“The bitchiness has started already?”

“Oh, Alex, you have no idea. This show is going to descend into the depths of white trashiness.”

“The guys look the part? One tooth in the front of their mouths to hook some fruit?”

“Alex, I didn’t say these guys were from Desert Hot Springs. No, all the contestants are gorgeous models. Most are still working and one is in rehab.”

“A model in rehab. I never thought I’d see the day,” Alex said, insincerely shaking his head.

I took a stack of flyers for an overpriced home and dropped them all on the floor. “But behind the Estée Lauder eye rejuvenation creams and plastic Prada pants, their manners and breeding give ’em away. The weird thing is the French guy is the trashiest. Give him just one episode. He’s going to strip the Kardashian family of their class. I always think of the French as being, well, you know, having taste.”

“They adore Mickey Rourke.”

“Okay, so there’s a big, gaping hole in my theory. Gilles is nothing more than trash du traileur with a great body and face to match! And these guys are like what Gertrude Stein once said about Oakland, California.”

“There isn’t any there, there?”

“That’s about the sum of it, Alex. They spend most of their time texting, or playing Angry Birds video games. The glitz is the substance.”

“Amanda, they’re models. What did you expect?”

“You’d think with all the time they’ve spent in London and Paris and Milan, some sophistication would rub off.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is not sophistication, but as you said, substance. Don’t hold your breath. These kind of shows would turn Prince William into Snooki.”

“Oh God, Alex, please don’t mention Jersey Shore. I’m so afraid that Italy is never going to forgive us for letting those troglodytes film the show in Florence. Florence! Can you image it? The birthplace of the Renaissance! The city where all of Europe began to climb out of the Dark Ages, and the cast of Jersey Shore almost put it right back where it started in just a few weeks.”

“Amanda, the guys on your show might not be Rhodes Scholars, but they could never descend that low. You know this is a reality show, Amanda. There’s going to be bitchiness, cattiness, pettiness, and above all, manufactured drama. But do you think it’s going to have good production values?”

“Good production values, Alex? This is one step up from a porn film.”

“It’s not that bad. At least Ian has good taste in his house.”

“It’s full of penises.”

“It’s full of male models, Amanda. What else could it be?”

“No, Alex. There are penises everywhere—sculptures, paintings, illustrations, pool floats.”

“Oh, then Ian’s not getting any.”

I brightened up. “That’s what I thought. Exactly.” I sighed. “Well, Alex, there is a silver lining. Maybe.”

“The paycheck?”

“No, that’s expected.”

“Possible future husbands?”

“No, that ain’t gonna happen. I think I’m the only straight person on the show. Oh, wait a minute. Aurora Cleft . . . I think she’s straight. I think.”

“Aurora Cleft? What is she? British supermodel? Nazi she-wolf?”

“Both, but she’s kinda short for the model thing. She’s Ian’s therapist, counselor, exorcist, whatever. But I like her. I think.”

“She’s the silver lining?”

“I’m going to make her my emotional airbag. A buffer, so to speak. All right, I’m going to hide behind her if I need to.”

Alex gave me one of those stop-underestimating-yourself looks. “How about this: Why don’t you work to stand out rather than hide in the shadows? I mean, that’s what they hired you for.”

“I’m there for the comic relief . . . to make others look good while they dance rings around me.”

“Then don’t let ’em do it. You’re much smarter than those vacuous models and musclehead pretty boys. Remember, the image you create on this show is going to stay with you for a long time.”

“Like Janet Jackson’s pierced and armored nipple at the Super Bowl? Great! I still can’t get that image out of my head.”

“I know, I still wake up screaming at night. That is one ugly boob . . . the veins, ugh! But back to the matter at hand. You’re a smart aleck. You’re funny. Why don’t you put all those zingers you come up with to good use?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Alex.”

“Amanda, you said that these guys are vain, narcissistic, bitchy, and vacuous.”

“Most of them are.”

“So then it will be like shooting fish in a barrel. You’re going to stand out if you play off these bad qualities. I mean, if these guys turn out to be as bad as you think they might be, they’re not going to be likable. Ian is certainly not likable. Aurora seems like a hardass. You play it smart and witty, and you’re going to steal the show since viewers are going to want someone to like. They’ll identify with you because you’ll be giving these guys the kick in the ass the viewers want them to get.”

I got up to go, grabbing my briefcase.

“Where are you going?” Alex asked.

“To look through my shoe closet for a pair with really sharp toes. I’ll call you later.”


“Yes, Mrs. Gorky, I understand you’re frustrated that your house hasn’t sold yet and your neighbor’s has. But as I told you, Lionel’s house is 1,200 square feet larger, it has a drop-dead kitchen and new baths, and yours doesn’t. Yours is kinda original. From 1957 . . . Yes, I know yours has the original Formica, and we described it as vintage in the brochures, but it’s still gold-flecked Formica.... Yes, I understand that buyers are out for blood, but that doesn’t change things.... Yes, I think they’re bloodsuckers. . . . What? No, I wouldn’t call them that . . . that’s illegal. Listen, I understand. . . yes . . . I work in the market, I don’t make it. No, I don’t think it’s a Jewish conspiracy. Well, I imagine that Lehman Brothers had some Jewish people working there, but . . . Yes, but I don’t think that has anything to do with your house not selling. Let’s give it a few more weeks, and let’s talk about a price reduction at the end of the month. No, I think that’s what we need . . . Yes, about $50,000. I’m sorry, Mrs. Gorky, I think that’s what we need. Okay, I’ll call you in a week. Okay, yes, I hear that. F*ckers, huh? Good-bye.”

I hung up the phone like it weighed 300 pounds. I was back in the office with Alex after a short lunch.

“Is she still on the Jew-bastards rant?” Alex inquired.

“That was last week. Now she’s after the Armenians.”

“She’s old Russia, isn’t she? Probably missing the good ol’ days of Stalin.”

“Did you see the varicose veins in her legs that she tries covering up with the dark blue hose? And the naval pinafore dress and spectators! She looks like a casting call for the movie Grey Gardens. Alex, could you tell me why we took on this listing? I knew she was crazy the moment she walked into my open house two months ago.”

“The lipstick?” he replied. “A telltale sign if there ever was one. Normal people can put theirs on and manage to hit most of their lips.”

“I think she’s better suited for living under a bridge instead of in a mid-century house. I don’t know why we took this listing,” I added exasperatedly.

“Money? Penance?”

“Alex, you forget that I’m Catholic. Life is penance.”

“I never forget that you were raised Catholic because you remind me daily.”

“That’s because I suffer mental anguish from it every day of my life.”

“That was almost thirty years ago. It’s time to move on, Amanda.”

“I can’t. It’s not just mental trauma. It’s physical. Look at my hands. I still have ruler marks from when Sister Gerzaniks hit me because I colored Jesus’s face black in second-grade Sunday school.”

“Black?”

“The sister told us Jesus lived in the Middle East, where there are deserts and a lot of sun. So I figured Jesus would really be tan at the very least, and since someone had used all the burnt sienna crayons in the box, I used black.”

“Sister Gerzaniks was a racist.”

“She was. She pointed to a picture of Jesus, then a crucifix on the wall, and asked me if his face looked black to me.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said that was just one artist’s conception of what Jesus could have looked like.”

“You did not. You couldn’t have been more than eight.”

“What could I say, Alex? She was towering over me and had the dreaded ruler in her hand. The one stained red from all the blood. Before I knew it, she brought it down on my hands. I’ll never be a hand model again.”

“Did you tell your mother about this? This is physical abuse.”

“I did.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said I probably deserved it. Real supportive.”

“Did anyone tell Sister Gerzaniks that there is absolutely no description of Jesus in the Bible, so every painting or sculpture is completely manufactured. It all depends on the artist. It’s not like we had a yearbook to look at.”

“No one looks good in their high-school picture, Alex—except you. Imagine, Jesus with acne.”

“The Holy pustule.”

“We’re supposed to be made in God’s image, if you believe the Bible.”

“Amanda, if there was a God, do you think he would run around looking like Paris Hilton?”

“So remind me again, Alex, why we have this listing? It’s overpriced, the seller is psychotic, and no one is buying any homes.”

Alex looked at me as if to say, y-e-s?

There it was, staring me in the face like an oversized sty. The Great Recession that was really a Depression, but nobody wanted to name it that because it was too scary. But you couldn’t ignore it any more than you could a crack whore in your living room. It all started on Wall Street, with stock brokerages creating financial vehicles from borrowed overseas money with no wheels on them, lending money out to anyone who could successfully fog a mirror, to homeowners who bought houses at artificially inflated prices, then took out home equity loans with the false equity they had in their homes and spent it on masochistically ugly home improvements, more speculative housing buys, or boob jobs and cigarette boats capable of running down swimmers at over 100 miles an hour. It was a worldwide clusterf*ck. It all was going along very nicely until the participants ran out of lube. Then things got uglier than an Amish fashion show.

Yes, we Realtors had our fine, manicured hands up to the third joints in this mess. We sold these overinflated houses by the thousands and made money like South American drug dealers. We lived like them too. Almost everyone was driving BMWs or Mercedes. The poorer agents drove Lexuses. All this wealth and fine living didn’t go unnoticed either. Soon, everyone was getting into the business. Waitresses, school teachers, interior designers, followed by the just plain stupid and inept, while the corrupt brought up the rear. They exploded out of nowhere like a squeezed zit, bloating the ranks of agents while the State of California struggled to keep up with those applying. After all, all you had to do was have a car and a Department of Real Estate license. You didn’t have to build a database of leads, follow up on them, do mailing, make phone calls, and build a business plan. And like Santa Claus, we all believed the lie, believing that home values were going to go up forever and ever. The rising tide was going to raise all boats, but ours was going to be a yacht. We were going to be stinking rich. And some of us were . . . for the life span of a fruit fly. Then the whole sorry mess began to collapse like a house of cards. Agents went bankrupt, walked away from their homes, drove those fancy cars off cliffs, or more dramatically, made their entire borrowed estate into a delicious bonfire. And there we stood, with sellers looking at us Realtors to bail their butts out of the sling.

The phone buzzed from the front desk.

“Yes, Gino?”

“Call for you from Jeff Stewart. He’s on the warpath again.”

“Great,” I responded. “Put him through, Gino.”

I looked at Alex for support. “Your turn to get shot,” I commented, handing him the phone.