Portage Park
Showing posts with label rahm. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rahm. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Realtor Exhausted After Open House
Portage Park
Thursday, August 7, 2014
Home Prices Plummet due to Plant Vandals
Andersonville residents will tolerate a lot. But not when it comes to plant abuse. Someone or something has been targeting plants located on the parkway, sometimes known legally as Property of the City of Chicago, Mayor Rahm Emanuel. Homeowners are being urged to electrocute their parkways (aka 'the swale'), but some home buyers feel that things may never turn around, instead opting for the suburbs, where the lack of parkways and sidewalks ensure a dog will never need a walk and a resident can happily drive to their neighbor's place.
Andersonville
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Multiiple Offers Intoxicate Seller
Surprised that five different buyers wanted to pay more than she paid at the height of the Chicago real estate boom, an overjoyed seller spent the evening, and most of the next three days, sequestered in her non-functioning jacuzzi tub wondering where exactly she would move to.
River North
Friday, November 30, 2012
Nostalgia Growing for Bush in Chicago
Little Italy
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Chicago Home Offers View of Amazon
A Chicago landlord has taken measures to ensure that his tenants will no longer have to stare at the brick wall that surrounds his Albany Park multi-family. As of press time, the current tenants are enjoying the views of an Amazonian waterfall, and eagerly await the building owner's promise to offer celestial vistas and eventually deliver Rahm Emanuel's stately Ravenswood home.
ALBANY PARK
Monday, May 7, 2012
Chicago Sells Off Sidewalks to Hasbro
Some residents have already begun complaining that walking on certain portions of the leased sidewalk could mean an immediate trip to jail. And a few keen eyes have noted that the promised 'free parking' is nothing more than a gimmick since the one available spot is always occupied by a mysterious black van. One member of the city's highly influential government subsidized population was excited about the prospect of gaining 200 dollars for "nothing more than walking around the block." AVONDALE
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Fireplace Wars set to Replace Cupcake Wars
HGTV has recently announced that it will have a new reality show centered around fireplace competitions marketing itself with the tagline, "We'll burn your cupcakes...with our electric fireplaces."
HUMBOLDT PARK
Monday, March 19, 2012
Army of Little People Vanishes
A small but powerful band of marauding little people, last seen entering a dwarfish door in this abandoned Wicker Park 3 flat has not been seen in over a week despite the odd glow neighbors have reported seeing through the crumbling attic windows. Anyone with information is requested to call the Little People Motorbike Association immediately.
WICKER PARK
Friday, February 3, 2012
New Porch Embarrassed by Views
After a $9,000 facelift to comply with Chicago's "if it can't hold a mack truck, it's out" new porch ordinance, this near west side porch has requested that visitors refrain from looking to their right, or they will be asked to leave. When asked for comment, the rehabbed porch grunted, "location, location location my @ss. why they no say, 'neighbor, neighbor, neighbor'. No matter what job you have. All job stinky. Matter who work with you."
UKRAINIAN VILLAGE
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Renegade Jewish Stenciler Strikes Again
West Town
Friday, November 4, 2011
Foreclosed Owner Aligns Himself with Greece
LOGAN SQUARE
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
This ain't Daley's Bridgeport
“Are you sure you want to check out these buildings down in Bridgeport?” I nervously asked my client.
“Yeah, of course, why not?”
“Well, that neighborhood is, you know, a bit different than what you're used to. I just hope that's all right.”
“Yeah, I know, don't worry alright, I'll be fine. I can handle it.”
Twenty minutes later we arrived, our bikes secured to the nearest wrought iron fence, a sunny Spring day finally upon us.
“Shit, what's with all the White people?” he said with both surprise and indignation.
“I tried telling you, but you said you were up for it.”
The Buyer lived in North Lawndale, a predominantly black neighborhood enlightened with blocks of historic greystones and the beautiful expanse that is Douglas Park, and he worked with mostly young Latinos. That was what he knew of Chicago. The fact that he himself was White, raised in White exurbia, made no difference. He wasn't a self hater who spent his time caring for his cornrows and rapping nostalgic about the death of Biggie. But he was acclimated to a culture, or cultures, that offered a lot of energetic life that happened outside the living room. He became fond of the strong importance that both Blacks and Latinos put on family and festivals. He assumed most White neighborhoods were full of people who wanted to tell you how to live your life and then retreat behind their towering fences of sustainably harvested raw grain cedar.
I told him he needed to open his mind because in ten years of traveling Chicago by bicycle, I have only been screamed at and nearly attacked in two neighborhoods, Lakeview and Bridgeport, both predominantly Gringo havens. Oh...and last year one guy tried to attack my girlfriend and I on my motorcycle, on the NorthSide, near Irving Park and Sheridan. He was White too. So I told him, “Hey, don't be so hard on our kin, they can be wild and festive too.”
Our first home to inspect sat on one of Bridgeport's crazy diagonal streets, the maze that runs south of 31st Street to the highway. Chicago is a great city for the urban explorer since many small residential streets spread across several communities, like Racine, or Paulina, or Oakley. But others only exist for a single block, never to be found anywhere else. That's our pocket here, a labyrinth of one namers, an alderman's wet patronage dream.
The brick workman's cottage was a testament to Chicago's turn of the century builders. It really was built to house workers at any one of the city's numerous factories. But instead of some tornado bait tract house in Bourbonnais, laborers could walk home from the 'office' to a home with intricately carved ornamentation hollering below the roof line, and enjoy oak moldings throughout the house, and of course, because it's Chicago...hardwood floors.
We were loudly greeted by the sweaty hairy open arms of Foreclosure: several sheets of brightly colored paper hung at obtuse angles along the front door and living room windows. A rotting lockbox dared us from the precipice of a shiny gold kwikset lock, barely retaining it's position in the rotting plywood replacement door.
Inside, thieves resuscitated the home's dignity by absconding with the previous owner's poor taste in bathroom fixtures and kitchen décor. Unfortunately, nobody was willing to steal the stained dentist office grey carpeting that sheathed the hardwood from the blasphemous re-decorating skills of an Owner who 'just needed a change.'
But the expensive things, the things that aren't eye candy, that most Buyers overlook, the wiring and the plumbing, and the HVAC system, well, they were all relatively new. And then begins the inevitable question a Buyer, or visitor asks inside a foreclosed home, “What happened? Why did they leave?”
Like the Mayans or Hair Metal Groupies, we have a fairly accurate report of what might have happened to the former habitants, without actually able to know the whole truth. This home, like many that I come across in foreclosure, if not ALL, seems to be the result not of lost jobs, or Bank malfeasance, or subprime tomfoolery, but what the Right Wing would call a lack of Responsibility. The sales histories of many foreclosures will show a similar pattern. The person either bought their home during the boom years of 2003-2006, or they refinanced during those years. Then shortly after they bought or refinanced the home, they attempted to sell the home for much more than they owed, and rarely dropped the price until it was too late. A two year spiral generally ensued before their greedy sales price turned into a short sale turned into a foreclosure. Sure, we all hear the horror stories of bank errors and the old lady forced out due to one late payment, but the reality is, on the ground here in Chicago, that the majority of the foreclosures are most likely (because just like those fans of Twisted Sister we don't have fully substantiated evidence) the result of irresponsible owners who thought they could cash out while the market was hot, and had loans that were more than their paychecks. Incidentally, many of the income properties I deal with remained habitated by landlords who would collect rent for years before foreclosure while never making a single payment. But, c'mon, who cares, right, that was so yesterday. Let's talk about Murdoch wicked tango moves on Dancing with The Stars.
The home had promise. Good bones and a pretty backside as they taught us in Realtor College (enroll now and receive a free subscription to every infomercial ever made conveniently rolled into a monthly magazine). The Buyer and I took a walk around the block. School had just let out. Grammar school kids laughed and played from one end of the block to the other. Shaved Ice and elotes were being hawked on the corner.
“Hey, it's not so White. Look at that kid. And that one. I think he may actually be Asian. Wow, Asians!” my client clucked with new found enthusiasm for Bridgeport.
“Yeah, well, I should have mentioned that Bridgeport has actually become the nexus of the near South Side where the Chinese, Mexican, and Irish/White populations merge into one giant chop suey taco on sodabread.”
Two large brick buildings on either side of the property had their doors opened as kids funneled inside. What was this?
We followed the children, but not too close, because, this is still America after all, and two grown men seen within inches of a child is reason for a SWAT team beatdown. A cheery young woman told us what was going on: Afterschool programs where the kids can play sports, do crafts, learn computer programming, and even learn how to be sound engineers. Plus they gave food at a no or little cost to the seniors in the area. She recommended we speak to the Director. He was just outside the door.
Another cheery member of this bustling program interrupted his conversation to chat with us. This was Benton House. And yes, he was the director.
“Can you tell us a little about this place?” I asked like a front row nerd on a field trip to City Hall.
So we learned about the 100 year history of the organization, and the various community programs they provided for children, teens, the homeless, and the elderly. But then we found out that maybe foreclosures aren't what we think they are, or for that matter, nothing is what it should be. There was a staff of several people helping run programs for hundreds of people, and of course, a Director, this gentleman, who oversaw everything. Nobody was paid. Not even the Director! Not one person earned a paycheck from Benton House. Some of them got free room in the main building. But these people, these volunteers, had one intention, and that was to help others that could use some assistance. An entire organization, a successful organization, a group serving people throughout the Bridgeport community, regardless of race, was being staffed entirely by volunteers.
For all the negative news we hear, for all the people who only see life through the prism of a Dollar, for all the foreclosures and struggling economy, for all the racial categories we insist on categorizing, there are people who's only motivation is to help another human tolerate, enjoy, and even excel in life.
Bridgeport is getting labeled a “Community of the Future” by many residents of the area, even finding it's way into marketing campaigns for a local organic food supplier. Maybe they are on to something.
“Yeah, of course, why not?”
“Well, that neighborhood is, you know, a bit different than what you're used to. I just hope that's all right.”
“Yeah, I know, don't worry alright, I'll be fine. I can handle it.”
Twenty minutes later we arrived, our bikes secured to the nearest wrought iron fence, a sunny Spring day finally upon us.
“Shit, what's with all the White people?” he said with both surprise and indignation.
“I tried telling you, but you said you were up for it.”
The Buyer lived in North Lawndale, a predominantly black neighborhood enlightened with blocks of historic greystones and the beautiful expanse that is Douglas Park, and he worked with mostly young Latinos. That was what he knew of Chicago. The fact that he himself was White, raised in White exurbia, made no difference. He wasn't a self hater who spent his time caring for his cornrows and rapping nostalgic about the death of Biggie. But he was acclimated to a culture, or cultures, that offered a lot of energetic life that happened outside the living room. He became fond of the strong importance that both Blacks and Latinos put on family and festivals. He assumed most White neighborhoods were full of people who wanted to tell you how to live your life and then retreat behind their towering fences of sustainably harvested raw grain cedar.
I told him he needed to open his mind because in ten years of traveling Chicago by bicycle, I have only been screamed at and nearly attacked in two neighborhoods, Lakeview and Bridgeport, both predominantly Gringo havens. Oh...and last year one guy tried to attack my girlfriend and I on my motorcycle, on the NorthSide, near Irving Park and Sheridan. He was White too. So I told him, “Hey, don't be so hard on our kin, they can be wild and festive too.”
Our first home to inspect sat on one of Bridgeport's crazy diagonal streets, the maze that runs south of 31st Street to the highway. Chicago is a great city for the urban explorer since many small residential streets spread across several communities, like Racine, or Paulina, or Oakley. But others only exist for a single block, never to be found anywhere else. That's our pocket here, a labyrinth of one namers, an alderman's wet patronage dream.
The brick workman's cottage was a testament to Chicago's turn of the century builders. It really was built to house workers at any one of the city's numerous factories. But instead of some tornado bait tract house in Bourbonnais, laborers could walk home from the 'office' to a home with intricately carved ornamentation hollering below the roof line, and enjoy oak moldings throughout the house, and of course, because it's Chicago...hardwood floors.
We were loudly greeted by the sweaty hairy open arms of Foreclosure: several sheets of brightly colored paper hung at obtuse angles along the front door and living room windows. A rotting lockbox dared us from the precipice of a shiny gold kwikset lock, barely retaining it's position in the rotting plywood replacement door.
Inside, thieves resuscitated the home's dignity by absconding with the previous owner's poor taste in bathroom fixtures and kitchen décor. Unfortunately, nobody was willing to steal the stained dentist office grey carpeting that sheathed the hardwood from the blasphemous re-decorating skills of an Owner who 'just needed a change.'
But the expensive things, the things that aren't eye candy, that most Buyers overlook, the wiring and the plumbing, and the HVAC system, well, they were all relatively new. And then begins the inevitable question a Buyer, or visitor asks inside a foreclosed home, “What happened? Why did they leave?”
Like the Mayans or Hair Metal Groupies, we have a fairly accurate report of what might have happened to the former habitants, without actually able to know the whole truth. This home, like many that I come across in foreclosure, if not ALL, seems to be the result not of lost jobs, or Bank malfeasance, or subprime tomfoolery, but what the Right Wing would call a lack of Responsibility. The sales histories of many foreclosures will show a similar pattern. The person either bought their home during the boom years of 2003-2006, or they refinanced during those years. Then shortly after they bought or refinanced the home, they attempted to sell the home for much more than they owed, and rarely dropped the price until it was too late. A two year spiral generally ensued before their greedy sales price turned into a short sale turned into a foreclosure. Sure, we all hear the horror stories of bank errors and the old lady forced out due to one late payment, but the reality is, on the ground here in Chicago, that the majority of the foreclosures are most likely (because just like those fans of Twisted Sister we don't have fully substantiated evidence) the result of irresponsible owners who thought they could cash out while the market was hot, and had loans that were more than their paychecks. Incidentally, many of the income properties I deal with remained habitated by landlords who would collect rent for years before foreclosure while never making a single payment. But, c'mon, who cares, right, that was so yesterday. Let's talk about Murdoch wicked tango moves on Dancing with The Stars.
The home had promise. Good bones and a pretty backside as they taught us in Realtor College (enroll now and receive a free subscription to every infomercial ever made conveniently rolled into a monthly magazine). The Buyer and I took a walk around the block. School had just let out. Grammar school kids laughed and played from one end of the block to the other. Shaved Ice and elotes were being hawked on the corner.
“Hey, it's not so White. Look at that kid. And that one. I think he may actually be Asian. Wow, Asians!” my client clucked with new found enthusiasm for Bridgeport.
“Yeah, well, I should have mentioned that Bridgeport has actually become the nexus of the near South Side where the Chinese, Mexican, and Irish/White populations merge into one giant chop suey taco on sodabread.”
Two large brick buildings on either side of the property had their doors opened as kids funneled inside. What was this?
We followed the children, but not too close, because, this is still America after all, and two grown men seen within inches of a child is reason for a SWAT team beatdown. A cheery young woman told us what was going on: Afterschool programs where the kids can play sports, do crafts, learn computer programming, and even learn how to be sound engineers. Plus they gave food at a no or little cost to the seniors in the area. She recommended we speak to the Director. He was just outside the door.
Another cheery member of this bustling program interrupted his conversation to chat with us. This was Benton House. And yes, he was the director.
“Can you tell us a little about this place?” I asked like a front row nerd on a field trip to City Hall.
So we learned about the 100 year history of the organization, and the various community programs they provided for children, teens, the homeless, and the elderly. But then we found out that maybe foreclosures aren't what we think they are, or for that matter, nothing is what it should be. There was a staff of several people helping run programs for hundreds of people, and of course, a Director, this gentleman, who oversaw everything. Nobody was paid. Not even the Director! Not one person earned a paycheck from Benton House. Some of them got free room in the main building. But these people, these volunteers, had one intention, and that was to help others that could use some assistance. An entire organization, a successful organization, a group serving people throughout the Bridgeport community, regardless of race, was being staffed entirely by volunteers.
For all the negative news we hear, for all the people who only see life through the prism of a Dollar, for all the foreclosures and struggling economy, for all the racial categories we insist on categorizing, there are people who's only motivation is to help another human tolerate, enjoy, and even excel in life.
Bridgeport is getting labeled a “Community of the Future” by many residents of the area, even finding it's way into marketing campaigns for a local organic food supplier. Maybe they are on to something.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Every Home Has a Secret
Imagine buying a Mac direct from the designers who created it, or a car from the engineers who built it, or even a pear from the farmer who grew it. It would be nice. But generally, the more expensive the product, the more distance between the Buyer and the Source. We accept this. But a few people will still fly out to Stockholm to buy their Volvo, or buy produce on a McHenry farm. More are likely to choose to eat at a restaurant where the Chef is the owner, and he leaves the kitchen to talk to his diners. Those same people probably prefer to buy their hardware from the local Screw Guy because they know he will take the extra five minutes to show his client how to properly install the shower door with irregular fitting requirements.
On the contrary, a trip to Home Depot leaves you searching in desperation for someone to help, when twenty minutes of frustration yields a baggy jean kid who needs you to 'just hold on a minute' while he finishes his round of text messaging. A simple call to straighten out a Citibank credit card statement leads to a live robot in Bombay which eventually makes you question exactly what language the British were teaching in the Subcontinent.
A real estate agent selling a house, a good agent, will make sure the sale happens. Paperwork will proceed through the right channels, and in the end, the Seller and Buyer will both get what they want. But the actual home, it's life and times, can only be known by the residents. Their stories of child rearing and remodeling adventures make the home breathe. Their room to room tours involve more than the standard, “And this is the second bedroom, and this is the hallway, and this is the bathroom...” These tours tell a story of life lived under a roof that you may call yours one day, and eventually these escorted journeys reveal the dwelling's true condition. The Seller stutters too long when you ask about a history of flooding in the basement, or an excited referral for the electrician who updated the wiring, or an apologetic denial when asked about the roof being replaced during their tenure – these are the insights a Buyer needs to make a wise purchasing decision.
We arrived on time. The seller's agent called multiple times to assure that I would not be tardy. This was the world of Chicago real estate over $500,000, where realtors actually show up for appointments. On this particular Sunday, the guilt ridden vacationing realtor would not be able to attend. Unfortunately, he said, the Seller would have to show my client and me the property. Shucks! I felt like a fourteen year old kid whose parents just told him they had to leave town for the weekend and sadly, there would be no babysitter.
It was an unflattering block of Edgewater, where the homes tell you that you are slowly creeping toward Rogers Park, but the availability of parking spaces reminds you that you've yet to cross Devon.
Chicago's Big Two, The Lake and The El, were nearby, but the block by block nature of The Windy City's evolution meant that two blocks away sat renovated American Four Squares on deep lots while our present sidewalk hosted a bland row of frame single family cottages and unadorned bricks that were the Arts & Crafts era's last gasp. But if you can live on a block without known criminal activity, and be located a few blocks away from Garden Walk Winners and dreamy front porches, then, for a $75,000 savings, it's worth the look.
The owner didn't answer the door. How long do you wait until the next ring? I wait two minutes the first time. Followed by a quick double ring. One more minute. Then one more ring. Then begins the peeping tom walk around the house. Just as Tom began to peep, she answered the door. I turned back to find a surprised woman reluctant to open. But didn't he tell you we were coming? He told her it was earlier in the day. Well, we were just at the $500,000 mark so I shouldn't expect too much from a Seller's realtor.
Seductive arched entryways, a vast sea of unvarnished hardwood, and.... closed window shades. HEY! If you want to sell your home, open the God Damn windows! We all live five feet from our neighbor's but without light, life dies, so let the sun do it's magic lady. We soon realized why. Adjacent to the possession strewn living room, sat an expansive sunroom, completely blacked-out on a sun drenched Spring day. An unrecognizable silhouette taunted us through the scattered rays of light that penetrated the musty darkness. The shadows danced slowly but they did dance. What was that?
Naturally, we wanted to look, but the owner detoured us through the hectic dining room to the dated kitchen, and outside to the frowning yard, and as we made our way back to the front of this sprawling home, the children's upbringing already told, we were once again denied entry into the blacked out front parlor by gentle gestures that lead us to the rear stairs like naughty guests at Uncle Rick's Christmas Party. The owner let us inspect the unkempt bedrooms alone, preferring not to delve into the teenage angst that probably erupted within.
I immediately turned to my dejected client. “Hey, did you see what that was in the front room?”
“That was weird, huh? Maybe it was a science project or something”
“No. No way. It was moving. I know. It sounds crazy, but it was like, almost human.”
“I don't think so. I didn't hear anything.”
“Alright, just follow me and we'll try to get a look.”
So we proceeded back down the ample oak treads where The Mystery beckoned us with it's disjointed light refractions. As we turned to enter The Forbidden, I saw the silhouette move. Awkward flailing movements. Were those limbs? Two steps closer and the owner appeared, wanting to show us the basement. Classic 70's rec room and somebody's profane love of Bruce Lee couldn't derail my growing desire to learn The Mystery.
At the top of the basement stairs, I made another attempt to ascertain the truth. I stepped into the sunroom, my eager pupils attempting to adjust to the blackness, but within seconds, the diligent owner wanted to show us something else in the kitchen. I did the backstep escape while she talked to my client. Returning to the NightRoom, I creeped up on it like a cat hunting alley prey. The shape appeared distinctly human, although oblivious to my gawky movements, while the aged flooring didn't help my pathetic attempts to be stealth. Just as I was about to yank that shower curtain open, I heard, “Seth, come here please, the owner wants to show you something.” Argggh.
At least The Mystery helped bring out more truths. The faucet wouldn't stop dripping. The plumbing was backing up recently. Those two windows didn't seal right and got drafty in the winter. Give them enough time, and most owners get attacked by guilt. It's re-assuring actually. The 6 o'clock news has maligned the human character. We're not that bad. But really, for her asking price, this home was already out of the question. Just let us see the creature.
The three of us made our way to the front, the owner probably oblivious that her poor choice in design would prevent a sale from ever taking place at this price. My client paused to examine the slowly moving shadow. I made one last attempt to intercept it. The owner slyly passed between us, a hand forbidding an over-eager guy from getting too far on the first date. My attempts were in vain. I'd have to remove her by force. I considered it. The late afternoon light revealed an outline that became more human. Was she hiding something? What if that thing needed our help? A kidnap victim? Maybe it was a child from the milk cartons, or a cloning experiment. A centaur? I wanted to know. But my client had already lost interest. It was the owner and me. An old fashioned real estate showdown. I should have been happy. We learned what we needed to know. But I was a pouty kid who had to settle for the single scoop ice cream cone instead of the triple fudge sundae.
My client was leaning against our bikes, slumped against an oak's wide stump. She stared back at the home, that 'maybe if I look longer it will change' look. But it's the same look men on the highway give to engines under open hoods. It's full of hope, but in the end, you'll need outside help if you want to make it work.
She looked down from the home's vacant dormer, and meekly asked, “so, what did you think?”
“I'm not sure. It could have been human. But something tells me it was an exotic animal. Something she shouldn't be having in Chicago. Or anywhere.”
“What? Oh, who cares. I mean, I'm sorry, but I can't live on a block like this. Look at these homes. These aren't people I'd be friends with. I don't want to live on the nicest home on the block, you know what I mean? I just don't know about this place. Something creepy. And strange.”
I couldn't respond. Cause she would never believe me. It wasn't the block. Not really. It was the owner. And her refusal to clean the house, and open the shades, and fix the simple things, and to harbor a BoogieMan. Really, it was definitely the BoogieMan. Maybe there's good reason you don't pick your dinner up directly from the restaurant kitchen. Have you ever seen who cooks that rib-eye?
On the contrary, a trip to Home Depot leaves you searching in desperation for someone to help, when twenty minutes of frustration yields a baggy jean kid who needs you to 'just hold on a minute' while he finishes his round of text messaging. A simple call to straighten out a Citibank credit card statement leads to a live robot in Bombay which eventually makes you question exactly what language the British were teaching in the Subcontinent.
A real estate agent selling a house, a good agent, will make sure the sale happens. Paperwork will proceed through the right channels, and in the end, the Seller and Buyer will both get what they want. But the actual home, it's life and times, can only be known by the residents. Their stories of child rearing and remodeling adventures make the home breathe. Their room to room tours involve more than the standard, “And this is the second bedroom, and this is the hallway, and this is the bathroom...” These tours tell a story of life lived under a roof that you may call yours one day, and eventually these escorted journeys reveal the dwelling's true condition. The Seller stutters too long when you ask about a history of flooding in the basement, or an excited referral for the electrician who updated the wiring, or an apologetic denial when asked about the roof being replaced during their tenure – these are the insights a Buyer needs to make a wise purchasing decision.
We arrived on time. The seller's agent called multiple times to assure that I would not be tardy. This was the world of Chicago real estate over $500,000, where realtors actually show up for appointments. On this particular Sunday, the guilt ridden vacationing realtor would not be able to attend. Unfortunately, he said, the Seller would have to show my client and me the property. Shucks! I felt like a fourteen year old kid whose parents just told him they had to leave town for the weekend and sadly, there would be no babysitter.
It was an unflattering block of Edgewater, where the homes tell you that you are slowly creeping toward Rogers Park, but the availability of parking spaces reminds you that you've yet to cross Devon.
Chicago's Big Two, The Lake and The El, were nearby, but the block by block nature of The Windy City's evolution meant that two blocks away sat renovated American Four Squares on deep lots while our present sidewalk hosted a bland row of frame single family cottages and unadorned bricks that were the Arts & Crafts era's last gasp. But if you can live on a block without known criminal activity, and be located a few blocks away from Garden Walk Winners and dreamy front porches, then, for a $75,000 savings, it's worth the look.
The owner didn't answer the door. How long do you wait until the next ring? I wait two minutes the first time. Followed by a quick double ring. One more minute. Then one more ring. Then begins the peeping tom walk around the house. Just as Tom began to peep, she answered the door. I turned back to find a surprised woman reluctant to open. But didn't he tell you we were coming? He told her it was earlier in the day. Well, we were just at the $500,000 mark so I shouldn't expect too much from a Seller's realtor.
Seductive arched entryways, a vast sea of unvarnished hardwood, and.... closed window shades. HEY! If you want to sell your home, open the God Damn windows! We all live five feet from our neighbor's but without light, life dies, so let the sun do it's magic lady. We soon realized why. Adjacent to the possession strewn living room, sat an expansive sunroom, completely blacked-out on a sun drenched Spring day. An unrecognizable silhouette taunted us through the scattered rays of light that penetrated the musty darkness. The shadows danced slowly but they did dance. What was that?
Naturally, we wanted to look, but the owner detoured us through the hectic dining room to the dated kitchen, and outside to the frowning yard, and as we made our way back to the front of this sprawling home, the children's upbringing already told, we were once again denied entry into the blacked out front parlor by gentle gestures that lead us to the rear stairs like naughty guests at Uncle Rick's Christmas Party. The owner let us inspect the unkempt bedrooms alone, preferring not to delve into the teenage angst that probably erupted within.
I immediately turned to my dejected client. “Hey, did you see what that was in the front room?”
“That was weird, huh? Maybe it was a science project or something”
“No. No way. It was moving. I know. It sounds crazy, but it was like, almost human.”
“I don't think so. I didn't hear anything.”
“Alright, just follow me and we'll try to get a look.”
So we proceeded back down the ample oak treads where The Mystery beckoned us with it's disjointed light refractions. As we turned to enter The Forbidden, I saw the silhouette move. Awkward flailing movements. Were those limbs? Two steps closer and the owner appeared, wanting to show us the basement. Classic 70's rec room and somebody's profane love of Bruce Lee couldn't derail my growing desire to learn The Mystery.
At the top of the basement stairs, I made another attempt to ascertain the truth. I stepped into the sunroom, my eager pupils attempting to adjust to the blackness, but within seconds, the diligent owner wanted to show us something else in the kitchen. I did the backstep escape while she talked to my client. Returning to the NightRoom, I creeped up on it like a cat hunting alley prey. The shape appeared distinctly human, although oblivious to my gawky movements, while the aged flooring didn't help my pathetic attempts to be stealth. Just as I was about to yank that shower curtain open, I heard, “Seth, come here please, the owner wants to show you something.” Argggh.
At least The Mystery helped bring out more truths. The faucet wouldn't stop dripping. The plumbing was backing up recently. Those two windows didn't seal right and got drafty in the winter. Give them enough time, and most owners get attacked by guilt. It's re-assuring actually. The 6 o'clock news has maligned the human character. We're not that bad. But really, for her asking price, this home was already out of the question. Just let us see the creature.
The three of us made our way to the front, the owner probably oblivious that her poor choice in design would prevent a sale from ever taking place at this price. My client paused to examine the slowly moving shadow. I made one last attempt to intercept it. The owner slyly passed between us, a hand forbidding an over-eager guy from getting too far on the first date. My attempts were in vain. I'd have to remove her by force. I considered it. The late afternoon light revealed an outline that became more human. Was she hiding something? What if that thing needed our help? A kidnap victim? Maybe it was a child from the milk cartons, or a cloning experiment. A centaur? I wanted to know. But my client had already lost interest. It was the owner and me. An old fashioned real estate showdown. I should have been happy. We learned what we needed to know. But I was a pouty kid who had to settle for the single scoop ice cream cone instead of the triple fudge sundae.
My client was leaning against our bikes, slumped against an oak's wide stump. She stared back at the home, that 'maybe if I look longer it will change' look. But it's the same look men on the highway give to engines under open hoods. It's full of hope, but in the end, you'll need outside help if you want to make it work.
She looked down from the home's vacant dormer, and meekly asked, “so, what did you think?”
“I'm not sure. It could have been human. But something tells me it was an exotic animal. Something she shouldn't be having in Chicago. Or anywhere.”
“What? Oh, who cares. I mean, I'm sorry, but I can't live on a block like this. Look at these homes. These aren't people I'd be friends with. I don't want to live on the nicest home on the block, you know what I mean? I just don't know about this place. Something creepy. And strange.”
I couldn't respond. Cause she would never believe me. It wasn't the block. Not really. It was the owner. And her refusal to clean the house, and open the shades, and fix the simple things, and to harbor a BoogieMan. Really, it was definitely the BoogieMan. Maybe there's good reason you don't pick your dinner up directly from the restaurant kitchen. Have you ever seen who cooks that rib-eye?
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