First In, Last Out

by Geno Petro

Chicago Broker Owner Realtor | RE 2.0 Blogger

Author website

LIFO: an acronym which stands for last in, first out. In computer science and queueing theory; a historical method of recording the value of inventory (Wikipedia)

FILO: an acronym which stands for first in, last out. I may or may not have invented the term but It pretty much describes many aspects of my life up to this point in time. It’s also the name of a dough, an ale house in the U.K., and a clean alternative to the F word when I’m around my sister’s children. (Geno Petro)

Rewind

Let me begin by saying that not every event in my life is a funny episode. There have been a few that brought me to my knees in quick fashion and many more woes that still rent space in my head when I allow them to. It’s just that I inherited a skewed sense of humor from my mother along with a ‘this too shall pass’ point of view. Such an axiom hangs framed in her kitchen to this day. And being the first born in a short but staggered line of siblings, the joke, in those early days, was apparently on me according to the family picture album. Oh, and my name back then was Genie. Little Genie.

…which somehow became Eugene by Grade One. Nobody bothered to tell me this (or if they did, it didn’t register) and I vividly recall the nun on that first day, Sister Mary Timothy (so very confusing, were those hermaphro-monikered creatures in long, black habits), repeating the roll call words, Eugene… Petro, Eugene…Petro, up and down the aisles like a resounding echo (yes, that would be an echo within an echo) off the leaded paint block walls and buff waxed linoleum floors of St. Michael the Archangel Classroom 1A, until she was suddenly standing above me, pitched to scream, the black Attendance Book clutched with gnarled fingers raised overhead…

“My name is Genie,” I believe I said, which was followed by an immediate explosion of laughter from my new found peers. I realized at once I should have taken my Eugene from the old lady, and been done with it.  I swear, I thought she was going to murder me in my splintery, ink stained desk. God and all his homeys were very mean to little children back in the early 1960s. (Imagine what any forward thinking attorney could have done with the stockpile of circumstantial evidence from that decade.) Anyway, I was quickly and forever deemed the class wise ass, something I carry with me to sales meetings, even as we speak.  And the truth is… I wasn’t even trying to be comical. Not that time.

For many months to follow, I was ordered to be the first seated every day and I was not permitted to leave the classroom until everyone else had vacated.  Perhaps this is one reason why I could care less who jumps into the aisle ahead of me on an airplane. And why I’m usually an hour early for anything.

I obviously retain many of those mental imprints to this day. Unless I’m an original member of some social or familial group, I never feel quite comfortable–not 100%. Even on that first day of First Grade, I felt like my classmates had already settled in, learned the ciderhouse rules, as it were, and unionized their collective judgements by the time I walked through the door in my ridiculous outfit and briefcase. Yes, I wore a gray houndstooth suit and sported a briefcase on that red letter September morning back in 1962 (the family album providing the proof). Someone had forgotten to order my basic blue uniform and ‘Catholic school issue’ green, canvas napsack. Result: I was taking hits to the head and body from the Irish kids by lunchtime. I was Genie, and I indeed, had light brown hair.

Fast Forward

So when I received an e-mail from The Classics Of Lakeview Condominium Association last weekend, with a Subject line that read simply,‘A_ _hole’ and an attached digital picture, (see below) I knew I was in some sort of trouble. Yet again. Up until two months ago, I used to live there.

There was no accompanying message. Just the above cited Subject line…and of course, the picture. I looked at it for at least one full minute trying to figure out what it was. Could this be blackmail of some sort? Something looked familiar but I couldn’t quite place it. Subconsciously, 3000 pixels were streaming through my head trying to find some order.  I wanted to call my wife over to the screen for a look but one of the men in the photo appeared to be wearing a red party dress so I thought better of it.  I put aside the hard stuff many years ago but as Russell Shaw can attest, a picture alone can be worth at least a thousand words let alone as many explanations.  I zoomed in for a closer look trying to recall if I ever purposely tried on womens couture, sober or otherwise.  I counted at least three kegs of beer in the frame. I recognized a face…

It was the back deck of the condo my wife and I had recently sold to three guys in their twenties. It was a Halloween party. And judging from the digital timestamp of the photo, it was late. Or early.

Play

When the trio originally strolled through my open house one Sunday afternoon back in June, I barely looked up from my crossword puzzle. My wife and I had just spent around $40,000 in renovations and these cherub faced young lads did not represent our projected target market nor did they really fit into the demographics of the complex. Hey, but I’m all about Fair Housing so I let them wander around on their own while I nonchalantly kept a watchful eye on the artwork.

They bought the place the next day and ultimately needed every cent of all three incomes (and more than one parental gift for the down payment) to close the loan three months later. In the back of my mind, I never thought the deal would stick. My wife whispered into my ear at the closing table, “Our place will never look the same” as we listened to them talk exitedly of their master redecorating plan; Three sofas, three big screen TVs, and a keg-a-meister. Maybe paint the place in their respective college colors. Wire it up for sound. The unlimited stream of babes to follow was understood, and went without saying, although everyone in the room, including my wife, was thinking it.

“Yeah, I know. It’s toast” whispered I, visualizing the orange and navy colors of the Fighting Illini covering the custom Ralph Lauren Suede Series applique. I wished we’d never dropped the 40 grand. We sold the unit for it’s CMA value, minus the improvements–as if that in itself wasn’t enough for our former Association to send us electronic hate mail..

The one young man asked about the immediate neighbors and I told him that everyone was cool. Of course, I haven’t stayed up past 11PM in ten years so what do I know about what is and isn’t cool to a 25 year old? They still seemed too young to be purchasing a half million dollar property, I thought.

“No one ever complained about me ” I explained, reaching across the table to sign the last few documents that would forever transfer title out of my name, “except the crabby couple upstairs who moved out three years ago because my cigarette smoke was ‘supposedly,’ rising up into their apartment.” Wild, wild me with my smoking. And while the best part of that true story was I quit smoking a month later, it didn’t seem to matter to any of them. The deal was set in legal motion and they were already planning their first big party. As long as everyone was cool…

So, as I zoomed into the dude-looks-like-a-lady and examined his glare back into the camera lens I began to wonder about the Subject line. Who was the A_ _hole they were referring to? This guy in the picture certainly fit the bill with his red dress and matching eyes. Or was it me? Was the Classics Of Lakeview insinuating that my wife and I were somehow  remiss in our community obligations by not properly screening our successors? Now I was beginning to get a little ticked off myself. The A word, when used improperly, can instantly escalate an already touchy situation, as we all well know.

Pause

I didn’t become Geno until I finally won a schoolyard fight, which was several years and many more scuffles after that historic Day One at St. Mike’s.  I chose my own name as the prize and it’s stuck with me for over 40 years. And although I wouldn’t at all mind being called Genie these days, (in fact, my closest friends and relatives do) I might still accidently take a swing at anyone who calls me Eugene. Same goes for someone who calls me an A…., well, you know where I’m heading with this.

So I hit the Reply box and typed in:

PLEASE CLARIFY THE “SUBJECT” OF THE SUBJECT LINE.

GP

…and before I pushed the Send button, I called my wife in to take a look at the computer screen.  She too, stared at the picture for a while before speaking, finally realizing it was the home we left behind just months earlier.”It ain’t pretty no more…,” she said as she turned away and walked through the library and out the double french doors onto our new (to us) veranda.  She was right. The old place can be described as a lot of things, but pretty is no longer one of them. Technically, it’s but one of a handful of properties that have even changed hands in that neighborhood since the Spring market ended. A half dozen more units have been on the market for well over 100 days. Nothing has sold since we closed in September. Alas, I was once again, the last one out…but in a good way, this time around. The best of ways, really.

Eject

I Saved the picture and killed the Reply. I stopped fighting over what people call me, a long, long time ago. After all, it was only the A word. I mean, ‘what the filo, it wasn’t like they called me Eugene…’