Ex Post Facto

by Geno Petro

Chicago Broker Owner Realtor | RE 2.0 Blogger

Author website

“I purposely did not go to law school because I purposely did not want to become a lawyer.” I say this a lot to people, usually when they ask me if I’m an attorney, which is more often than you might think. I actually had to mutter those very words last Sunday but I’ll address that particular exchange in a moment.

Don’t be misled by the mug shot in the sidebar. Beneath the Kangol and behind the shades (a vacation shot in Cannes btw, and not my everyday accoutre) exists a living, if not waning, example of the state college system of Pennsylvania; Slippery Rock to be precise. And I can safely go on record to state (since most of them have probably passed on by now) that some of the very brightest alcoholic, if not academic, minds were tenured there during my own concurrent, seven year run; Over 60% of our department’s predominantly male faculty had Ivy League credentials, most of whoms wives could drink the average shore leave sailor under the table. And much like a sanctimonious nonsmoker exiting a smoke filled room, the residual, if not secondary animus, still lingers–even decades later. That, and a knee jerk tendency to counter-respond with a quip when the right moment calls for it.

That era, if you recall, was a big, political, mid-1970s mess and the fact that Nixon was out, the Vietnam War had just ended, and the GI Bill was in full swing, only deepened the already exisitng social chasm on campus. Having not been in the military myself, I had never, up to that point in time, even imagined what it might take (mentally) to annihilate an entire village, (which sadly wasn’t the case with a few of the gentlemen I shared a house with) much less be awarded an all expense paid, four year educational ride, with a VA housing rider to boot. (This however, was the case with everyone in the joint but me.)

And by the way, that is how my veteran housemates all referred to our ramshackle residence; ‘The Joint.’ One frat boy’s Animal House is but another Viet Vet’s joint and we proved as much by renting the basement out to the TKEs for a barrel of beer a month until the town eventually condemned the joint and padlocked the front door for good. Funny, I do remember that but I can’t remember how I ended up in the joint in the first place.

One man’s law school is another man’s life experience, or so I learned whilst cohabitating with the most argumentative living being intelligent design, natural selection, or God ever had a hand in creating; the returning guerilla war veteran on the GI Bill. What I witnessed during those many months in the joint (again, not prison) was how to mirror, mimic, and spin a disputant with the deftness and grace of a shadow boxer or at the very least, rant on like a half drunken political science professor. At the very most, a village stood to be annihilated. The Fair Housing ‘tester’ who dropped into my open house found out as much this past weekend. But again, on to that in a minute…

If my memory serves me well, there is always that one cutoff point each semester, a zero sum date in early October when one has to decide: “Am I in, do I switch, or am I out?” Stay in, and be committed for the duration; Switch, and play catch up; Drop out, and never return. Over a period of two years almost every veteran in the joint chose option three, squandering whatever they could salvage from the Montgomery Plan until one by one, the government pulled their respective plugs. Of course, this was Slippery Rock in the 1970s. It’s probably safe to assume that the attrition rates at say, Stanford or Cornell were markedly better.

I soon after tucked away my ad hoc education in oral bickering, left a bottle of bourbon on the counter of the joint, and slipped off into the night for safer, if not higher, ground. At one point I decided that if I ever did go on to become a paid mouthpiece, I’d be lucky if I ended up like Nicholson’s George Hanson character in Easy Rider–a legal loser if there ever was one. All this, and a hundred more fragmented thoughts, raced through my mind as I turned to the woman with a clip board standing before me in the living room last Sunday…

“Please fill this out,” I asked politely, as I always do, handing her the preprinted registration card and pen. She ignored my request and brushed by me into the kitchen. Legally, I have a right to know who’s walking through my open house but no need to go there just yet, I thought, forcing a smile instead.

“It is really for the benefit of your agent…” I began.

“I have no agent and I am not giving any personal information,” she said, cutting me off.

Mirroring instinct immediately kicks in. Meet action with an equal reaction. Raise my voice. Kick her out. Get on a soap box. Recite a speech. Nuke her til she glows. Shoot her in the dark. Do nothing. Let it pass…

“It’s a procuring cause issue, but that’s fine with me,” I finally jab back, tossing the card back on the table. The room was silent for a few minutes as she scribbled mundane specifics of the kitchen area onto her clipboard; maple cabinets, no recessed lighting, garbage disposal… As much as she attempted the sham, it was clear to me that this intruder was no consumer.

“I have several questions,” she said finally. I just looked at her waiting to make eye contact. I motioned her to continue.

“Who all lives in this building?”

Let me stop here for a second and interject that this particular listing is part of an urban renewal project that was built six years ago on what was formerly known as the Cabrini Green Housing Project. The replacement housing regulations require that 1/3 of these newer units be made available to displaced Cabrini residents; 1/3 to moderate income city workers; and 1/3 to the fair market. The unit I’m trying to sell lies in the third category.

“I can’t accurately answer that question,” I say. “I’m not selling the buliding. I’m only selling this unit.” And since I’ve worked most of my career in and around this particular area, I’ve had this conversation before.

“Any couples? Any children? Any seniors?” She went on, going down her list and ignoring my tone.

“Like I said, I only represent the owner of this unit. Submit a contract and you can meet him yourself at the closing table.” That struck a nerve and she shot a dart my way, deflecting lightly off my full metal jacket. I decided to end, at least, my half of the conversation soon before things got ugly.

“Any problems with the building?” she proded on.

“Problems?”

“Problems with the building is the question. Lawsuits, legal problems with the neighbors…” she continued.

“That’s a Fair Housing question that I can’t answer. Your attorney can request a 22.1 Disclosure Questionaire to be filled out by the association when and if you submit an offer. They charge $50 for that, I think.  The rest of the property specs are posted on our website. We don’t charge anything…if you register; which of course, you won’t…”

“So there are or are not any pending lawsuits?” She reposed, trying her best to stick to the script while at the same time sensing our time together was quickly winding down..

“Not that I’m aware of. It would probably be in the minutes of the last board meeting or maybe the association itself should address that issue, if it is an issue, but like I said, that’s a question for the lawyers to discuss. And I believe it’s $50.”

“Why…?” I thought she’d never ask, “Aren’t you a lawyer?” Okay, perhaps I baited her.  Maybe it’s because I know what it takes to raze a village. Perhaps it was the old trick knee from those long gone college days, jerking on instinct … or maybe it’s just because I enjoy saying the words…

“No, I’m a realtor,” as I gently guided her back towards the door. ” I purposely did not go to law school because I purposely did not want to be a lawyer. Goodbye.” Or something along those lines.