Stirred but not Shaken

by Geno Petro

Chicago Broker Owner Realtor | RE 2.0 Blogger

Author website

There’s probably no pressing need to own up to this right now but I’m isolating in front of my laptop at 3 AM and anything but Facebook and internet Texas Hold ’em seems like a heart healthy idea. So I peck away into my imagination. There’s a dull pang of ungratefulness sticking in my side this holiday season. Wait… better make that a thorn. No, a twinge. A twinge of Fate. (Or should that be a twist?) A twist of Fate. No, that’s Dylan. Man, all the really good sayings are already taken. Anyway, here’s what I’m copping to; my short, snapped-off end of the turkey wishbone:

As a kid, I never daydreamed about growing up to be {whisper}… a Realtor. There, I said it—almost out loud. Scurrying about my parents’ postage stamp backyard from bush to tree and back again dressed in full army combat uniform, cowboy boots, football helmet, with Secret Agent Man attache case tucked safely away under the old National Geographics (and pictures of half-naked female Aborigines) in the work shed, I was always a little whimsical about which distant star I might hook my future prospects on to. I didn’t start daydreaming about growing up to be a Realtor until I’d already been in the Insurance business for 15 years and one dark day discovered myself scurrying about my own postage stamp backyard as a salesman with almost nothing tucked away except some nickel and dime house equity and no naked ladies of any kind to be found. And an insurance salesman, no less. A life insurance salesman…(I think I’ll stop there.)

I wanted a career where I could ditch the suit and wear boots everyday if I cared to. And shave my already mostly bald head. And stay at home whenever I pleased. And never have to say “God forbid” unless I really meant it. It pretty much boiled down to those few requirements plus, of course, the potential to make some decent dough and drive a Mercedes. And when choosing a path to comfortable living based on such thin orders, symptoms like pangs and pains and twists and twinges of Fate (or whatever) are all but certain to eventually rear their own shaved and ugly heads. The urge to gamble sneaks in trying to make it all back.

I calculate the odds and consider my non-booted business suited neighbors, themselves scurrying everyday to and from the downtown Chicago Metra commuter train just beyond my picture window, and wonder. I wonder what they all wanted to be when they grew up. Bankers of America? Civil Servant Engineers? Attorneys, General and otherwise? I wonder what they think of me—that shaven headed, always booted, never suited, stay-at-home Realtor on the corner who’s always looking out the window anymore. Isolating. On these blackest of December days, the Brooks Brother extras from Central Casting are getting a little thin in numbers. The recession has finally receded into my neighborhood, I think, and its claiming the careers of middle managers at every other porch swing. Market times linger. For Sale Signs get faded and weatherworn. Time to double down.

In a few hours Mona and I will on a flight to Naples. Florida—not Italy. Italy was in a different real estate selling lifetime. We can be found in Coach. Just in case there’s an Indian reservation and casino nearby, the Quantum of Hypoluxo, perhaps. I try on my tux. I can’t button the waist. Pretty tight across the shoulders, too. Pretty tight period. And it doesn’t look right in boots either. I peek into the mirror. No Daniel Craig, to be sure. Jenny Craig, maybe…

Still, for a crazy few moments I again wander off and imagine myself standing at the ticking wheel in tailored silk, spreading my stacks of weighty black chips across magenta velvet with one hand while ordering rounds of martinis for the table with the other. My prime number hits again and again. It’s 2002 and I’m rehearsing my imaginary acceptance speech for NAR. I awake to my computer screen, my delusions of grandeur merely stirred, but not shaken. I count on one hand the things I’m thankful for and leave it at that. It’s alway good to leave when you’re ahead, I’ve been told. And I’m gone.