Finding Ms. Right Box Set

It was shortly after eight on a Wednesday evening when real estate agent Joanne McConnell finally pulled into her parking spot outside her apartment complex. When had her nine-to-five career become an overtime nightmare? Being her own boss at thirty-six was supposed to mean she could set her own hours, but more and more frequently it seemed her clients set her schedule for her. And she didn’t like it.

The morning had begun too damn early, in her opinion. As she trudged up the steps to her second floor garden apartment, she wearily reviewed the day’s events in her mind, searching for the moment when she’d lost control. It had to have been with her first client, a young couple expecting their third child and interested in moving into a larger home. The husband worked graveyard shift, and because he claimed he was most awake right when he got off work, he wanted to house hunt at the crack of dawn. Joanne had met him and his very pregnant wife at Starbucks, armed with a handful of carefully selected homes she thought they’d like. When the two clambered into her car to check out the offerings, everything looked promising.

But there was something wrong with every single home she showed them. The yard was too small, the school district was bad, it had poor parking or loose shingles on the roof, and even when she explained the previous owners would pay to replace those, the couple was no longer interested. She had to dig deeper into her bag of tricks, but the more homes she showed them, the more they complained. This one was too large, these bedrooms were too small, this kitchen was cramped, there was no room for their piano in the living room here, this one had no den. By and large, though, their biggest complaint was price. Everything was too expensive, and the homes they could afford weren’t right.

Finally Joanne had to beg off a little before noon because she had another client scheduled. “I’ll see if I can find something else in your price range,” she promised, knowing it would be fruitless but determined to try anyway. “I’ll call you in a few days—”

“Maybe then you can show us the good stuff,” the husband said. “Those…what do you call them? Hidden listings. The ones that aren’t in the home books.”

Joanne sighed. “You mean pocket listings?”

Damn the internet, she thought. Google made people feel like instant experts in everything. Pocket listings were exclusive contracts some real estate agents held on properties that were not advertised in the multiple listing system, or MLS. Unfortunately, Joanne hadn’t been in the business long; she only had a few industry contacts, and almost all of her clientele found her through word of mouth. Her portfolio was growing, to be sure, but she didn’t have any pocket listings hidden away to unveil to the right buyer at the last minute. Many of the houses she showed she found the same way her clients did—in free home buying guides at convenience stores and gas stations. But admitting that would cost her the sale. Why involve an agent like herself when the client could buy direct?

So instead of telling the couple they’d already seen her best, she simply nodded and murmured, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Then it was off to a lunchtime meeting with a group of college kids looking for an “off-campus frat house” (their words), and Joanne let out a frustrated groan. There went whatever neighborhood she moved them into! She tried directing them towards isolated houses with large yards that might act as a buffer between them and any future neighbors, but the kids were adamant they wanted something downtown, close to campus. Which meant old Queen Anne row homes with thin walls and no off-street parking. She already knew she’d never get a referral from anyone who lived within earshot of the frat house, though the surrounding properties would likely clear out from all the noise and partying the kids would generate. She almost felt guilty helping them find neighbors to pester.

Fortunately, the kids liked the first home she showed, which was a good thing—she had an afternoon meeting back at the office. She was an independent contractor, which only really meant her company didn’t have to give her benefits; she still had to attend the weekly sessions to check in and get the latest listings. A quick scan through the new homes, though, didn’t reveal anything any of her clients would want. She spent some time afterward hunting through the MLS listings—again, no dice—then took a call from a woman whose Mary Kay lady had bought through Joanne months earlier and recommended her.