Chapter 9

Real Estate is a tricky business. The old joke is that an agent spends his commission three times—once when he gets a client, once when he makes a sale, and once when he gets the check. As a result, most are behind in the earnings game. I learned early that I had to live within my means and that there is no monthly paycheck to depend on. I determine in January what my budget is for the rest of the year and put my commissions in the bank to cover the months when there are none. In spite of the recent real estate collapse, I'd done pretty well for the past ten years. Part of that was making sure my bank accounts were balanced for the year before taxes were due.

The inevitable fall slow-down had begun early. I had closings well into October, but by November 1, my inventory was low and the prospects for listing were decreasing. This was the time we used to "fill the pipeline," in real estate parlance. That meant getting clients on board so that as soon as the weather breaks in the late winter, we have houses going on the market. Occasionally, we get a break.

That's what happened when I listed the Morrison house. Ed Morrison had accepted a transfer with his company and was moving out East. He'd found housing there and the family planned to move after the winter holiday. Most folks don't like to move their kids in the middle of a school year, but the Morrisons were more concerned about keeping their family together than keeping it in one place. If Ed was going to be in Pennsylvania, then so were the rest of them.

It was a good house, too. I paid for the appraisal myself before setting the marketing plan. I'd negotiated with Ed regarding the initial asking price and we'd decided that going over a million would be a killer in this market, so we settled on $949,000. I already knew that they would take as much as 15% less than the ask. But the trick would be moving the house during the holidays.

As it happened, the office got its normal fall class of Freshman Real Estate Agents, fresh out of the necessary classes and newly licensed. Dan, my broker, was holding the licenses wondering how many of them would still be in the business by spring. I've known Dan since I entered the industry myself. He's a good guy if a little crude at times. Seems he's always interested in figuring out who the cutest new agent is and then getting it on. But, it's always a little sad when we look at four new agents and know only one of them will still be with us at this time next year.

"How about we do something new for this class," I suggested. "You know I just landed the Morrison house with a full 7% commission attached. You and I don't really need that commission as much as these newbies need a sale. Here's what I propose. Let's make the full commission a six-way split if the house sells inside the agency and before the first of the year. That will put six of us on the line for marketing, getting prospects, and holding opens. If any of us can get it sold by Christmas, we'll each walk away with 1% and the lucky person who closes the deal will get 2%. Everybody wins."

"Except me," Dan groused. "You will be within half a percent of what you would get as listing agent anyway. I'm giving up 2.5% for the benefit of these kids."

"Mmmm. Jackie is no kid, if you noticed. She's a good bit older than me. But think of what it would mean if they all got a payoff for working together. We could have more than one still with us by June."

"I'm not saying 'no.' I'm just making sure you know who is really paying for your noble idea. You get to set everything up. They are officially now your mentorees."

I wasn't sure that was a word, but I'd had a really good year, not the least of which was helped along by my lovely assistant Rita and the new style of painting I was doing. I called our four new agents together and laid out the proposal to them. The first thing they wanted to know was what was wrong with the house that I was willing to give up part of my commission to get rid of it. I explained the situation as best I could without sounding too altruistic. In truth, I'd been contemplating getting my broker's license and setting up on my own for nearly a year. It would pay me personally if I knew there was some bright talent willing to go with me, though, of course, I couldn't say anything about that. Instead I said that there weren't many houses to practice on during the holiday season and I was on a personal project that would limit my time. I let them know that I'd run dry on ideas to market the place during the holiday season and would like some fresh, untainted input.

Just putting out that much of a suggestion deflected the questions from my motives and people started tossing out ideas for marketing the house. I suggested a field trip and everyone packed up to go look at the house. I decided to let them brainstorm a little more and not go with them. Instead, I headed back home to my studio. There was something nagging at the back of my mind.

The sketches were laid out in front of me all over the studio. My laptop was playing a slide show of my paintings as I sat back and just looked at what I'd been doing. I hadn't realized what was happening to my work until the past two months when I'd done two paintings that stood out from the rest. My work, all technically good, had become ... I couldn't think of any word but "commercial" to describe what I was doing.

I'm not ashamed of that. Some of the great artists over the centuries had supplemented their work with portraiture, graphics, and even decorating. But my work had evolved to a point where it wasn't really worth anything else. I painted nice, sexy portraits of nude women to give to their husbands or boyfriends, or to hang in their apartments. I didn't paint museum pieces.

Not until I painted Allison.

It was a stark shift. The computer screen lit up with the portrait I'd done of Shiela. It was a technically perfect snapshot in oil of a beautiful lady. But that was as far as it went. If I donned the persona of an art critic, I had to say the artist was disinterested. The next painting that came up on screen was the flaming hell portrait of Allison. It was as if two different artists had put the color on the canvas. I couldn't say it was an exact likeness of the woman. Even if it had been, it was unlikely that more than a couple of people could have recognized her from this angle. It was a portrait of anger and abuse and violence. For all that the flames lept around her body, it was obvious that the woman was not the victim. She was the perpetrator.

The screen changed again to my most recent painting of Kelly. Still not a photographic portrait. Somehow, in fact, this image was less related to the woman herself and more to the dreamlike attachment to the male beneath her. In neither of the two portraits were the faces of the women visible. But the second portrait was about release and abandon. She seemed to rise out of the dreamer in an ecstatic wisp that took on a life of her own.

Now I had to decide if I wanted to continue down this path. My attempt to superimpose Rita's image in the theme of hell had backfired dramatically and I painted it out with white. I was still unwilling to make another attempt at painting Rita. I wondered, though, if I was going to have to have sex with every model in order to paint her as freely and gain the emotional connection of these two.

That's why all the sketches were strewn about the floor. There were a couple I kept coming back to. I remembered clearly the sitting with Shiela. Yes, we had become sexually intimate, but without the final consummation of intercourse. And then there was the money left behind the screen. A tip. When I was licking her, I could well imagine that she was a passionate lover with her husband. But when she offered to let me fuck any of her holes, but to hurry up with it, It became a cold transaction. The coldness was what I was looking at in my portrait sketches.