Chapter 5: Twins, Vikings, and Gophers

I didn’t have much money, even by 1991 standards. I rode the Greyhound bus from Grand Forks to Minneapolis and arrived about eight at night. Not the best planning. I needed shelter quickly and found a sleazy hotel a block away from the bus station by the simple expedient of having followed a crowd of people that direction. The people I followed wisely kept walking. Thirty-five bucks for a room and they actually asked me if I wanted it all night. The good thing was that there was a White Castle that I’d passed next to the bus station so I ran out and got a sack full and sat in my dingy room crying while I stuffed sliders down my throat. Allen had bought me breakfast in the morning, but I’d been too excited about my adventure to eat much. I regretted that about halfway to the Twin Cities.

I had a feeling I’d regret dinner, as well.

I had a plan, sort of. I needed a place to live and an income. If I could kill both birds with one stone, so much the better. The good thing was that, in spite of my apparent age, I knew the real estate industry pretty well. I’d worn a gold jacket in Fargo for the last ten years of my former life. I knew I could get a real estate license with no difficulty. The problem, of course, was that I was only eighteen. I needed to locate a licensed broker, get him to agree to hire me, take the test, and get my license. The broker might insist that I take the education course instead of studying on my own. That could cost me up to a thousand dollars. I was going to push for self-study and test. That would only cost me a couple hundred. The important thing was to get licensed and get income as quickly as possible.

And I needed a place to live cheap while I was doing all this.

When I’d done my real estate license school in North Dakota, ten years from now, we were given a lot of case studies as well as lectured on the various laws and concepts of qualifying buyers. One case that came up was of a developer in Minneapolis who had renovated an entire neighborhood of apartments. It was a model case of plans changing. The neighborhood went from a homeless drug haven to an upscale yuppie conclave. But in the course of twenty years, the buildings had become worn and the lower class clientele started moving back in. To combat that, the company started doing condo conversions. They had to renovate and update the apartments that they’d spent a ton of money on twenty years earlier. Then they sold the units off.

The whole case was pretty successful. They’d moved the units, but not at the price they were hoping for. And they didn’t maintain the property well afterward. By the time I was snatched out of my 42-year-old body and back twenty-five years, the management company was going out of business and some of the units had been condemned.

I could change that. All I needed to do was start the process ten years earlier. We were in a good real estate market in ‘91. I was going to make it better.

Big dreams.

I headed for Loring Properties as soon as I woke up Wednesday morning.

“You advertised for apartment caretakers,” I said as I sat across from the manager. He was purported to be the brains of the outfit, but you wouldn’t guess it by looking at him. He had thick, black-rimmed glasses and wore a mechanic’s blue shirt with the name ‘Jim’ embroidered across the pocket. “I know that I’m young, but I’m capable and devoted. I’m good at cleaning and I can handle most minor home repairs. I’ve even replaced outlets and light switches, unstopped toilets, and shut off gas in an emergency. I don’t have a resume because I just graduated from high school and plan to go to college in the fall.” He looked at me, rocking back and forth a little. It was like he was in a rocking chair, only the chair didn’t move. I’d heard once that was a characteristic of geniuses. They said Bill Gates rocked like that in meetings. I could only hope.

“What are you going to study?”

“Business.”

“How are you paying for college?”

“I plan to get a real estate license.”

“There are no houses for sale around here. You need to go find a place in the suburbs.”

“We’re only two miles from Lake of the Isles and three miles from Uptown. And in three years you are going to want me here close when you start converting apartments to condos,” I said. I just pulled that out of the air and decided this was the time to give him my real plan. He barked out a laugh.

“We have 2,200 units in a five block radius from this location. We’re still renovating and bringing more units online. Why would I want to sell them?”

“Your older units that have been in inventory for over ten years are already showing signs of wear. You can keep renting them with nothing but a coat of paint for five or ten more years, but then the big expenses will start coming in. You’ll need more than repairs. It won’t be as costly as the first round, but you’re amortizing the renovations over thirty years. You’ll still be paying for the first round of renovations ten years after the second round is completed. Wear and tear on leased units is a lot worse than on owned units because homeowners keep their own property up. Renters don’t. If we focus on maintaining the common areas and the neighborhood, we won’t have to drop rent because of deterioration. I promise you, this is the way of the future,” I said. I was putting it all in one breath. I needed to be in this company from the start. I needed to drive the conversions and sell the hell out of them. He kept rocking and staring at me.

“Get your license. I should have a building ready for you to manage before classes start this fall,” he said. I’m sure he saw my face fall.

“I need a place to live,” I said softly. “Now.”

“Where are your things?” he asked. I gave him the name of the motel near the bus station. “You need a place to live. Now.” He motioned me to follow him and I figured, what the hell. I’d slept with high school guys that I liked less. I mean, he was old—at least forty—but I could survive being poked again. He took me to the motel first and waited in his truck while I collected my meagre possessions. I tossed them in the backseat and buckled up.

He took me on a quick tour of Minneapolis, pointing out his various properties. They were mostly old brick, three-story, apartment buildings. Each building had eight units per floor with very little variation. Three or four floors. He pointed out the Nicollet Mall, the IDS building and the Foshay Tower. There was a new bank on Marquette and we drove past the Federal Reserve Building. It was empty. Condemned. I knew they’d save it eventually. Finally, we headed down Hennepin to Uptown and he stopped in front of an apartment building on Dupont.

“This is a building that I bought and developed under the radar, so to speak. In other words, without a permit and with non-union workers. It was in pretty good shape, so everything except the appliances was considered cosmetic. We permitted the appliances.” He led me down a short stairway into the basement. “There’s one unit, though, that is technically illegal. I planned to use it as my private retreat, but I can’t rent it.” He unlocked a door and I stepped into paradise.

“This is beautiful.”

“It’s tiny. Just this room and the bedroom. Bathroom is small. Kitchen is here in the same room as the living room. I shouldn’t have put in the gas fireplace. That’s what killed the deal. It’s all to code, but the city wants $6,000 in permits issued and wants me to tear out the entire end wall so they can inspect the plumbing. We’ve been arguing about it for two years.” He looked at my backpack and my suitcase. There was nothing in the apartment but the appliances. Carpeted floors with cement beneath, but it was well-padded.

“How much would I have to pay to live here?” I squeaked. This was perfect. Perfect!

“You can’t live here. I can’t rent it to you. Here’s the key. I think there is a mattress and some dishes in our storage room. Aside from that, I wouldn’t get too comfortable here. I’ve got a twenty unit building right on Franklin Avenue that should be ready in September. As soon as it is, we’ll make one trip from this apartment, where you don’t live, to your new apartment. Don’t put anything more in here than I can get in one load.” He handed me his business card. “Use this as your address. Don’t have anything sent here. The utilities are on and are billed to the building. No telephone. This unit doesn’t exist.”

“Jim ... Thank you,” I said.

“Let’s go get the bare necessities so you can survive. There’s a little grocery store around the corner. You won’t want to buy everything there, but the basics won’t set you back too much. It’s cheaper at Rainbow on Lake Street. You can walk that.”

I lay on the mattress with a sleeping bag I bought at Salvation Army. It was a free room, but I’d spent close to $200 getting basic food and dry goods. Jim had kindly carted me around to the grocery store, Sally’s, and a second hand shop on Lyndale. I was a little scared. I was alone in a big city in an apartment that didn’t exist. I expected that sometime during the night, Jim would come in and claim his payment.

He didn’t.

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. I just knew I couldn’t relax until I had found a real estate office I could work from and got my license. With luck, I could have that before school started in the fall.

That was another thing I needed to take care of in the morning.