Chapter 5: Four Weeks Later

With a new real estate license, and my resume in a file folder under my arm, I sashayed in to Metro Realty Professionals office in North Phoenix. I was ready for a knock-em-dead interview. I had been so jazzed to get an interview call just days after I had passed my real estate exam, even the prospect of wearing panty hose in August didn’t even phase me. It was Monday. I had floated through the weekend vacillating between marveling at my good fortune and maniacally brushing up on my interview skills.

Earlier in the morning, Laura and the boys had seen me off for my appointment with a homemade breakfast of scrambled eggs and coffee and lots of questions from the inquiring preschoolers. Matt had walked over from across the street to wish me well, giving me a warm hug. I hoped he didn’t notice me blush when he embraced me.

Laura presented me with an engraved business card holder. It said, “Tina Cavanaugh” on the outside cover. I had been so touched; I started choking up. “Well, I am excited for you.” She said as I struggled for words. She hugged me and then Bruce and Buddy gave me wet kisses and waved excitedly at me as I drove down the road.

Mother even called to wish me her version of luck. “Chirstina,” she said crisply, “if you are insisting on this line of work, I hope it is successful for you.”

“You know, Amy Shaefer sells real estate.” I said brightly.

“I know,” she sighed, “Rene is hoping it is just a phase.”

Metro Realty Professionals’ office was about a mile from Laura’s home. It was a storefront consisting of a lobby and presumably offices in the back. On her desk, the receptionist had a full coffee mug with, “Val” printed in primary colors. I could smell the rich aroma. I would have gladly accepted a cup if she offered.

Instead, Val was sitting at her desk, reading a celebrity magazine. She did not look up when I approached her. Either she didn’t notice or care someone had come in.

“Hello,” I said. Val looked up, questioning. “I am here for an interview with Mr. Mack,”

Without as much as a nod, she got up and shuffled off to the back, presumably to let my future employer know I was out front. Moments later, Val returned and sat back down. She reopened her magazine, not saying a word to me. I assumed the message had been delivered.

I spent the remaining time exploring the lobby. I think the designer intended to channel southwestern sophistication. Instead, the lobby was a screaming cliché. The faux leather armchairs sat on saltillo tile with a multi-colored area rug. There were artsy prints in cheap frames splattered on the mustard colored walls—cowboys, the Grand Canyon and indistinguishable desert landscapes.

Next to the chair I sat in was an end table with Phoenix Magazine and an Architectural Digest proudly displayed. Leaning on the wall across from me were three media racks, with real-estate related magazines stacked inside. I could see a layer of dust on top of Valley Homes with Flair.

I tried to strike up a conversation with Val. “How long have you worked here?” and “Do you like working for Metro Realty Professionals?” only got me one word grunts.

Well-dressed professionals, generally with cell phones attached to their ears, came and went. Many acknowledged Val. And, some Val seemed to notice. I started making a game of figuring out which ones she would give the time of day.

“Tina?” A voice brought me back to Earth. It was Ira Mack, broker and owner of Metro Realty Professionals. He was a sweaty balding man with a thick New York accent. His voice rasped from smoking too many cigarettes in his younger years.

I followed him into is office, noticing the desk littered with papers. A variety of plaques and trophies filled his shelves. “Sit!” he invited.

Ira started our interview by giving me his background of how he started in the business in 1960, moved here from (surprise!) New York in 1971 and became one of Phoenix’s finest agents shortly thereafter. He had sold every home in the entire county and had met every important person in the state. In fact, a former governor and a local mayor were Ira’s golfing buddies. He was involved in at least as many civic organizations as Mother and was apparently as career driven as Daddy.

I acted impressed, the way I had seen others react to my father. In fact, though I had never personally met him, I believe Mother invited that same governor and his wife to my now-cancelled wedding. Truthfully, I was more interested my future and what working for Ira could do for me. I was mentally calculating how Ira’s life story related to whether he wanted to hire me.

Listening to Ira, I felt inadequate. I wondered if I could meet his standards. I am competent and smart but I am not Superwoman. I was unsure if I wanted sixteen prestigious sounding designations after my name—all of which Ira had and was now going into detail about each one. Why exactly would someone want to boast about being a graduate of the Realtor Institute? Why would someone buying a house care?

 “Do you have any questions?” Ira asked finally me.

Here’s my opening. Finally, I could explain my qualifications. But first, a simple question, “I was wondering what you expect out of your agents?”

Ira’s face softened. A nostalgic look washed over him. “I want fighters.” He started with a passion usually reserved for Olympic athletes. “I want people who love what they do and are willing to work hard. I don’t want people who sit around the office all day. That’s not working. If you are truly working, you are out in the field. You need to be in the trenches. You have to go to bat.” I mentally cringed at the mixed metaphors. “You have to be motivated. You need drive. What drives you Tina?”

“I owe more than $70,000 to a variety of debtors and another several thousand more to a loan shark.”

Ira’s eyes got wide. From the look on his face, I was pretty sure he had wet himself. “You’re hired!” He shouted with pure joy, practically jumping over the desk and pumping my hand.