I decided to steer the conversation back to dry land. “So how did you get involved?”
“With what?”
“The listing.”
“Technically I’m not involved. I know the old man’s tenant. He told me a few weeks ago they might consider putting it back on the market for the right price.”
Oh God.
“But if they didn’t have any offers the first time around surely they’re not going to ask an even higher price now. If anything, the market’s softened since then.”
He changed tack almost instantly.
“Or maybe they’ll go down. I’m not sure.”
“Why don’t you feel them out first? Give them a call; maybe they’ve changed their mind.”
“Now?”
“Now or never.”
Armando pulled a phone book out of the desk drawer and looked up their number. He whipped out his cell phone and dialed. After a couple of minutes of rapid-fire Spanish he hung up with a smile.
“They said to come right over.”
☼ ☼ ☼
The owners couldn’t have been more gracious. In fact, they invited us to dinner.
Personally, I’m not sure I would’ve been so nice.
For starters, Armando honked his horn in the driveway to herald our arrival. A bit rude, I thought. Soon a doddery old man appeared at a side gate, smiling absently.
“¿Qué?” he said.
“Abra la puerta,” Armando replied. (Open the door.)
The old fellow looked more than a little confused.
“I know you?”
“It’s me, Armando. Carlos’ hermano (brother). I just called your wife.”
“¿Sí?”
“Listen, we’re here to see the house. These nice men want to buy it.”
The owner continued to smile amiably, though he made no move to open the gate.
“So let us in.”
“We are selling our house?”
“Could be, amigo, if you’ll open up.”
His name was Tio. He’d worked for the gas company for forty years but was now retired. Despite the intense heat, he wore a long-sleeved black flannel shirt buttoned to the neck.
As soon as we got inside the house the smell of fish assaulted us. Fried fish to be exact.
Señora Tio was at the stove, making dinner. She stopped everything when we came in and greeted us as if she’d been expecting us her whole life. We felt uneasy, but her simple kindness soon made us feel at home.
“Will you take supper?” she asked.
“No, but it’s very nice of you to ask,” I said.
She eyed us in her friendly but slightly puzzled manner.
“You came from New York?”
“No, Washington.”
Her face went blank.
“You know, the capital.”
“Seattle?”
“No, not Washington state. The city of Washington.”
“Actually, the district,” Michael interjected unhelpfully.
“Cherry blossoms,” said Armando.
She lit up. “I always would have liked to see these big pink plants.”
Having settled both the dinner and cherry blossom issues, it was now acceptable, or so it seemed, to begin the tour.
The house had tremendous potential. Mind you, it was pretty run-down, not to mention stuffed to the gills with inappropriately ornate furniture, plastic chandeliers and a fifty-four inch television. But the basics were there—and more.
Judging from our admittedly limited exposure to island architecture, the layout of this house was an anomaly. Instead of being chopped up into a series of small dark spaces, like most houses we’d seen, the better part of the top floor was devoted to one very large room containing kitchen, living and dining areas.
Original interior
The visual impact of this great room was further maximized by two sets of glass double doors leading out onto a broad balcony with breathtaking ocean views.
View from the upstairs balcony
Opening off the great room at the back was a large master bedroom and bath with an enormous glass-brick shower. Although there were improvements to be made, the overall layout was a winner.
“And how about the downstairs?” I asked once we’d finished our upstairs tour.
This was where things got tricky. Suddenly Armando and Tio switched to Spanish and began a rapid-fire volley of words, ending in a fairly heated exchange.
Armando turned to us sheepishly.
“Unfortunately it won’t be possible for you to see the downstairs today.”
We were speechless. We’d been through so much, and here, finally, was a house we loved. And now we weren’t going to be allowed to view it top to bottom.
“But we leave tomorrow,” I said hopelessly.
Armando spread his hands wide.
“I know. Lo siento. I’m sorry.”
Michael spoke up. “So what’s the story?”
Armando looked sheepish.
“The owners don’t have the keys. You see, they rent it out to their son-in-law. Recently they had a small misunderstanding with him, and after the fight the son-in-law asked for their set of keys to his apartment. They haven’t been down there in weeks themselves. Frankly, they’re a little worried about what he’s up to.”
This didn’t sound encouraging.
“So even if we buy the house with part of it unseen, there’s a chance the son-in-law might give us trouble when it comes time for him to move out.”
Armando looked at me as if I’d taken leave of my senses.
“Absolutely not,” he said with a mixture of scorn and amusement.
“Why not?”
“Their son-in-law is my brother. He would never stand in the way of my commission.”
“If he’s your brother, why can’t you ask him to show us the downstairs?”
“It’s a family matter. I don’t want to interfere.”
We tried to reason with Armando, but he was immoveable. He obviously wanted to make the sale (which, as previously noted, set him apart from most of the other agents on the island), but he didn’t want to become embroiled in family politics.
“It’s very complicated,” he said.
“I’m sure,” Michael agreed. “And so is buying a house you haven’t had a chance to inspect.”
Armando nodded glumly. He looked lost. Then a sudden light appeared in his eyes.
“I have an idea. Why don’t we go down and look through the windows?”
As tempted as we were to refuse this wacky proposition, we agreed. What else could we do?
The windows were filthy, but it quickly became obvious that the interior was even filthier. By standing at various angles and craning our necks in all sorts of unnatural positions (it occurred to me that we might end up needing Clara’s yoga classes after all), we were able to discern a long, shot-gun living room, a falling-apart kitchen, two small bedrooms and a decrepit bath. Everything appeared to be in the worst conceivable condition, as if someone had purposefully mistreated and distressed it. Clothes were strewn everywhere and the sink was piled a foot high with crusty dishes.
It made the set of Rent look like the Waldorf.
“My brother is not very neat,” Armando volunteered in a masterpiece of understatement.
In a sense, the utter and complete decrepitude of the place made our decision easier. It was obvious that the whole floor would have to be gutted— as far as we could tell, not one single thing was salvageable. Whether we got inside or not was purely academic now. In fact, I found myself quietly celebrating our good fortune in not having to traipse through the squalor.
“And the bottom floor?” I asked, steeling myself for yet another rebuff.
“Ah yes, I have the key.”
He led the way down another set of external stairs—none of the house’s three floors was connected internally at any juncture—onto a third arcaded walkway at the bottom of the structure, lower and smaller than the two above but stil
l boasting a crisp, serviceable view down to the ocean.
Three metal doors opened off this passageway, the two on either end opening into small, cell-like bedrooms that had been furnished, it appeared, by the same deranged decorator as the floor above. The middle door led to a truly nightmarish bathroom painted blood red.
A short, aimless stroll around the overgrown side yard revealed even more dispiriting news—that side of the house had never been properly finished and consisted of unpainted cinder blocks and exposed plumbing.
Michael’s face grew even cloudier.
Sobered by what we’d seen, we made our way back up to the top floor again, where Señor and Señora Tio were waiting patiently, their fried fish languishing fragrantly on the counter.
“Muchas gracias,” I said, extending my hand to Señora Tio.
At that precise moment, a tall girl with dark, bushy hair materialized from nowhere and positioned herself about three inches from my face.
“¡Hola!” she screamed.
I had wondered earlier about the “challenged” daughter and decided she must be away. Guess again.
Startled as I was, I produced a smile.
“Hola,” I replied. “¿Cómo estás?” (How are you?)
She stared at me for a moment, then emitted a long, braying laugh.
“Funny man,” she said.
Michael took my elbow and steered me towards the door. Clearly he’d had enough.
“We’ll be in touch,” he said. “Buenas tardes.”
Eight
Spinning the Wheel
Back in D.C., we were in a dither.
We had always prided ourselves on being cautious, sensible people. But buying a house in what was essentially a foreign country, without even having seen all of its rooms, didn’t seem to fit neatly into either the “cautious” or “sensible” category. In fact, most people would have filed it under “deranged.”
And yet.
Some tiny voice told us this was our chance—maybe our one and only chance ever—to squeak into the Vieques real estate market before things got too expensive for our modest means. Also, we didn’t have time to make endless trips to the island on the off-chance that a realtor would deign to show us more properties.
In short, this felt like an all or nothing game.
In the past we would have chosen the “nothing” option—we would’ve walked away. As much as we may have fantasized, at various points in our lives, about severing the surly bonds of employment, or winning PowerBall, or joining a rock band, in truth we were mid-level managers in jobs that paid moderately well and offered excellent benefits.
In other words, we were not, in any sense of the word, gamblers.
But here we were, hovering at the edge of the real estate roulette table, our sweaty palms clutching the chips that would determine our future, agonizingly uncertain about whether to slide those chips onto the green baize square labeled “shambolic house with ocean views” or simply walk away.
We talked it over, in a fashion. But talking over momentous decisions, I’ve learned through the years, is more or less a waste of time. Sure, you can talk over getting your chimney swept or your carpets shampooed. But with most big decisions, you’ve already made up your mind before you sit down to discuss them formally. Trust me on this. All the hoopla that follows is just chit chat.
“Are you sure about this?” Michael began uneasily.
“Well…” I said, pretending not to be sure at all (complete certitude was sure to be a losing strategy).
“I mean, we’re behaving like a couple of drunken teenagers.”
“I guess you’re right.”
A long silence ensued.
“On the other hand…” Michael continued, his voice trailing off.
“Yeah…hmm.”
Another silence.
“It’s not a bad deal, when you think about it,” he went on.
“True.”
“And we love the island.”
“I know I do.”
The silence that followed was so complete I could hear the elevator in our building going up and down, a sound I rarely, if ever, noticed.
The phone rang. We ignored it.
“I think we should make an offer,” Michael concluded listlessly.
Duh.
☼ ☼ ☼
You’ll be surprised to learn that making an offer was challenging.
Or maybe you won’t.
I called Armando to check in. He sounded distracted. At one point, early in the conversation, I began to doubt that he even knew who I was.
“You know—the blond guy from Washington? With the tall guy?”
“Yes, Patrick,” he assured me. “I know who you are. You want to buy the house my brother lives in. Of course.”
Wherever his mind had been, it clicked back into super-smooth mode now.
“What can I do for you?”
“Do we have an asking price yet?”
I could hear him shuffling papers on his desk. I couldn’t help wondering if this was a ruse, something I’d seen people do in movies to make people they’re talking to on the phone think they’re searching for relevant documents when they’re actually just scratching their privates or looking out the window.
“Yes,” he said after a few moments, then quoted $300,000.
This was a sock in the gut.
“I thought Melinda said it was within our price range.”
“Hmm,” he said. “I wouldn’t know about that. What is your price range?”
“Our ceiling is $230,000,” I replied, reducing our do-or-die price by $20,000 to give us a bit of wiggle room for negotiations.
“Your what?”
With a tiny thrill of satisfaction I realized I’d finally pushed past the limits of Armando’s remarkably good English. It made me feel less moronic about not being able to string together more than five words of Spanish with any degree of proficiency.
“Our price ceiling.”
Dead silence.
“Our top price.”
I waited. He digested.
“That’s your tallest ceiling?”
“Absolute tallest,” I said, stifling a guffaw.
“Hang on,” he said.
Soon I could hear him speaking rat-a-tat Spanish with an unknown party on what I assumed was his cellphone. The conversation went on for some time. Though I could make out the odd word here and there, in the end I had no idea what he was saying. And of course he knew that. After a while he came back on the line.
“I have extraordinarily good news for you. They are willing to meet you half way at $265,000, because they like you. And your tall friend.”
“Michael.”
“Of course. Michael.”
I sighed, somewhat dramatically. “I’ll need to get back to you.”
I outlined the offer to Michael, who suggested I counter at $250,000 (please note that he wasn’t the one doing the haggling here).
I floated the offer to Armando, who said he’d be happy to speak to the owners. A half hour later he came back with a counter-counter of $255,000.
“I’m sorry to crash your price ceiling,” he said, “but they’re old, and $5,000 means a lot to them.”
Unwilling to sacrifice our dream house for $5,000, I wearily acquiesced.
“Besides,” Armando concluded in his most confidential tone, “they really don’t want to live with my brother anymore.”
This, finally, was something I could relate to. I had seen his brother’s apartment.
A virtual blizzard of phone calls, faxes and emails followed. In rapid succession we learned a number of fascinating and bewildering facts about the house we had just committed ourselves to buying: it had no official street address; the current owners, both retired seniors, were exempt from property tax and therefore the property had never been assessed by the local tax office; it was extremely tough to find a good property manager, good general contractor, good you-name-it, on Vieques.
But we pushed
on.
At the recommendation of someone from Michael’s gym, who had recently bought a property on Vieques (more about that later), we applied for a loan through Scotia Bank.
It went through.
We located a property manager, also through Michael’s gym acquaintance.
We set our closing for the first Monday in December, and booked a flight to San Juan for the Saturday before.
“Looks like we’re buying a house in the tropics!” I exclaimed that night before dinner, my voice squeaky-high.
“Sure does,” said Michael, absently drumming his fingers on the table.
There was no turning back now.
Nine
Absolutely Un-Fabulous
It was spitting rain when we landed in San Juan.
This was a bit of a downer—we always feel a little cheated when we arrive in Puerto Rico in less than blazingly sunny weather.
But at least it was hot.
After an interminable wait at the Hertz office we set off for the port town of Fajardo where we were planning to spend the night before taking the ferry to Vieques the next morning. During our few short hours on the island we would take a second look at our house with Armando and meet with our new property manager. Afterwards, we’d take the ferry back to Fajardo, where our closing was scheduled for eleven the following morning.
Yes, it was a lot to cram into three days but we were nearly out of vacation time for the year.
We got lost more than once—I don’t think we’ll ever again mistake the Spanish word east (este) for west (oeste). At dusk, with our cell phones certifiably moribund, we were standing at a pay phone in Fajardo in the rain, having circled the town for more than an hour in a futile effort to locate the Fajardo Inn.
Forty-five minutes later we were sitting in the hotel’s cozy bar sipping cocktails, struggling gamely against the sheer exotic strangeness of the act we were about to commit.
“Are we out of our minds?” Michael asked more than once.
“Yes,” I answered the first time; “maybe,” the second; “absolutely not,” the third.
The more I drank, the more convinced I became that we’d made a good decision.
“Alcohol-induced certainty isn’t necessarily the most reliable indicator of truth,” Michael commented sagely.
The Coconut Chronicles: Two Guys, One Caribbean Dream House Page 5