The Messenger

Today I received an email that changed the game. A mortgage asset company I work for instructed me to offer a (now foreclosed) home owner $2000 to vacate their home by next month. I’ve been doing drive-bys of this home for months taking dated photos and uploading them to their website. My comments always include things like “lots of activity, a dog, small children, barbeque pit, above ground pool, mature gardens” etc. Clearly, it is well lived-in and they have no intention of vacating anytime soon, and  for $2000, I fully expect them to tell me to go pound sand!  Unfortunately, when I list homes for banks, sometimes I am also the person on the ground representing them for this part as well. Believe me, there's nothing I like less, especially since the only reason I'm not in their shoes is because I've made just enough money selling their previous homes to keep me in mine.

Today my  little red car that normally passes their house inconspiculously taking photos will turn into their yard. I dread what I have to do, and have no way of knowing their story or everthing they’ve been through until I meet them. Some people have no idea what is about to happen, and some are in denial. Many are justifiably angry, and most cry.

I spend the next few hours nervously rehearsing various ways of approaching the topic (if they’re even home when I arrive) and find nothing is appropriate for such an introduction, and will just have to wing it. I find my wavering allegiance between the bank and the occupant confusing and upsetting.  When I think back to the 40-hour real estate class for licensing, no one told us about this part.

Knock-Knock. “Hello, my name is Connie. Please don’t hate me...”