The Not-So-Delicate Art of Negotiation, Part I

Hello, gentle readers. Jeff here. Katie has asked me to briefly take over the blog to describe the process of negotiations for 930 Garson Avenue, since I played something of a leading role in them; the bad cop to Katie's good. As it happened, Katie had been our positive driving force throughout the early stages of house hunting-- a ball of ceaseless energy and unflagging optimism to my nay-saying recalcitrance. She pushed and prodded hopefully along as I moped through house after house, doubtful of our prospects to take on of these late-Victorian beauties and hesitant to plunge into adulthood and a deep commitment to staying in Rochester. But perhaps Katie's enthusiasm made her the lady who cared too much. She warmed to 930 Garson a little too quickly to play any kind of hardball in our dealings with our agent or the sellers. I'm more a Mr. Nice Guy than a Mr. Tough Guy, but I can play the latter role if the moment demands it. Some men are thrust into firm dealings, others have the need for firm dealings thrust upon them.








I mustered all the resolve I picked up from years of denying undergraduate extensions on papers, and Katie and I called our realtor. After being unreadable and cryptic during our second visit-- was this a "good deal"? how about the neighborhood? what did he think of the place?-- Mike (our guy, a specialist for first-time home-buyers in the city)* seemed genuinely enthused that we had come to a decision. And not, I'd like to think, just because it meant he no longer had to show us homes on cold November evenings.

We drove down Monroe Avenue into Pittsford, New York, for our visit into the Nothnagle Realty offices-- a labyrinth of faux-leather-chaired conference rooms, semi-inviting cubicles, and, in the backrooms, motivational signs urging agents to "Sell, sell, sell!" It was the first snowy day of winter in Rochester, which lent an air of charm and excitement to the proceedings as Katie and I drove through the powdery dust, full of high-strung nervous energy.

Mike and a receptionist armed with drinks greeted us at the door. We were quickly whisked into the nearest office and given the pep talk. Actually, to be fair, Mike was a consummate professional. Never pushy, never smacking of an over-eagerness to turn a quick buck off of us, he patiently explained the rules of making a formal offer. In short, we were binding ourselves to whatever opening salvo of a financial bid that we made-- breaking the oral agreement was perhaps technically possible, but left us open to litigation and loss of a $1,000 deposit. We had better be sure before we moved forward. If the sellers accepted our initial offer (possible but highly unlikely), we would be obliged to honor it.

Preempting any discussion of numbers and strategies, however, we had to complete a mountain of paperwork. Disclosure forms, mortgage pre-approval forms, scarily-thick legal documents, and many others that required signatures and initials. I made the obvious MASH joke and elicited a few tense giggle from Katie:

Radar (to Henry Blake): "Sign the original forms and initial the carbon copies or if you want you can initial the originals and sign the carbon copies and then you'd have to sign this form saying you signed where you should have initialed."



Finally, after 45 hand-cramping minutes, it was time to talk proverbial turkey...  



*Realtors are constrained by a great many laws about what they can and cannot disclose to potential buyers. After years of companies steering minorities away from white communities, and vice-versa, often through nefarious technique, they are now forbidden from any practices that might be construed as discriminatory or prejudicial.