It’s weird the things that stick with you. For the next few years, I worked three full-time jobs at a time. I was in full execution mode as a property tax agent, international theme park consultant, and commercial property agent – and I don’t remember much about the period.
When I look back, I think it’s because I wasn’t growing.
There was little new to the jobs. I was just executing on processes I had put in place years earlier. I had become proficient, an ‘expert’. And so the result was that financially, they were some of my peak earning years, but overall I’m not sure it was that fulfilling.
If you can find jobs where you get paid handsomely for personal growth, now that’s the holy grail.
But there were a few things that stuck with me.
I had a client who was an ex-Drexel Burnham Lambert banker. He predated Michael Milken give/take by a decade, and had apparently made so much money that there was nothing else to do with it but plow it into real estate.
He worked out of one of his apartment properties in Brentwood, in a ground floor office strewn with papers and newspaper clippings. He was in his 70s and his main tactic in any negotiation or even discussion was to immediately pretend he was slow.
Whenever you began speaking, he would tilt his head and look at you curiously before responding with a set of ‘is that right’s and ‘you don’t say’s. He didn’t say much, but you could tell he was processing everything. With so much office space all around LA, he offered free space to young brokers as a way of being plugged into deal flow. Essentially, to listen. He was always listening. Sometimes his ‘you don’t say’s were sarcastic, as if he couldn’t keep listening to our stupidity anymore, but he was always listening.
We had another client who was a movie mogul. Over a few decades, he had opened a regional chain of movie theaters and plowed the proceeds into real estate. And about a mile down from our office, he owned 25 condos in the heart of Redondo Beach. We brought him multiple offers on the property. $18 million. $20. $22. But he wouldn’t budge for less than his number, which was a million dollars per unit.
And although we had clients who probably would have bit at $22, he didn’t. Something about his patience struck me, sitting in his office modeled after a miniature theater, cracking a grin at each new offer we brought him, and sitting back, a picture of consummate contentment, and telling us, if we could please try to get a higher number.
Years later, he was proved right. Actually, the value of his condos probably exceeded a million dollars a unit.
The thing that both these clients had in common were that both owned and controlled more than $100 million in properties, each, both were well into retirement age, and both arrived at their offices at the crack of dawn.
This is just a sample. There are people like this all over the country, all over the world. It was just another lesson about wealth. In so many ways, wealth is not the goal.
I wanted to be like them. It would be nice to have the level of wealth they did, but I’m talking about their working for the purpose of their work itself. And having a purpose that made them work harder than people half their age.
No doubt, it’s what made them great.
Then we had another client. She had emerged as a buyer for another client’s property in Hermosa.
She made us work.
Among other things we had to do to close the deal, we had to chase down people to get them to sign estoppels. The existing owner didn’t want to do it, because he preferred to be liked more than he preferred to sell the building.
This meant we had to camp out in front of all 12 units and try to get the tenants to sign a document verifying that they were paying, exactly what the rent rolls said they were paying.
Naturally, a lot of them were suspicious. Was the new owner going to kick them out? Was she going to convert the apartment into condos? They were nervous.
No, no, I answered confidently. I reassured them there was nothing to worry about, that the new owner had no intention of redeveloping.
But there was something else I had forgotten about.
After dragging the deal across the finish line, I felt a sense of relief as we pulled up to the new owner’s $10 million house in Palos Verdes, with a tennis court in the back. In the living room, she proudly showed us a rent roll of the $80 million portfolio she managed, from her living room.
And later, she even more triumphantly emailed us to say that she had doubled rents, because the previous owner had been undercharging.
It left me with a bad taste for these kinds of deals and people in general. All part of the industry, but I couldn’t help but think that while knocking on doors to get those estoppels, I had led some of those people astray. Some of them, kids younger than I was.
It turned out to be my last deal there. That, combined with the diminishing fortunes of the property tax appeal business, a countercyclical business if there ever was one, led me to other things.
One last reflection about wealth. I spent half this time period in Hong Kong.
And in Hong Kong, a summer rite is the boat trip. On the weekends the waters around Hong Kong and its myriad islands teem with junks and yachts that anchor off a secluded beach, then descend into drunken orgy-level partying.
One of our friends was dating a guy who was as close as you could get to Hong Kong royalty. He was the scion of a billionaire tycoon, which made him one himself, but you wouldn’t know it to meet him. Well-educated, low-key, soft-spoken, there is no way you could pick him out in a lineup, as is often the case with billionaires.
Anyway, this weekend we had use of his dad’s yacht. For seven of us, a uniformed staff perhaps double that number helped us board, navigated, helpfully pointed out the amenities, cooked us a hot lunch, and generally gave us the kind of five-star service you would expect from what was basically a floating villa, way larger than my childhood homes, combined.
After anchoring, there are only a few things you can do. We rode jet-skis. We bounced off of inflatables. Some of us read a book on the upper deck. Some of us just floated in the water.
Which is what I did. Bobbing, I could see all the other boats around us. Some of them were like us.
Splendid, sleek yachts. Barely any people on them, though. There were kids on some of the nicer yachts, towards the front, and they looked bored out of their minds.
And, the people on the nice yachts were all looking in the same direction I was, which was towards the bacchanal boats, the ones thumping music that could be heard hundreds of feet away, with the people backflipping off the upper rails, doing keg stands, sliding headfirst and belly up down makeshift slides into the water, floating around the boat suspiciously in pairs.
Of course sometimes it’s nice to be alone. But also sometimes I think that with great wealth comes great isolation.
I noticed this during my brokerage days in LA. Sometimes it seemed like our richest clients called…just to talk. Or when we went out in Hollywood – there is type of person, usually male, who buys drinks for everyone, is exceedingly generous, talks a lot, is best friends with everyone at the bar, is also exceedingly rich, and then at some point during the night…leaves alone in a nice car.
In the summers in LA, you can ride a bike from Venice Beach down to Redondo. Over the course of 15 miles, the crowd changes. Rowdy and larger up around Venice and El Segundo, Playa del Rey, huge barbeques with organized beach football games. Then you reach the $10 million houses (at least) in the South Bay, along the Strand. Nice organized picnics going on, some beach volleyball games, more individual, more rich, smaller. Sometimes just a guy on the upper balcony of his home sipping coffee and looking out over the ocean. Of course in some of the houses in between were always some frat antics going on, but still. Richer, more individual. In many ways, more alone, although there’s nothing wrong with alone.
But, now why is that?