Beware Old Coots

In real estate, beware old coots (“OC”s). Then study their every move.

Once an unknown legend OC asked me to his office and out of curiosity (and since I aspire to old-cootness) I agreed. Upon arrival, the receptionist rang him on the beige multi-line phone.

He stepped out smiling, wearing salmon-colored khakis and a yellow Merion golf club shirt - a gin and tonic personified. Even his ankles were tan. Instead of taking me to his office or a conference room, we sat side-by-side in the cheap and small lobby chairs.

"I understand you might have a purchase contract on _____?", asked the OC.

How the f*** did he know that? The seller and the seller's attorney required an acre-foot of NDAs, I thought.

"Hard to say", I replied. (I was no rookie - plus the contract wasn’t fully executed)

OC: “Well if you do have it under contract, I’m sure you priced in the easement”

I looked down at the carpet, my brain scrambling to figure out which easement.

OC: “you know - how access to _____ Street is contingent on the easement that restricts your density”

I looked out the office window, wondering if there was help somewhere.

OC: “Anyway, pleasure to meet you, and - hey - I’d take a look at it if you wanted to just flip the contract”. A big handshake, a wink, and he was gone.

I went back the next day (having by then signed the subject property purchase contract) and we again sat in the small lobby chairs and it became clear he wanted the property, bad. This time I got up first, feigning disinterest, and told him to “keep in touch”.

A few days later I returned again, at his request, wondering how much I might be able to squeeze. I asked why we had to sit in the lobby. He paused and took a breath but then said “c’mon back”. The receptionist locked eyes with me, concerned.

“It’s kind of a mess” with a sheepish look and he opened the door to what looked like a hoarder TV show episode. All the walls and windows were covered with aerial photos and as I looked closer they each had scribbled sharpie notations of arithmetic and dollar signs and phone numbers.

I took a slow walk around as he stood in silence and closer inspection showed each oversized Google earth aerial had other buildings and parking garages taped over to form elaborate homemade land plans.

Over time I learned not even his receptionist had entered his office in years. I also learned his backstory - he built Kmart shopping centers in the 70s and held on to 23 of them, all had since been redeveloped and he had no partners. Five of them had no debt. The Unabomber-looking projects taped to the walls were properties he didn’t own but had researched, underwritten, and planned something dramatic. His desk was littered with highlighters, scissors, and full yellow pads.

He spent his time devising schemes to pounce. And he pounced every year or so. I came to learn he had a personal line of credit for $75 million so anything on his walls he could close in 10 days.

That I had snuck in under his cyclops eye to nab a target earned the entre to his office and, over time, a friendship.

Now whenever we’re settled in our ghillie suits with a new project in our sights I pause to consider why the old coots watching from their sniper towers haven’t yet taken a shot.