One by one, we follow the broker around the perfectly coiffed hedges of 145 Commonwealth Avenue, San Francisco, California. Commonwealth is the perfect, if not jeeringly ironic, name for this place, the term itself meaning — a political group organized for the common good. Wealth for the commoners. Here we stand, hardly three commoners in relation to the wider world, but inarguably the “common good” in relation to the inhabitants of this address.
The street is wider here, there are well-coiffed driveways and hedges alongside the perimeter of each house. By first glance, the houses, while enormous by San Franciscan standards, seem large, but not oversized. Look again, and their walls disappear behind vines and taller rhodedendrons. Endless rooms and servants quarters. Someone has been keeping these bushes trimmed. These houses are not gaudy, or showy. They are large, settled, monuments.
This, my friends, is old money. Money that doesn’t need the flash. Money that runs deep, that was built off the backs of wide-eyed men and women who saw the Golden Gate as a gateway to opportunity, before there was a bridge adjoining its two sides. Built on the backs of others, passing down the Great American Tradition of accomplishing the dream and deserving entitlement.
This is the money of immigrants of long ago. It’s been earned, and now it is kept. Here we are.
Matt, in front of me, Mark on my right, Jason on my left. Matt, in his leather loafers and baby blue shirt, thin, short, blond hair brushed to the side of his face. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot shake “real estate broker” out of his persona. He clings to his black leather portfolio. Mark, a bit taller, is wears a dark blue cashmere sweater over his button down. He appears relaxed and calm, but his thumb and forefinger run together and a slight nervousness reveals itself. There is no one that embodies the term “Silver Fox” more than Mark Gainey. Men and women agree. When I think of Mark, he’s clad in his favorite short-sleeved blue flannel, wearing bleached and patched blue jeans. His piercing blue eyes, kind smile, slim, athletic build and disarming presence could charm anyone. Jason towers over us. He, like Matt, can’t shake the business man off of him. He’s a tall, sturdily built Asian man, and his sparse goatee (he just started growing it, I’m reminded) exemplifies his position. CFO, no doubt about it.
And here I am. Twenty nine. Blonde. I wore my hair in curls today, and put my feet in heels for the first time since our company holiday party the last year. A little mascara, nothing else. My dress, a dark blue from Ann Taylor, with an orangey- red scarf, was last worn three years ago at the job interview for this very job. It’s A-line, and flatters my definite curves. Curves I’ve begrudgingly embraced, and now love.
For me, my anxiety reflects itself in my glasses. I have 20–20 vision, but I’ve always wanted glasses. Even as a kid, I thought they looked smart. I thought, if only I could put on glasses, they would be a symbol that I am “getting down to business” and that now is not a time to mess around. When I found out you could purchase glasses that filtered “harmful light from your computer screen”, I was sold. Sell me on some weird hipster shit that may or may not be true, and then make me look smarter in the process? No argument there.
I look around me and I think, I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve been trying to get this meeting for the past eight months, and it’s finally happening. What I’m doing here, I don’t know. This is out of a storybook. And then, I remember, that I’m the one who has been managing the deals in this situation. I’ve seen over 30 spaces on the san Francisco Real Estate market. And I deserve to be here.
We stand outside of the oversized, redwood door. Through the left window, the maid prepares the living room table — with the fine silver. A silver tea set is gleaming in the corner, and hard to miss through the windowsill. She places half size water bottles on the silver dishes that line the table.
The butler, an older Asian man, lets us in. He invites us to sit in the library before Mr. Myers is able to come down. We enter the house, and I peek in at the old library nook, covered in books and dust, as a proper library should be.
We move to sit down, and we’re quickly shuffled into the dining room instead.
We take a seat on our side of the table — Jason, Mark, Me. Matt and Ken, the brokers, at the corners.
Directly opposite, Linda, a tall, take-no-bullshit kind of woman, dressed in slacks and a crumpled sweater blouse, wheels him in. She sits down with her notepad, looking like a listener, writing like a jury member.
Maxwell Myers adjusts himself while we get the briefing. He’s 94 years old, a bit hunched in his wheelchair. A drooping eyes and a wide smile. Hard of hearing, but still sharp as a tack, we must “speak slowly and loudly”. I’m warned that he may not hear women’s voices, so my pitch lowers. The wolf in sheep’s clothing scans the room. His blue eyes meet Mark’s (they are seated directly across from each other) and we’re off.
