I enjoy working on bank-owned properties. It is like Christmas morning for me when I receive a new property assignment. I guess it is the excitement of not knowing what (or who) is waiting for me at the property.  

It is not easy work because these properties require constant monitoring and tons of paperwork. It requires a completely different skill set than that of a “regular” sales agent.  A background in property management, very strong negotiation skills, patience and understanding are needed.  Many times the neighbors already hate you before you even get there because they have been living next to a nightmare for months and sometimes years.  

Most of the homes are vacant when they are assigned to me and I look for clues to understand what happened.  There is often evidence of drugs and/or domestic violence.  Every property has some kind of a story to tell. 

I pull up to a two-story house on a side street and find that it is in typical condition for a foreclosure property.  There is rubbish strewn everywhere and numerous inoperable vehicles parked on the grass. As I approach the gate, a pit bull charges at me, and someone peers out the window.  This one is obviously occupied.  

They know why I am there and I have a bad feeling about this one. I have done this many times over the years and have encountered some very strange and dangerous situations. The occupant, either owner or tenant, does not understand or care that I am just doing my job. I’ve developed a sense for the ones that are not going to go well and this one has that vibe. 

Once it becomes apparent that they are not going to talk to me, I return to my truck parked in the driveway just below the upstairs balcony. While I prepare a notice to leave on the property I start to hear noises coming from upstairs. Something is going on up there but I’m not sure what. I’m getting more and more uneasy and decide to get the posting done and get out of there as quickly as possible.  

When the notice is ready for posting, I open my truck door just in time to see a filthy queen-size bed mattress being thrown off the balcony and landing on my truck’s front hood.  It hits with a thud and then I notice that the mattress is on fire. There is a middle-aged man yelling profanities at me from the balcony. 

Thankfully the mattress immediately starts to slide off my hood and I give it a good yank onto the driveway, jump back in my truck and race out of there. The incident is reported to authorities and I am grateful that there is no damage.  

The attorney and Sheriff’s office take over from there. The occupants are eventually removed and I finally receive possession of the property. The house is filthy with pornography strewn all over the house with some centerfolds lazily tacked to various walls painted dark colors of red, purple, and black. There are condoms, drug needles, and filthy mattresses on the floors in each room. The neighbors told me that the house had been part of some kind of prostitution ring. Worst of all, the refrigerator had a padlock device. 

This house had a very sad story indeed.