Playing Real Estate--the Monopoly Game
As the Greedy Poet entered his office one brisk winter day, he was greeted cheerfully by the secretary.
"I hear you've sold your house," she said.
"Oh?" said the Greedy Poet.
"Those buyers of Carol's," she said. "They're writing up an offer right now."
The Greedy Poet smiled. He knew that many offers were written but not presented, presented but not accepted, accepted but not consummated. He went into the next room.
As he sat at his formica-topped desk, his fingers drumming idly on the polished top, his gaze fastened on an unsigned contract, he mused poetically upon his experiences with buyers during the preceding several weeks: Click
"For anyone else these experiences might have been depressing," said the Greedy Poet to himself, "but I know success is just around the corner. Since we refinanced the house, Click we'll have cash coming in--enough for the next investment. All we need is a buyer who can assume our loan. And if my calculations are correct, that phone should ring right now."
"Greedy Poet, line 1," said the secretary over the intercom. He picked up the phone.
"This is Carol," said the voice at the other end. "I have an offer. Can I bring it over tonight?"
"How about 7:30 at my house?" said the Greedy Poet.
When the Greedy Poet reached home that afternoon, he found his wife, his daughter Alison, and two of her little friends playing a game of Monopoly.
"Where's my supper?" demanded the Greedy Poet.
"Oh, I'm sorry," said his wife apologetically, wringing her apron. We got so involved in the game we didn't notice what time it was."
"It's your turn, Mrs. Greedy," said one of the children.
"OK, Bobby."
"But I'm hungry," said the Greedy Poet.
"Daddy, we have to finish the game," said Alison.
"There's some bologna in the refrigerator," said Mrs. Greedy. "Why don't you make yourself a sandwich, dear."
"We're almost through," said Chris.
"Where's the mustard?" demanded the Greedy Poet.
"Behind the cabbage on the bottom shelf," said his wife.
Five minutes later the Greedy Poet was munching on his bologna sandwich and watching the Monopoly game.
Bobby was winning. His system seemed to be a total disdain for dollars. He bought every piece of property he could, recklessly spending all the money he had and mortgaging his other property when the money ran out.
"Hey, Bobby," said Chris, "you wanna trade Silver, Copper, and Tyndall for Palmdale and District?"
"Sure," said Bobby, "if you throw in all the cash you've got left."
Chris handed over the two lower-priced properties and $398 in cash. Bobby immediately bought four houses for each of them.
"Do you realize," said the Greedy Poet suddenly, "that real estate has to be played just like Monopoly?"
"Daddy," said Alison, "you shouldn't talk with your mouth full."
The Greedy Poet swallowed and went on with his lecture.
"Buyers should be like Bobby," he said. He isn't afraid to spend all his money, to mortgage his property in order to buy other property, to do all kinds of negotiating . . ."
"Palmdale Street. That's mine," said Bobby gleefully. "You owe me--let's see--with four houses--$450."
Mrs. Greedy groaned. "I can't pay," she said. "You've won, Bobby."
"And why is Bobby not afraid to do all these things?" continued the Greedy Poet. "Because he knows it's only Monopoly money."
"Now you kids put away the game," said his wife. "I'm going to reheat that cabbage loaf for dinner."
"Most buyers are too attached to their money," the Greedy Poet went on. "They feel as if it's part of themselves, and risking it is holding a chain saw over their leg. But it isn't. It's only paper.
"Now take a mortgage," he said. "That's another example. Most people think in terms of paying it off and feel it as a burden till it is paid off. Bobby sees it as what it really is--play money, obligations on paper, not a burden, just a card turned upside down.
"Kids are smarter than grownups," he continued. "Their naivete makes them willing to take chances, and you have to take chances to win. Like Bobby here--where is Bobby?"
"Bobby went home a long time ago," said Alison.
"Dinner's ready," said his wife.
February 1979