CGU* III (Episode 1): Just What Have I Done Now?

(*Career Girl Update, Series III)

If I never accomplish anything else during this whacky incarnation I’m having, at least I’ll be able to return to the Great Void knowing I’ve amused just a few of you along the way. I know I’m silly. Really, I do.

So what am I up to this time? Just what sort of career has this Career Girl who’s notorious for not being able to hold down a career landed now? As many of you have read, and as bizarre as it sounds (even to myself, still), I’m now a Mortgage Broker.

“Mortgage Broker.” What sort of image does that title conjure up in your heads? Go ahead, be honest. I won’t be offended if it’s offensive. Lord knows I’ve come too far in the world of offensiveness to fear the offense people might take in my occupation. Does it strike you as “smarmy?” Does it come across as the Used Car Sales echelon of the real estate industry? Yes, I believe it does. I think, whenever I tell people I’m a Mortgage Broker, that I sound like the guys you see on late-night TV. You know, the ones peddling last year’s Ford Explorers and Toyota Corollas at bargain prices – “Not to be beaten anywhere, or [they’ll] pay the difference!!!”

All I know is this: Three years ago, I was financially stable but emotionally and artistically stagnant in Los Angeles. Two years ago, I had just acquired my present apartment in East Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and I was busy slapping up my first coats of paint and searching for a microwave and Toast-r-Oven. And last year I was living the High Life, collecting Unemployment and young Brooklyn boy-toys alike. I brought both home to said East Williamsburg apartment, spending the former on all the drugs I was doing with the latter.

All of which is to say, I’ve looked at NYC from both sides now.

I’ve been the newcomer with the demanding day job and I’ve been the Brooklyn slacker who proves that it is, indeed, possible to survive in NY on less than $100,000/year. Way less. Way, way less. I’ve been the guppie and the boho. I’ve made it here (which means, if you’ll remember, that I can make it anywhere) “with” and “without.” From surfing couches to earning an Executive Assistant’s salary and back to surfing a couch again (my own, mind you), I have acquired close to three years’ life experience here in the Big Apple. And some said it couldn’t be done!

I’m no stranger to taking big risks in moving to new cities. At 23, soon after taking my sweet time to graduate from college (spent a semester in France just for the hell of it), I packed everything I could fit into my 1981 VW Jetta and left Portland, Maine, forever. Folks said I’d be back, but I never have been, except for one quick visit sometime during ’89. (I’ve been meaning to get back there, especially now that I’m back on the East Coast, and I will always love my dear friends there, but I haven’t made it back yet.) After living in SF for close to 10 years (and after experiencing a major shift in sensibilites – from uptight New English preppie to hedonistic SF clone), I decided – mostly for the sake of love, mind you – to relocate to Los Angeles. I remained there, with the quasi-communal, eternally familial group of artists with whom I’d recalimed a filthy parcel of South Central turf, for almost seven years. But I was unhappy. Despite having surrounded myself with other artists in the hopes of living the Creative Life, my creativity dried up. I was too worried about maintaining the homestead to take time to write. I wound up smoking too much pot while I continually clipped ever-growing garden blossoms and stems. That’s what led to my taking the next, most recent risk – moving to NYC on a shoestring.

Throughout the processes of taking all of these risks, I’ve learned to listen to my intuition. I’ve learned to go ahead and take big leaps as long as my heart tells me it’s OK. That’s what’s happening with this new job. It’s a crazy job. Given that I now possess far less than the infamous $3,000 I had when I first arrived in NY, it’s an insane proposition. It’s commission only. It’s a high-pressure, low-benefit sales job. In other words, I’ve signed up to sweat in a boiler room.

But y’know what? I love it. I don’t just “like” it. I’m not “settling” until something better comes along. I think this job is an opportunity – the opportunity I knew I’d need once I’d gotten established in this city and was ready to move to the next level. I’m sorry I portrayed the company as appearing to have “mob” connections in my previous post. (Well, I’m sorry, but not to the point where I’m willing to take back those initial impressions. They will have to forever remain what they were. Many people, if they were to meet my new boss, would get the same feeling from him and his associates. They are loud, aggressive Long Island natives. They are Italian beyond belief. They could give Brando a run for his cotton-stuffed, mealy-mouthed money. And I love them.)

I have a feeling about this new job. It’s much like the feeling I had when I moved to SF; when I launched my one-man show there; when I packed up and left the Bay Area when it would’ve made more career sense to stay; and when I decided to make the move from LA to NYC. It’s a feeling of surety, despite all apparent reasons to cast doubt. I can’t explain it any further than that. I’m having a gut feeling about this new job. A good gut feeling. And that's all I can say about it.

But I will tell you this: Through this job, I have consciously challenged myself. I have chosen to face some serious demons. You see, early on in my childoood, somewhere around first grade, I was diagnosed as being “bad at math.” My teacher told my parents that I was linguistically talented but mathematically deficient and we all accepted the diagnosis. I proceeded to go through the rest of my education, all the way through grad school, believing I just didn’t have the aptitide to comprehend numbers, arithmetic, percentages, and all else that comprises the vocabulary of business. Consequently I was raised to believe I “didn’t have a head for money.” Heck, I was an artist. I was creative. I could write a hell of a Christmas letter, but God forbid I shoud be expected to do my own taxes.

Well, recently, after having taken as much time as I apparently needed to slack in Brooklyn – after having finally saturated myself with the bohemian/party lifestlye – I have decided that a guy who can maintain a 3.7 GPA in a graduate program (even if it is just at a state school and in an arts program) can certainly wrap his brain around the principles that enable people with far fewer intellectual faculties than he has to accumulate wealth in a capitalist system.

So THAT’s what I’ve “done now.” THAT’s what I’m up to. As usual, Greg has motives far beyond the petty and the apparent. Greg is up to something big. Greg is battling his demons, and he’s determined to come out of the battle armed with the knowledge that will help him land the best fucking mortgage possible on that Goddamed Anna Madrigal-esque brownstone he’s always dreamed of owning. This is New York, for Chrissake. If a New Yorker isn’t at least a little bit curious about how the local real esate market works, s/he’s not a real New Yorker. S/he’s a tourist.

I have a lifetime of sales under my belt. As complex as the mortgage industry is, it’s still sales, plain and simple. The man who’s just launched the Manhattan office of a firm he’s worked with since 1997 on Long Island took one look at me and decided I was capable of learning the ropes. That’s my new boss. I don’t intend to let him – but more importantly, myself – down. It takes time but the money one can earn in this field is hefty. Living on commission only brings me back to my Patrick Murphy days. I have never been happier with my work than when I was living from job to job. It always came together then, and I’m sure it’ll come together now. Meanwhile I’ll be learning all about the mysterious phenomenon known as New York City real estate. Not bad party chat, eh?

I made the move and I painted the apartment. I celebrated my 40th birthday with all my best friends. Then I took a year off to rest, play, and inquire as to exactly who I wanted to be now that I am here. Now I’m greasing the money wheels so that when the muse visits and helps me put together the next creative urge, I’ll be ready and able to produce it.

There’s a connection between productivity and creativity, and I’m gonna work it.