And With An Oddly Toothy Grin The Broker Smiled, “Dangerous? Why Would You Say That?”

Your first thought upon being mugged in that “up-and-coming” neighborhood you just moved to? “Damn brokers”:

I’m sitting in a windowless room in a back annex of Precinct 77 holding a frozen bag of peas to the base of my skull. There’s no ice at Precinct 77. Florescent bulbs cast flickering light on the cinderblock walls and scuffed linoleum while I look over a police officer’s shoulder at six faces on a dim computer screen — all unhappy black men. Having just been beaten and robbed outside of my apartment, I’m scanning mugshots for the five or six attackers. It’s an exercise in futility; by the time I realized I was being mugged, all I could see was the sidewalk. The officers who picked me up said that people’s belongings rarely turn up, whether they catch the thieves or not. In fact, they’re surprised I’d even stayed to look at mugshots; most people in my situation just accept their fate and move on.

. . .

[Crown Heights] has undergone a . . . miraculous change, as Brooklyn real estate agents never fail to mention. Crime is down and renters are getting a steal. Far from the powder keg of years past, it’s officially up-and-coming and a stone’s throw from Prospect Park. A 2004 New York Times article dubbed Crown Heights a “hidden jewel,” and the accepted wisdom is that you should grab real estate in the borough while you still can.

This is the sentiment echoed by Ruby Allen, a Coldwell Banker real estate agent who has worked in the area for years. When I ask her if she considers it dangerous, she was shocked at the suggestion.

“Dangerous? Why would you say that?” she asks. “I don’t think so.”

But I’m not alone in my presupposition of danger. Crown Heights and its irritable neighbor to the north, Bedford-Stuyvesant — frequently — top the shortlist of areas to avoid at night. But Ms. Allen’s view remains unfalteringly rosy.

“I’ve spent a lifetime in those areas, and they’re OK,” she says. “You’re going to have problems here and there, but it’s not uncommon to what’s going on in other areas.”

Which is to say that this week’s issue is perhaps not the best place for Brian Carter to be singing the virtues of the biz:

Before becoming a real estate agent, I had never worked in sales before (unless you count up-selling vodka). The extent of my training consisted of learning a few buildings, taking some pictures, posting ads and then answering the phone. A week after completing my licensing exam, I was explaining to an Indian couple why that particular unit was such a smart move. They didn’t take the apartment, but I left there feeling pretty lit up.

I calculated what my fee would have been had they taken the apartment and then immediately began devising ways in which I could have forced them into it. I’m joking of course, but I was motivated. “Holy shit,” I thought, “the playbook is like twice the size of the rule book.”

. . .

From scheduling to attire to how exactly you gain entrance to a vacant apartment, the truth is there are very few rules. Even the ways in which you manage to convince an otherwise rational human being that a 550-square-foot one bedroom apartment is worth every penny of $3500 is really not a matter of concern. If they sign the lease, the checks all clear and no lawsuits are filed, you did your job successfully.

So yeah, I admit it, I sort of like being a rental agent. Like politics, you are going to have to get your hands a little dirty if you are going to get anywhere in this business. And in this equally flawed and overbearing country of ours, the moment I stop liking it, I can always try some other way of making a living. I could even trade my balls in for a corporate job and a dental plan, but that’s another great thing about real estate: You don’t need great teeth.

(BC, we kid because we love!)