Chicago Magazine Article

"What do I do now?" my friend Marv asked.  "My phone's not ringing, the mail has dwindled to a few circulars, my calls are not returned and everywhere I turn, real estate and financing news is negative." "Liquidity," I said, "No one has got it, and those stingy banks won't part with it.  The federal government lost it long ago, when those guys we sent to Washington forgot how to balance their checkbooks.  Why did we send them there in the first place?  Perhaps some of them can retire and become presidents of savings and loans."

"Liquidity," I continued, "is a problem with banks, S&L's, insurance companies and, also, you."  He moaned, took another swig of Maalox, grunted, slumped in his chair in total 
 despair.  "What do I do now?" he said,  "What do I do now?" I shook my head, turned and left him to his musing.

Since my life was not as bad as his, I returned to my office to play solitaire.  A bad shuffle caused me to set aside the cards and consider my friend's painful question.  What to do to alleviate "them ever-haunting, real estate depression blues!" Not that they're all psychological.  My friend's Beemer is dirty, the East Bank Club is dunning him for its dues, the strap on his jock bag is broken, his doorman ignores him, and someone asked him to pay for a subscription to the Reader.  His, once-in-a-lifetime, real estate investment in JMB'S twin Merc office towers have been foreclosed, and now his child-oriented wife refuses to take the pill.  Poor guy!  He really needs some help.

I, once again head back to his office, past his secretary who is on the phone discussing her incredible manicurists. There, he sits staring at the telephone, begging it to ring. Suddenly, it does ring, unfortunately its for his faithful, girl-friday.  His eyes are bloodshot, glazed, seeing little, recognizing nothing, while contemplating a yuppie end (whatever that is).  I slam my fist on his desk sending cold black coffee splattering his new copy of Beware of the Semi-_Naked Man Who Offers You His Underwear.  He jumps from his chair only to sag slowly into the abbess.  When he finally recovers from neurological shock, I suggest that we talk. His mouth continues to hang open, his glassy eyes attempt to focus, but fail.  Sadly, this is the real estate mogul of the '90's.

"Marv," I say, "You've got to shake the blues!  You've got to quit hiding; let the world know that you're alive.  Others have the same problem.  Their businesses are down, commissions have disappeared, lenders have flown the coop, tenants are not paying their bills, and our schools are falling apart.  Why should you be so upset, Marv? You're not alone."  The eyes flicker.  I continue.  "Look at Al who built over one million square feet of strip shopping center space.  He still makes it to work, albeit on a bike rather than a limousine.  And Pat, who cornered the market in self storage space, he still looks good, even though he's wearing a Marshall's special, grossly depressing his tailor. If you think that you've got troubles, talk to the Maitre d' at your favorite five-star restaurant, if you want to see someone cry real tears.  Has he got troubles!"

On I go, "Look, Marv, all you have to do is cut your expenses to the bone, reduce your lifestyle, cancel your Neiman Marcus credit card, stay away from Sak's, don't visit Nordstrom's, stop using American Express, store your skis, forget the Caribbean, sink your sailboat, and you can weather the 
 storm."  "I can't," he gasps, "I need a minimum of a hundred 'thou' just to keep Vicki, in bikini underwear." "Marv," I say, "Look, Vicki's got a job; she's a career women, let her help out."  He laughs and then he cries.  He says, "John, you don't understand.  Her income finances North Michigan Avenue, our decorator and her hairdresser. 

Again, I try to jack him up.  "Marv, cut your people to three days a week, slash expenses, and while you still have an opportunity, examine your alternatives and redefine your goals."  More moaning and groaning.  "Marv, cheer up," I say. He puts his finger to his head and mockingly pulls the imaginary trigger, while the tears stream down his cheeks. "New partners are what you need," I say, "New joint ventures, people with money; remember cash is king."  Tears turn to buckets.  Marv mutters, "Where are the Arabs, the Japs, the Greeks, the Koreans, when I need them?" "They're gone, Marv," I say, "Back into the big sunset.  They've left us to our own devices."

The phone rings.  His secretary with the million dollar nails announces that Leland Hundington Jones is on the phone.  Marv grabs the receiver, listens for several minutes and says, "I don't need a new stockbroker.  I need people with money; vultures who can see the big opportunity."  Down goes the phone.  He looks are me and shrugs his shoulders.  "At least 
 someone wants to talk to me," Marv says.  I smile and agree. He mutters thanks.  Slowly Marv sits up, wipes his eyes with his silk handkerchief and rings out his tie.  He is reviving! He glances at his Rolex.  Hunger pains gnaw at his soul. Marv pulls himself upright, putting his full weight on his $500 Italian loafers.  The old killer-gleam gradually returns to his eyes.  He shouts for his secretary and orders a dozen roses to be sent to his wife immediately.  "Who needs a pill anyway; children are 'in'.  Have someone (anyone) call me hourly; I need to be busy."

While I stand there astonished, he yells for a reservation at Ambria, demands that his receptionist hold a cab for him downstairs, borrows $50 bucks from his secretary (to help the Maitre d', I'm sure), checks his platinum cards, turns to me and smiles.  "This is a dream.  Not a nightmare!  Screw it; I now know what to do.  I shan't let it get me down!" With a sneer he whirls, races from the office and returns to the wonderful world of real estate.