Today we looked at a house with several young pot plants growing in a ceramic planter in the carport. It was in a really good neighborhood, and the asking price was low. The former tenant had trashed the place. He’d thought he was renting to own, but the house went into foreclosure. The guy poured concrete in the drains, ripped out toilets, disappeared the kitchen drawers. Created a cement waterfall from the hot tub to the pool. He left ashtrays full of cigarette butts, the title to a car in someone else’s name. He left letters from two firms of attorneys, a fog machine, tax documents from 1997, and an 8-foot marlin. There was clear evidence that a bird had lived here, including a number of small eggs lying about on the kitchen counter, along with a half-eaten jar of salsa and a Domino’s pizza box.

As we stood in the living room our real estate agent, whom we’ll call Mr. Carruthers, commented that his brother used to raise birds when he was like 13 or 14. He was making thousands of dollars a month in high school. People would get birds and then realize that they make a huge mess, and want to get rid of them. So the brother would buy used birds cheap, Mr. Carruthers said, and then “flip them.” And I was like, He was flipping birds! Yeah—flipping birds! There was a big nasty pile under the place where the bird must have been, and a lot of hair collected on a cheap old sleeping bag in a corner.

The floors were tile picked up at a discount, maybe remnants. Popcorn ceilings with angry holes punched in them. As we surveyed the wreckage of the house, we thought to ourselves, “This is one sweet pony.” The place had a Wow Factor of 0. But the things that were wrong with it would be easy and fairly cheap to fix—lots of cleaning, some new appliances, flooring—and once that was done, we’d have about $100k in equity.

We went immediately to Mr. Carruthers’ office and, after much hemming and hawing--we wanted the property but we didn’t want to leave money on the table--we put in an offer at fifteen grand below asking. The bank that owns it would only accept cash, and we needed to provide proof of funds. Done. Unfortunately, Mr. Carruthers learned that there were three offers on the place already. “I put our chances at 30%,” said Roy.

The next day Mr. Carruthers called to let us know that the bank had pulled the property off the market. They won’t tell us anything for a month as they deal with the tenant’s personal left-behind stuff. Did he hire a lawyer and get through to the bank? Who knows.

Bottom line: This is our first time dealing with a bank-owned property, and while the price is right, sitting in limbo limbo limbo leaves much to be desired. Still, we can’t help imagining having a cocktail party in the newly redone living room, lights of the city winking below us—that is, until we flip that bird and make some cash.