Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
able. Alternatives seemed less limited by pervasive sameness. Other places seemed more vari-
able, formative and dynamic. It was a tough choice, with the southern place quickly becoming
my place, opening its arms to a single man with some money, a man quickly becoming in-
cluded.
Billy Prieshard and the banker offered another one-third interest in a new project with
more reasonable potential. That would be an apartment complex not too far from the State
Capitol in Columbia, South Carolina, twelve hundred units of abandoned HUD project hous-
ing—yes, right down in the heart of the projects. “What're you afraid of?” the banker asked.
“You'll fit right in. Those people will
take
to you—don't get me wrong now. You're the best!
You proved it. You think we'd do this project without you? Fuck no! You think we'd find an-
other fella with your natural talents to send in there?”
That was the money talking. And I didn't take him wrong. I knew what he meant even if
he didn't—that a white man in the 70s who judged people on compassion and manners had
likely learned those things from the 60s. It was obvious, but a stranger in a strange land does
not stop the action to explain what's blowing in the wind.
I felt that the banker would have no qualms about sending in any white boy in flip flops or
a black salesman in a tuxedo if that person could squeeze the dollars from the project. I was
the hustler they knew—I could shuffle the paper correctly and had passed the crash course in
what not to say and to whom not to say it. I also believed that most of the project residents
would indeed take to me and didn't dwell on the idea that it wouldn't take more than one of
the project residents to stab or shoot me and kill the deal. I spent a night or two crunching the
payout and figured it could well be the last non-artistic work a man would ever have to do.
Served on a platter front and center sat the golden opportunity only a fool would ignore.
Here was damn near retirement in short order with no risk but the time required. My invest-
ment would be what the capitalist system calls sweat equity—except that the system vests no
equity in sweat. You plain won't find a sweat-equity buy-in, but there it was. Bankers scoff at
the notion, dismissing sweat equity as an oxymoron. Bankers are the first to insist that money
talks. Bullshit walks. Yet my two main lawyer and banker bubbas offered a one-third interest
in a multi-million dollar sellout with no money down. Damn. If that wasn't radical then I
didn't know what for—an aspiring artist slipped time and again on easy slang. It put the goods
at risk and was damn near impossible to avoid.
Never mind.
Quick and easy felt like a combo for success—along with honest value and minimal ex-
posure. Yes, financing was marginally legal, possibly illegal, but the end result would be good
for the buyers and us. We would go in with fire-rated sheetrock between each unit to get the
places in legal conformance to the condominium building code, then paint up, fix up and get
the hell out at 15% below market with below market financing available to buyers who could
qualify for the loan or not qualify.
