The Cross-Sale Showdown: A Tale of Ego, Escrow, and Explosive Revenge
Many years ago, in the golden age of fax machines and dial-up modems, I found myself in one of those real estate transactions you never forget—and not in a good way. It was a classic cross-sale scenario: I had the buyer, and another agent—we’ll call him “John” (because legally, we have to)—had the seller.
Now, I’ve been in this business long enough to know that you have to be part Realtor, part therapist, and part hostage negotiator. Usually, I can smile, nod, and play the role of Oscar-worthy actor when faced with difficult personalities. But John ... John was in a league of his own. Think: a combo of Gordon Ramsay, a Bond villain, and a DMV employee with a God complex.
He was condescending, rude, and had the type of ego that entered the room 15 minutes before he did. I honestly think his email signature said:
JOHN SMITH, REALTOR® | #1 IN DEMANDS AND INSULTS
As the transaction dragged on, we hit every real estate nightmare on the bingo card:
- Missing disclosures 
- Last-minute appraisal drama
- Title issues
- John threatening to sue me over a misspelled name on an inspection report
I had reached my limit. So naturally, I vented to my great friend Shelby Cummings—legendary prankster, great Realtor, and one of my groomsmen (and possibly the only person who’s ever made me laugh hard enough to choke on a Tic Tac).
I told Shelby about John, the drama, and how I was seconds away from using my "For Sale" sign as a jousting weapon.
Closing Day: The Showdown
Fast-forward to closing day. I showed up early. The receptionist said “John” had called and he was very upset. She looked concerned, handed me the phone, and I braced myself.
John was FURIOUS. He was screaming, cussing, and then out of nowhere he dared me to come outside and “settle it like men in the parking lot.” It sounded like he wanted a Western-style duel right there at First American Title.
And in that moment—I lost all professional composure.
I yelled, “I’LL BE THERE!” like I was Wyatt Earp himself, slammed down the phone, and charged out the doors like it was Tombstone.
And there, standing in the parking lot… was Shelby. Laughing hysterically. He had called the title company pretending to be John. I had been punked.
It took me a solid five minutes to stop pacing like an angry bull. Once I cooled down, I laughed… but I made a vow.
Revenge would be served. And it would be served silently… like a fart in a conference room.
Revenge #1: The Fart Heard Around the Title Office
A few months later, I heard Shelby had a closing at the same title company. So, I did what any mature, level-headed adult would do:
I bought a remote-controlled fart machine.
I stealthily taped it under one of the chairs in the closing room before Shelby arrived. My timing was impeccable. The setup was flawless. This was going to be legendary.
Shelby walked in with his clients. Everyone sat down. I pressed the button.
Nothing.
Pressed again.
Still nothing.
I was dying inside.
Then, Shelby stepped out of the room. And that’s when it happened. The machine let out a sound that could only be described as “taco night at a biker bar.”
The clients looked mortified. The title rep looked like she was trying to hold in tears (of laughter or horror—I’m not sure). I, meanwhile, was crawling into a metaphorical hole of shame. The fart heard around the title office had backfired. Literally.
I apologized to the title rep, who thankfully had a great sense of humor. But I knew I had to regroup.
Revenge #2: The Catalog Catastrophe of ‘97
This was before the internet really took over, so I did what any genius would do in the late ‘90s—I subscribed Shelby to every “questionable” catalog I could find.
Here’s the list:
- Men’s European Banana Hammock Swimsuits
- Short Men's Fashion Weekly
- Lingerie for All Seasons
- The Incontinence Supply Depot
- A mystery adult novelty catalog that even made ME uncomfortable
And I had them all sent directly to our office. Somehow, the mailroom gods smiled on me because they ALL arrived the same day. The receptionist stood there, arms full of scandalous paper, and asked, “Um… is Shelby expecting all of this?”
His mailbox looked like it was curated by a retired Vegas lounge act with a bladder issue.
Final Thoughts:
Real estate can be stressful. Clients can be demanding. Other agents can be—well—John. But in the end, it’s friends like Shelby and moments like these that keep us sane.
Revenge might be a dish best served cold… but sometimes it arrives in a mailbox wearing a leopard-print Speedo.
