My nephew Mandrake dropped by Great Towers the other day.
“Uncle Jaron,” he said, “I’m thinking about becoming a property manager.”
I studied him for a long moment. “Mandrake… do you know what a property manager actually does?”
“No.”
“Well,” I said, “a good property manager looks after a condominium. If something breaks, they arrange to have it repaired. They work with the board, collect the dues, hire qualified contractors, keep accurate books, and make sure everything is transparent.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve heard there are other ways.”
“Oh?”
“I heard you can keep raising the dues. Then announce a forty- or fifty-thousand-dollar emergency assessment. Then hire lawyers.”
“Lawyers?”
“Yes. First you tell everyone you’re there to help the homeowners. Then the lawyers send frightening letters to the homeowners. It saves time.”
I stared at him.
“Mandrake, that’s not how it’s supposed to work.”
“I know. That’s why I wanted to ask you.”
“Well,” I said, “if you’re looking for an honest profession, property management can be a fine career.”
“But…”
“If you’re looking to get rich by being dishonest, that’s called something else.”
He frowned. “What exactly makes something dishonest?”
“Oh… I don’t know. Suppose someone hired contractors to remodel their own condominium, buried the invoices inside something called ‘Common Area Improvements,’ and mailed the bill to everyone else.”
He considered that. “I’ve never really thought of myself as dishonest.”
“Good.”
“But if dishonesty pays better…”
“Mandrake.”
“Yes?”
“You’re missing the point.”
He looked genuinely puzzled.
“I thought the point was making money.”
I sighed. “No. The point is protecting everyone’s investment.”
He looked around. “Is that what most boards do?”
“Most do. The overwhelming majority of board members and property managers are honest, hardworking people who volunteer an astonishing amount of time to protect their communities.”
“That sounds reassuring.”
“It is.”
“But…”
“There have been a few exceptions over the years.”
He nodded slowly. “What if someone wanted to see all the receipts?”
“I’d think that was a perfectly reasonable request.”
“And what if they kept asking?”
“I’d probably show them.”
“And if they asked awkward questions?”
“I’d answer them.”
He thought about that. “You really aren’t management material.”
“I’ve been told that.”
He stood to leave.
“Uncle Jaron?”
“Yes?”
“If I ever become a property manager…”
“Yes?”
“…promise me you’ll never let me manage your condominium.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d probably spend the first few months convincing everyone I was honest.”
“And after that?”
“I’d have to start acting like it.”
Somehow, that was the most honest thing he’d said all afternoon.
Author’s Note: This is a work of satire. Mandrake is fictional, the conversation never happened, and any resemblance to actual people, condominium boards, property managers, lawyers, homeowners, provinces, states, countries, galaxies, or parallel universes is entirely coincidental. Canadians have been telling stories like this for generations. They apologize afterward.
