Byron Sorrells

I was going to write a book (about myself) called Turning It Around.  I decided that total sales might be < 10 units, so I decided to post it all here instead.  This is chapter two.

February 14^th of 2006 was a special day.  I won’t ever forget that.  However, the next few months wouldn’t entail much worth remembering, although I remember it vividly.

Fresh of the plane and straight from sunny California, I had the brilliant idea that I would dive right into the Manhattan real estate market.  I was, again, lured by the sound of easy money and the glamorous idea of peddling real estate in New York City.  Within three weeks of being a New Yorker, I had my real estate license in hand.  Not knowing anything and armed with little more than ambition, I joined a small, boutique-like brokerage firm on the Upper West Side.

Looking back, I couldn’t have made any more bad decisions!  I was living in Williamsburg, where I felt most at home, but working on the Upper West Side – practically another planet.  I joined a small firm, at which there was no formal training.  In fact, there were no formalities at all.  In hindsight, I think I may have thrived in an environment where coaching and mentoring were more available and structured.  Who knows, maybe I would still be at Corcoran or Douglas Elliman if that were the case.  I’m not sure how I feel about that.  I do know this, though:  Unless you have a massive cash reserve or a generous broker, the first few months can be tough as hell.  I was pounding the pavement, wearing through shoes (literally!), taking the subway ten or more times a day, and generally giving it my all, but nearly to no avail.

Just as I starting closing a few deals in May, I realized that renting apartments in Manhattan just wasn’t for me.  I hated charging someone 15% of a year’s rent just because I showed them an apartment.   That seems a bit off to me.  For example, I helped a sweet, young girl find an apartment near 18^th street and 3^rd avenue.  She had perfect credit, healthy savings, high income, and an overall ideal profile for a renter.  The management company was rotten.  They asked for the first and last month’s rent – plus an additional six months of deposit.  On top of that, I had to ask her for a fee of $3,240.  The broker gets half of that (which I think is outrageous).  I was pretty disheartened after all of that, so I just walked away.

By mid June of 2006, after only four months of being in New York, I had managed to live in three apartments.  I was now on to my fourth.  Through an acquaintance of Nicole’s, I was set to move in with two fellow Texans to a Williamsburg loft on North 3^rd and Bedford Avenue.  In 2006, this was pretty much the Mecca of cool.  I think I arrived in Williamsburg at its peak – yellow cabs were still a rare site and the air was always thick with judgment.  Gazing eyes from the lone coffee shop would pierce right through anyone and the Bedford Cheese Store was a bookstore then.  Now it’s an absolute cluster.  I don’t dislike it; it’s just a place that’s changing quickly.  I still live in Williamsburg as I write this, but in a much more relaxed location.  I ended up moving into the North 3^rd loft with George and Chris (and Emma) that June, never to see another day of real estate again.

With no job to wake up for and not a single responsibility to be held to, I found myself with a lot of idle time.  Up to this point in my life, excluding July 4^th 2005 and a few other choice moments, I wasn’t really a heavy drinker.  This was about to change – fast.  About six nights a week, the roof of our building was a party.  There were always people and plenty of booze – sometimes even music.  I drank, and I drank, and I drank.  I woke up hung-over, cleaned the apartment, and started to drink again.  It felt strange, but I just kept doing it.  I was broke, but I just kept ending up on the roof, not even needing to pay for anything.

This generally depressed me and I found it totally unacceptable.  I came up short for July rent and August as well.  My roommate’s mother was bailing me out and I had not a single job prospect lined up.  My mother, who can usually sense when something has gone awry, sent me a text message that read, “Do you want to come home?”  “Yes,” I wrote back.

After only six months, I had been beat.  I came to New York with so much ambition, energy, drive, and even several thousand dollars.  I was heading back to Houston with none of that.  I was in debt to several individuals and the credit was starting to pile up.  My mom, who has always been there to bail me out, bought me a one-way ticket to Houston for just a few days later.  I was terribly sad to leave New York and Nicole, but there was no way I could stay.

Living at home after having been gone for seven years was quite the challenge.  I didn’t really have any other option, so I was forced to adjust.  Julius was living in Tomball as well at the time, so at least I had my long time friend available to hang out with.  It was tough, though.  I was pounding coffee every morning in order to send out résumés and get motivated.  Unfortunately, my drinking didn’t really slow down once I moved to Tomball as I thought it would.  I just ended up at different places – drinking the same amount.  Places I hope I never go back to!

I applied at KB Homes, Kroger, Wal-Mart, etc.  I really did.  I even got hired at Wal-Mart, but decided not to take the job.  Although I appreciated the offer, I knew I would never make it back to New York by making $10 an hour.  I knew I had to aim higher.  I knew if I could make commission I could earn as much as my motivation allowed me to.  I knew there was a Nordstrom at the Galleria in Houston, so I decided to see about getting my old job back and selling a few more shoes.  By some strange coincidence, a good friend from California was now a manager at the Houston store.  After a few phone calls and a visit to the store, I was hired.  The only downside was a 45 minute commute to the galleria, but I was more than happy to make the drive.  I loved Nordstrom and I knew I could make good money.  I probably would have driven even further.

I made the drive back and forth and wore a couple of more suits to threads.  The endless running back and forth, kneeling, and climbing takes a toll on your body and your clothes.  Although I was starting to earn a bit of money and I got my cell-phone service turned back on, I wasn’t really aspiring to achieve much.  I talked to Nicole daily and the only things I dreamed of were seeing her and going back to New York.  Because New York was all I talked about, I met a gentleman who was a sales representative for a shoe company who also did business in New York.  He put me in touch with a shoe store there that might be looking for a young go-getter like me.

It was really hard to live in Tomball, TX after having lived in Austin, Orange County, San Diego, and New York City.  Really hard. My attitude wasn’t the best.  It ended up straining my relationship with my mother which only made me long for New York even more.  My tunnel vision and general lack of a decent persona led my mother and me to an argument that would be a catalyst for returning to NY.  I didn’t have the money, but I was going back anyways – no matter what.

You know how banks let you overdraft your checking account with your Visa or MC check card?  This is a pretty awful practice in my opinion, but that night I was glad the banks worked that way.  I only had about $50 in my account, but within an hour of my heated discussion with my mother, I was packed and had purchased a one-way ticket back to New York by over drafting my Wells Fargo account.  How would I get from JFK to Nicole’s apartment?  How would I eat?  I didn’t know or care.  I had one goal and that was to get back to New York.

I arrived in New York just a few days before Thanksgiving.  Nicole paid for my cab fare from the airport to her apartment and then fed me until I earned my first check.  The very next day, she also lent me her credit card in order to go purchase some nice looking clothes from H&M (such an unselfish, amazing person).  I had thrown my suits away in Texas – thinking I would no longer want to wear them.  I second guessed that decision a few times.  I made my way to an interview at Harry’s Shoes on the Upper West Side – again, not my ideal neighborhood to hang out in.

I was offered a job and started the next day, but it would be much less money than I was accustomed to making.  Nordstrom paid 10% commission – end of story.  The more you sell, the more you make.  Harry’s had a complicated incentive program with bonus levels and other hoops to jump through.  Their stock room was all in the basement and completely insane.  I felt so uncomfortable.  It was all I had though, so I went.  Well, I lasted about three hours.  Three! I wasn’t feeling it so I stepped out for a break.  I called Sarah.  I called Julius.  I called Nicole.  All three gave great advice, but it was Julius’ whose rang most clear.  “If it’s not fun, don’t do it.”  It was so simple and so true.  I walked back in and informed the manager that I would be leaving.  It felt so great to leave, but I was also genuinely worried that I had made a terrible mistake not having anything else lined up.

Nicole and I shared Thanksgiving together and I spent a few days reflecting on what 2006 had bestowed upon me thus far.  I started to think about what I would actually enjoy doing at a job.  How could I be mentally stimulated?  What would keep me interested all day long?  I knew the answer was somewhere within technology, but I wasn’t sure exactly where.  I knew I needed to be faced with challenges daily that required me to research the answer.  I knew I should be using Google fifty times a day instead of five — looking for answers to questions.

On Sunday, November 26^th, I sat in the Roebling Tea Room with my laptop and for some reason I decided to check craigslist.org for jobs.  I hit newyork.craigslist.org and clicked on “Jobs.”  I didn’t filter by category nor did I perform a keyword search.  I was looking at every job posting across all categories across all five boroughs.   A posting caught my eye on that first page of listings, so I read it and applied.  An EMR (Electronic Medical Records) software company was looking for someone to help out on the phones and provide support to its customers.  That was the only job I applied to.  The next day, Monday, the 27^th, I received a phone call.  I interviewed, got the job, and started on Friday, December 1^st with salary of $45,000.  I was beyond excited.  You’ve seen how excited a pageant winner get when she wins Miss America right?  I was about 1,000 times more excited than that.

Although I could write volumes about my time at IO Practiceware, that’s not so much the message I want to convey in this book post.   In a period of 16 months, I went from $45,000 to $85,000 and was offered ownership in the company.  I travelled often in the US and took a vacation to China to visit my little brother, Tyra.  I went from answering the phones to converting data, implementing new customers, and designing business solutions to help streamline our workflows.  It was an eye opening and intense experience.  I worked for a stretch of 35 days in a row at one point without a single day off.  There was never a break.  It was grueling.

On a positive note, my job was allowing me to travel consistently for the first time ever.  This had always been a fantasy of mine.  Let me diverge for a moment to tell a quick story about drinking at the airport.

∞

I remember a particularly excruciating experience I had on a connecting flight from Cincinnati back to NYC.  I had been working in London, KY on a software implementation.  We left Louisville and had to stop off in Cincinnati on our way home.  Our flight into LGA was delayed, so we saddled up at some Mexican restaurant in the airport.  This was a time when I was drinking every once and a while (okay – every day), so we naturally ordered a margarita.  I probably had two or three, plus some water.  No big deal.  Feelin’ great.  It’s time to go to the gate, so we walk over.  Our flight is delayed 30 more minutes.  What’s a guy to do?!  Oh, I know.  How about go to the bar and drink a 2500 oz. Budweiser.  Well, it wasn’t really 2500 onces, because that would be nearly 70 liters of beer.  The point is that it was a really tall beer that I consumed in a short period of time.  Time to board.

While I’m walking down the jet way I start to think, “Man… I’ve really got to go to the bathroom.”  Everyone was in a rush to get home to NY and the plane was completely full so I figured I could wait till we were airborne.  I take my seat.  While everyone is getting situated, I keep second guessing my decision.  Each time I start to get up, I decide not to.  I’m way too polite sometimes.  The only reason I didn’t get up is b/c I was in the middle of the plane and the entire aisle was chaos.  I didn’t want to slow down the boarding process.

Finally, we back away from the gate.  Thank God.  I figured it would only be a couple more minutes.  The captain comes over the loud speaker and informs us that the runway is packed and we are TWENTIETH in line.  Holy… piss.  Now what?

I ring the flight attendant bell, which they seem to despise anyways, but we were taxiing, which is a big no-no.  I told the nice, young fella how bad I needed to pee, but he informed me that if I was to leave my seat that the plan would be taken back to the gate and I would be removed from the plane.  That didn’t seem like a viable option to me, so I decided to stay put.

At this point, I’m rocking back and forth in my seat because I’m really uncomfortable.  The people next to me think it’s funny, but it’s starting to actually be painful.  I wait another two minutes and then I ring the attendant again.  This time he’s irritated with me and reminds me that I can’t get up.  I let another two minutes of agony go by.  I realize that I’m very close to peeing in my pants, so I unbuckle my seat belt and start to get up.  The guy next to me, probably from SI or Brooklyn, puts his arm out and says, “You’re not going anywhere.  You’re not taking this ****in’ plane back to the gate!”   Awesome.

My choices:

1. Pee in my pants
2. Brooklyn guy rips my head off
3. Plane goes back to the gate / I stay in Cincinnati for the night

2 and 3 were not options, so I was just going to go for it.  I was going to pee in my pants right in the airplane seat that I had to sit in for two more hours.  I’ve been embarrassed a couple of times, but this would have been an all-time peak of embarrassment… an all time high (or all time low – not sure which one).

This is where it gets ridiculous.  All of the sudden, I realized that I had a shopping bag with me that had some books in it.  I thought to myself, “Well a plastic bag is way better than my jeans and this seat.”  I turned to the people on my left and said, “Look you guys, I’m really sorry… but this about to happen.  I am in serious f’in pain and I don’t want to piss myself.”

I ring the bell one last time to try, but the attendant, furious with me at this point, says I have to wait until the wheels are off the ground.  Maybe that’s some post 9-11 safety rule, but I think it affected my bladder long term.  So, I empty the books out of the bag and start to reposition myself in a manner that would afford me the most privacy possible.  Awesome.  I couldn’t even think straight.  I was feverishly rocking back and forth with my fists clinched so tight and my eyes shut.  At that very moment the captain said, “Flight attendants be seated for take-off.”

The engine roared, the plane accelerated, and the very second the wheels were off the ground I unbuckled, bolted over the two people on my left, and actually ran down the aisle.  It’s a crazy feeling going down the aisle when the airplane is at such an angle.  That’s the only thing I really remember.  A few flight attendants jumped out of their seats and chased me because they didn’t know about the agreement I had with the other attendant, who said I could leave my seat when the wheels were up.

Long story long, I made it to the bathroom and I didn’t have to pee on myself or a in a bag.  I have since never had a drink in an airport.  I’m even afraid to drink water.  I’ll wake up at 8 a.m. and not have to fly until that afternoon, but I’ll try not to drink anything all day.  That’s a life changing event.

When we deboarded the plane, everyone was joking with me and asking if I was alright.  It was slightly embarrassing, but it could have been way worse.

So, yeah.  Don’t drink at the airport.

∞

I was travelling and learning, but things were not all good.  After about a year, I wasn’t always agreeing with my boss – and this became more and more intensified with every day.  As I look back, this appears to have happened plenty of times with all of my bosses and teachers.  Due to the increasing number of disagreements, our relationship started to deteriorate quite fast.  Towards, the end of my time at IO Practiceware, I was really unhappy at work.

Outside of work, things were amazing.  I had stopped drinking for over three months, was eating completely vegan, and I was playing music again with Julius in Greenpoint.  Things were really coming together fast and I was back to my old self on the drums.  It felt incredible.

On Tuesday, April 29^th of 2008, I went into work and I was told that I had been fired – last Thursday! I think my response was, “Cool.  Let me grab my stuff.”  I got it and walked out.  I was a bit shocked, but I knew it was for the best.

Throughout those 16 months, I saw a few apartments, Nicole moved back to California, and I went from being a severe, functioning alcoholic to a sober vegan.  What a roller coaster it was.  Little did I know, things were just about to get interesting.  Just as I was being fired from my job, two events occurred that would dramatically influence my life.  By some crazy twists of fate, I met a young lady named Alice while out on the Lower East Side one night.  Just after meeting Alice, on Sunday, May 4^th 2008, I was mugged by three guys in Williamsburg – just outside of the Roebling Tea Room.

Hmm… a broken wrist, no work, no music, and no clue what to do next.

I was going to write a book (about myself) called Turning It Around.  I decided that total sales might be < 10 units, so I decided to post it all here instead.  This is chapter one.

When in Rome… – Ron Burgandy

First, a bit of background.  I grew up in Magnolia, TX.  I remember passing by the green city limits sign on the edge of town, showing that our population was around 6,000.  That’s a lot compared to nearby Todd Mission, whose population was a whopping 54 according to the 1990 census (146 as of 2000).

I had an amazing, small town, suburban-America childhood.  I played little league baseball and basketball.  I built countless forts, fished, swam, ran, jumped, and played all day long.  My two brothers and I had ideal neighbors, the Taylors, who had three boys also.  Between the six of us, there are stories to tell for days and days.

Our house at 511 Kelly Road sat on about an acre and a third of land.  The empty lot next to us served as a baseball field, a race track for dirt-bikes and go-carts, and sometimes just a beautifully manicured lawn.  I volunteered to mow the grass at quite a young age.  It seemed like such an amazing, grown-up thing to do!  Although the interest died after the first few times behind the lawnmower, I would continue to maintain our lawn and a host of others all the way through high school.

My Nana and Papa lived down the street and were always there for us when we needed them.  They also had a golf cart and several driveways.  Their circle drive would fill up with heaps of leaves every fall.  We (mostly me) would rake the leaves into various patterns — making a mini city that included roads, shops, and laws to abide by.  My Mama and Papa Joe (my father’s parents), lived about 45 minutes away — closer to Houston.  There were an equal number of fascinating things to play with there, including a massive bayou out back, a working typewriter, building blocks, and a garage so full of stuff you’d never get through it in a lifetime.

Life was grand — for about 11 years.  We took vacations to Colorado, Nashville, Florida, and pretty much every other state that surrounded Texas.  The important events in life were All Star games, the toys in the cereal box (a major issue when there’s one box and three boys), and when the next trip to Lake Livingston was.      Then came the age of 12, at which I was introduced to death, divorce, and a move.  These are life changing events that will alter the life of any child.  Aside from my grandfather passing away, my entire world was now split over two homes in two different towns.  My mother decided to take a job and move to Tomball, about 30 minutes away from Magnolia.  From day one after my parents separated, I would vow to spend precisely 50% of my time with each of my parents.

The Tomball schools were supposed to be bigger and better.  I far as I can tell, they were.  I would go on to graduate from Tomball high school, mostly being interested in football and basketball.  I was rarely interested in anything I was studying.  During Coach Fowler’s Algebra II class, I once fell asleep right in the middle of an exam.  I enjoyed watching To Kill a Mockingbird, but I never read the book.  Coach Norwood’s American History was probably my favorite because he told stories and communicated in a personable way.  He was probably never given a golden apple, but he should’ve been.  He was a teacher of the year in my opinion.

After my senior year basketball season was over, I was left with a massive void in my schedule.  I had three months left of high school and I didn’t care about a single thing I was involved in.  In Mr. Eaton’s second period English class, I sat next to the very first friend I made on my first day of school in Tomball, Julius Myren.  Jam (his initials) and I met on the first day of 5th grade at Tomball Elementary.  We would continue to be casual friends throughout the years, one level above an acquaintance.  One morning in the spring of 1999, we were discussing our current favorite songs.  We decided to start a band.

Graduation would come and go quickly in the May of 1999.  I didn’t go to any graduation parties because I didn’t really drink or enjoy parties.  I found them utterly ridiculous and I was never comfortable.  I also hated the taste of Bud Light and liquor.  I found it repulsive at the time.  The few times I had tried to drink I ended up sick and wondered what the point had been.  With my leftover graduation money, Jam and I made our way to a music instrument convention at the Astro Hall in Houston.  I found a drum set, Jam found a bass guitar and amplifier, and we raced home to feverishly unwrap our new toys and become rock stars.  My new girlfriend Sarah, along with everyone else in the world, was highly suspicious of my new ambition.  As always though, she supported me 100% and was there every step of the way.

I should mention that neither of the two of us had ever touched a musical instrument.  Actually, I played the tuba for two years in 6th and 7th grade.  I can’t say that counts for much when trying to start a rock band.  We invited our friend Tim to join the band because he was a great guitar player already.  We knew we needed at least one person who already knew how to play (Tim would also get me my first computer programming job).  I could write an entire book about the trials, tribulations, ups, downs, blood, sweat, and tears that went into Second Class, but I’ll spare you the details here.  In short, we managed to achieve a moderate level of success through sheer determination and focused energy.  There was never a doubt in our minds that we would achieve the highest level of success.  We went from a garage and keg parties to Music Lab Studios in Austin, TX and the Warped Tour.  We sold albums all over the world through an online store and website that we created ourselves.  It was hard work, but it was heavenly.

While utterly consumed with Second Class, I also managed to attend the University of Texas at Austin.  Again, I completed my course of study, a Bachelor of Arts in Government and Economics, but with little enthusiasm or excitement.  I just wasn’t interested in what I was being taught.  I was still working for Tech-X Consulting, earning $9 an hour (which I was happy with).  I had been admitted into the College of Computer Science at UT, but I changed my degree to Liberal Arts at the last minute.  I sometimes wonder what life would be like if had chosen to pursue Computer Science at UT.

Looking back, my 23rd year turned out to be much like my 12th.  Things had hummed along for quite a while, but at 23, I would experience the end of my band, the end of a five year relationship, and the end of my schooling at UT.  Now what?!  I knew I needed more from life and I knew I wanted to see the world, but I wasn’t sure how to get started.  For 23 years, I had been involved with or told where to go and what to do — either by a curriculum, a parent, a girlfriend, or a rehearsal and live show schedule.  Now, I was starting with a blank slate and I was the only one in charge.

Because college was over and the band was dead (what an awful ending it was!), I was now fully responsible for my financial situation.  There would be no more allowance money from dad and no more CD/merchandise sales from the band.  I had a history of working retail jobs, so I sought out to work at the talk of the town, the new Nordstrom in Austin, TX.  In February of 2004, I started selling women’s shoes.  At first, I was awful!  I was slow, timid, and just an all around lousy salesperson.  My managers and teammates were very helpful (thank you, Denise) and instrumental in my improvements.  I still go back and visit Irma, who taught me so much about shoe sales and personal finance.

The truth was, however, I was bored in Austin.  I had been introduced to happy hour — and then any hour.  Can you believe that I didn’t know what happy hour was at 23 years old?!  I had no goals to work towards, so I ended up idle — drinking and dating.  It was fun for a minute, but I needed more.  True to my impulsive nature, I looked up the highest grossing stores in the company.  This led me to stores 220 and 320 — Michigan Avenue in Chicago and South Coast Plaza in Costa Mesa, CA.  Because winter was near, I chose Orange County over the bitter, absurd cold of Chicago.  I was finally leaving Texas.  I packed up my life into a U-Haul and drove west.  I didn’t even have a map.  I just got on I-10 and drove west.  I didn’t even have an apartment or a place to stay.  I did have work on Monday morning, though.

I had a loose contact who mentioned that she knew of an apartment for rent.  I called the individual who was leasing the apartment and he informed me that he wanted two full months up front.  I didn’t have that kind of money.  I was driving to CA with a few hundred dollars and a direct deposit that would hit in a few days.  I had planned on writing a check that would float for a few days (a stressful practice I would employ frequently for many years).  Somewhere in Arizona I panicked and called the only person I could think of, Sarah.  By some crazy twist of fate, her brother had been located by his job in San Diego just two days prior.  Todd would prove to be a lifesaver and one of the best roommates I’ve ever had.

For a month, I drove back and forth between San Diego and Orange County to sell shoes at Nordstrom.  For anyone not familiar with the trip, it was 75 miles of the 5 and 405 freeways each way.  These freeways are hellish.  It’s some of the worst traffic in the country.  If not timed properly, the commute time can double.  I barely remember these days.  I was hanging on by a thread.  I didn’t know a soul in Orange County and I was nearly falling asleep driving back and forth.  Something happened, though.  This was a fork in the road of life and I could have easily quit and given up, but that thought never even occurred to me.  I just kept on driving and kept on selling.  The gas alone was killing me (I was driving a 1998 Dodge Ram V8 truck).  I had to fill up every two days.  I would take short naps along the way in Encinitas, San Clemente, and Mission Viejo.  It was brutal.

After a month, a teammate at Nordstrom put me in touch with a friend and I found a place right next to the store in Costa Mesa.  A switch flipped and I became fully consumed with work.  I was no longer the shy, timid salesperson that took one customer at a time.  I was working six days a week, open-to-close, and I was on fire.  An assistant manager asked me, “Are you selling used cars out there?!  Your numbers are out of control.”  My paychecks were beautiful and, for a while, I was in the top 10 salespeople in the entire country for Nordstrom.

Then came the boredom.  I was burnt out and I had achieved my goal of the top salesperson at the top store in the country.  I tried a vacation, but I came back even more disenchanted.  I knew my time at Nordstrom was drawing to a close.  Just then, fate stepped in again when.  I got a call from Todd in San Diego who wanted to know if I was interested in a two bedroom apartment.  I spoke to my Mom on my lunch break and decided right then that I needed to move.  I knew I could transfer to a Nordstrom in San Diego, but I knew it would never be as grand as South Coast Plaza — and thus I would force myself to quit.

San Diego has the best weather in America and the lowest level of motivation in America.  I wonder if these things correlate.  Surely they must.  The main concerns are surfing, beer pong (which I discovered only when I moved to San Diego), and surfing.  My prediction was correct, the Fashion Valley store was good, but it was not great.  It would still take me several months to quit, however.  I didn’t have a clue what was next.  My time at Nordstrom was finished, but to this day, I still quote stories, policy, and procedure from Nordstrom.  It’s by far the best company I have ever worked for.  It’s the kind of company that makes you voluntarily drive to the DHL hanger at the Austin airport and hand deliver a pair of shoes to a girl who needed them for an event the same night, something I proudly did in the name of Nordstrom.

What came next turned about to be shameful, but I didn’t know it at the time.  Like a fish that sees the shimmer of lure, I saw the bloated numbers of San Diego mortgage companies.  The housing market was booming and I wanted in.  I could sell shoes, so why not mortgages?  I took a commission-only job at a gem of a company called Mortgage Options Financial (www.lendingresults.com).  The website doesn’t exist anymore, so I’m guessing they’re extinct with the result of the shady business operations that went on in Southern California during this time.

I sold five adjustable rate mortgages (ARM) in 2005.  I hated it.  I understood the product, but I was making cold calls to people who didn’t need these mortgages.  I was only proud of one out of five of the deals because I had truly helped that family out.  The other deals were very high loan-to-value, subprime, unnecessary deals.  These were the mortgages being sold off to Wall Street in order for them to package the Residential Mortgage Backed Securities.   I ended up getting fired from Mortgage Options Financial, thank God.  I had put my resume online with Monster and my manager came across it — oops!

In my final days at Nordstrom had a met a lovely young woman named Nicole.  She was a summer employee at Nordstrom, home from a summer break at Parsons Fashion School.  Nicole and I began seeing each other and I made a promise to visit New York City in the fall.  I had only been once when I was 15 with my mom and younger brother.  I got fired the day I got back from New York in October of 2005.  This was truly a blessing.   I spent the next five months next to the pool at our apartment complex in San Diego.  Todd and I lived in one of those fancy Archstone communities that was gated and way too expensive.  I have no idea how I made rent every month and I’m pretty sure Todd was a little worried as the 1st of each month approached.

Next to the pool, in my oh-so-awesome Southern California bathing suit (black Billabong board shorts with pink pin-stripes), I was voluntarily reading for the first time in my life.  As cheesy as it may sound, I started out with Rich Dad, Poor Dad.  My complete and total disregard for saving and record keeping had kept my personal finances in shambles from day one of being employed.  I had paid thousands to Wells Fargo in overdraft and bank fees.  Although I don’t regret anything — ever — I would like it if Wells Fargo would give me that back.  Rich Dad, Poor Dad was motivating and insightful.  Kiyosaki is right, the education system falls terribly short of teaching financial literacy.

After Rich Dad, I moved on to two other books that would profoundly change my life, Stephen Covey’s 7 Habits of Highly Effective People and Napoleon Hill’s Think and Grow Rich.  Whether I’m cremated or laid to rest, I want my little copy of Think and Grow Rich to be with me.  It means that much to me.  Covey’s book completely changed my lens through which I see the world.  I became much more aware that I am in complete control of my thoughts.  His breakdown of the word “responsibility” — the ability to respond — always helps me remember that I can choose how I react or respond to any situation.  Napoleon Hill’s book reminded me that anything is possible (like Kevin Garnett yelled  after the Celtics won the NBA title).  It reminded me that I had started a successful band without ever touching the drums.  It reminded me that the universe will work with me if I focus my energy and effort long enough.

With renewed confidence that I could achieve anything, I decided it was time to take another step forward.  This time, there was no question as to where.  With a pretty girl and an abundance of expensive real estate and opportunity, I was bound for New York City.  I decided to make a dramatic entrance and surprise Nicole.  It was Valentine’s day of 2006 and as far as Nicole knew, I was at a real estate conference in San Diego, her hometown.  In reality, I was on a Delta flight heading for LaGuardia airport.  As we made our approach up the Hudson river on the left side of Manhattan, I could see that all of New York City was blanketed in snow.  It was beautiful.  I could see how cold it was.  From above, it looked so peaceful.  I had left sunny, slow-paced San Diego for the brutal cold of an unforgiving New York City.

My dinner reservation was at 8:00.  I made it to Nicole’s friend’s apartment with all of my belongings (a whopping two bags) by 7:30.  I confusingly made my way Acqua Santa in Williamsburg just in time.  Anyone who has just moved to New York can attest that sometimes it’s impossible to tell which direction is which.  Everything looks the same!  I was seated at the table as Nicole’s friend Olivia led her in.  She walked right by me without noticing.  Olivia pointed me out.  My surprise had gone perfectly and I was now a resident of New York City.  Hmm… now what?

I was going to write a book (about myself) called Turning It Around.  I decided that total sales might be < 10 units, so I decided to post it all here instead.  This is the introduction.

Hi.  How are you?  Good, I hope.  Since I’m going to be talking from here on out, I thought it might be polite to ask you how you’re feeling.

This is not a book of advice or recommendations.  It’s a not a prescription for improvement or a self-help book on how to turn things around.  It’s just a short tale about how incredibly backwards and out of place my life had become and the short, fun journey I took to turn it around.

Who knows what tomorrow holds?  I don’t.  I felt compelled to tell my story because I know there are so many fellow beings out there who have met with defeat, failure, and negative bank balances.  Isn’t it an awful feeling to see a letter in the mail from your bank – knowing that it’s an overdraft notice?  How wretched!  The mental balance sheet failed again.

On September 1^st of 2008, I found myself standing on the New Jersey Transit platform waiting for a train to Manhattan.  I had just arrived from London to the meanest, most unforgiving city in America.  I had no job, no apartment, and a mountain of credit card debt.  To top it all off, I was on the down side of my first (and my last) experience with ecstasy.  These would be all the ingredients necessary for a perfect emotional storm.  I sat there next to my suitcase, wondering why I was about to try New York City for the third time – starting from my worst position yet.  At least in 2006 I came armed with a few thousand dollars and an insane amount of green, naive ambition.  This time I would truly be starting from scratch.

Today, things are better than ever.  In the last 18 months, I’ve paid off my debt, invested money in the stock market, rented a ski house for the season, traveled to Paris, Austin, L.A., the Hamptons, Houston, Nicaragua, Florida, and Kentucky, worked for New York City, started two businesses, loved more than ever before, and discovered a new sense of self worth.  I’ve read more books and written more in the last year and a half than I have in my entire life.  Things can change quickly if you have a burning desire and a willingness to learn.

Don’t give up on anything!

Byron Sorrells

Friday, May 15, 2010