The American dream slipped out of reach at last minute

Tamiru Elboro wants a house. He and his fiancée attended the auction Saturday of foreclosed homes at the Minneapolis Convention Center after zeroing in on three properties in St. Paul, where the soft-spoken apartment-dwellers have lived for five years.

I came out of curiosity mixed with dread. Nothing screams what a sad mess we're in quite like middle-aged men in tuxedos and suspenders blowing whistles and leaping into the air to sell 300-plus homes at a steal on a sunny Saturday morning. Except maybe the sparse crowds milling around the nearby auto show.

While I was developing a big, fat headache, Elboro remained cool. As a shoe merchant in his native Ethiopia, Elboro, 40, knows how to bargain. The couple sat quietly among the 1,000 in attendance, waiting, gazing at the auction brochures in their laps and at each other with private smiles.

They came to the United States when the economy of their home country became untenable, leaving their families behind. They love it here and are grateful to be so embraced by their neighbors, who invite them to dinner and exchange gifts at Christmastime.

"If you want something, they help," said Elboro's fiancée, Hibedt, 32, dressed in a spring-like turquoise top and dangling turquoise earrings. "If you get lost, they are so patient." They'd like to dig in further. Buy a house. Be good neighbors for a long, long time.

More than an hour after they sat down, it was time to play ball. The spitfire auctioneer had raced through monster houses and condos, plots of land and cottages. He had reached listings 74, 74B and 74C. The couples' first choice, number 75 -- a 1,500-square-foot, two-bedroom condo in St. Paul -- was next.

Except that it wasn't. The auctioneer flew from 74C to 87. Huh?

They looked at each other, but didn't have time to think. Their second pick -- two-story St. Paul house number 88 -- was up. Except that it wasn't, either. The auctioneer jumped to number 89. At this point, they shifted nervously. One more shot, number 96, a sweet-looking farmhouse ... and ... and, no again. The auctioneer was shouting about listing 98.

The couple sat quietly for a long time. Then they got up and walked out, shrugging their shoulders.

Like a lot of us foreclosure freshmen, they didn't know that banks and other lenders can yank listings at any point without an explanation. Sometimes, a potential buyer, broker, assessor or banker finds a problem with the house, from plumbing to structure, explained Real Estate Disposition Corp. (REDC) spokesman Rick Weinberg, sounding genuinely sorry, and surprised, about Elboro's situation. "They didn't get to bid on any of them?"

Because auction brochures are printed well in advance, late deletions aren't reflected there. When houses are added, on the other hand, they are featured on a separate sheet inserted into the brochure the day of the auction (although I wonder who in their right mind would bid on something sight unseen).

Elboro wasn't the only one left in the dark. Another gentleman standing at the REDC information booth with a what-the-heck look on his face said his real estate agent had confirmed the night before that the land he picked was up for bidding. It wasn't.

To save future pain, Weinberg advises that everyone remember to check the company's website, www.auction.com, up to the day of bidding. It's something that "savvy and auction-experienced individuals are aware of," he said. In light of the issue, though, he said he notified "a couple different departments here and asked them to think about printing an insert showing the houses that were pulled from the auction."

Live and learn. Elboro was back at work on Monday morning at Marsden Building Maintenance, where he cleans offices. Disappointed? You bet. And still confused about the strange events of Saturday. Would he try a foreclosure sale again? "Maybe," he said. "Not yet."

Weinberg, on the other hand, is bullish. "We want to be able to help them find a home at a great price," the master salesman said. "They can call me directly, and we'll work together to make it happen."

I hope it does. Just please, no whistle.

Gail Rosenblum • 612-673-7350 • gail.rosenblum@startribune.com