Limbo
Holy cow it’s
almost February, short month coming up. The time is going by so fast, and I
feel like I’m running in a swimming pool. Unending, these last days. Appraiser
came and looked around our place, no problem as we’ve sold for less than what
it’s worth. Amusingly another offer has been made. For more money than our current
would-be/ might be buyer, offered. We learn we can’t jump to the higher offer .
. . one of those papers we signed. I think I have signed initialed and dated
over fifty papers now, the latest an agreement with the new offer. The house
will be theirs if the first offer decides they don’t want the place, can’t get
the loan . . . or whatever. This took another fifteen pages, over fifty
signings, dating, swearing to: ‘Yes. I
have read this.’ Signed and dated.
“You don’t need to
bother reading,” we are told. “It’s just the same old boiler plate. Initial
here and date.” Our agent points to a blank space, and I fill it with my signature.
“Initial here,” she shows a handmade +
someone has penciled in the margin. I put my initials in the top right corner.
Lou puts hers in the left. The might-be buyers will initial the bottom
quarters.
I remember
the story of a jet pilot about be lunched from an aircraft carrier’s deck.
Being hooked up to a catapult that would hurl the plane off the deck at over
100 miles per hour. Kind of like a slingshot. The pilot looks into a steel
framed window some distance away and makes eye contact with a lowly corporal .
. . an enlisted man, nineteen or twenty who will throw the switch when the
pilot signals he is ready to go. If the switch is thrown even half a second too
soon some very bad things will happen to the plane and pilot. A moment of totally
trusting someone you don’t know. You hope they
know what they’re doing, and are not
having a bad day. I remember an Arab proverb: “Never put your trust in the
hands of a Stranger.” Good advice, but sometimes there’s no choice.
Agents are interesting,
and there are several kinds. 1. The average hard working lady, with her
following of might-be buyers. She is simply dressed, nothing fancy, homey. 2. The well dressed lady, good clothes, big diamond ring. 3. The the
sexy lady . . . twenty . . . maybe thirty something. Wearing knee high boots and well
made up. Good looking , sharp. A barracuda. Almost everyone looks young to me
these days.There are also men of course, but not that many,
4. There are Asian
agents who bring Asian clients who are almost sure to ask if there are other
Asians in the neighborhood?
“They’re everywhere,”
I tell them. “Over there, across the street, and right next door . . . Korean.”
We’ve got everything: Three whites, two blacks, Samoans and Dominican Republic.
We’ve got ethnic covered. It’s a good neighborhood, with housewives who keep an
eye on things. Years ago there were old ladies who sat by the window and watched
the street most of the day. “Who’s dog is that?” My aunt once asked, with a
pair of high powered field glasses in her lap. “I ain’t seen him around before.”
Grandmas
are mostly in the old folk’s home these days. Watching TV and waiting to die. Our
modern housewives don’t have time to sit . . . stay on the move but always watch.
They keep an eye on their kids, and an eye on the street . . . and the neighbors.
I trust them to pick up my mail when I’m gone on a trip. They come over to feed
the cats when we’re gone, and come call to tell me I’ve forgot to close our garage
door. They call police if anything looks funny, and they e-mail goings-on,
things neighbors should know. As good as it gets. We might be that lucky again.
All Swedish of course and not many of them, maybe a dozen houses. on a semi cul-de-sac.
I’ll be the immigrant, the new guy who
can’t speak the language. What will that be like? What are their feelings about
Americans?
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