March 24th, 2008
S.B. came down as I was finishing up yesterday’s entry. She was busy with laundry, but stopped to ask how I was doing.
“Great!” I said. And I was. We’d just finished up a fine Easter morning. Little Man’s Easter basket hunt. A big breakfast of omelets and sausage. We were nearing nap time. For all of us. And I had just realized that I was about one hundred pages into this book. This collection of journal entries, which I aim to call A Year in This Life.
“I’m about one hundred pages into our book.”
She knows the book. I mention it often. She smiled. Is pleased, I can tell. That I’ve been working.
It might not be bringing in the money we could use, not providing us the financial security a family needs for the future, but at least I’m at it. Trying.
She came over. Rubbed my shoulders.
“Did you write about all the crap with the house?”
Suddenly, I’d realized I hadn’t. I’d only written snippets about it.
“No, but maybe I should. Especially with the way things are going.”
“They’re raking us over the coals,” she said.
She was right. We’d already made one offer that wasn’t good enough. Been screwed out of our five-hundred dollar deposit. And made a counter-offer that would not be accepted by the listing agent until we faxed a pre-approval letter to her. With less than 24 hours notice. On the Saturday before Easter. She was getting rude and pushy. Threatening us with multiple back-up offers. What she didn’t realize, I suppose, is that we are not only customers, but human beings. People with just as many smarts and connections as her and her little real estate brain can muster.
We made a few phone calls. Had the letter faxed with half a day to spare, but figured it would not be the last blast of hot air we’d hear, or the last hoop we’d have to jump through. I wouldn’t have been surprised if we’d had received a call Easter morning, asking for us to produce fingerprints and hair samples of the Easter Bunny.
But we made it through without incident. Enjoyed our day. Talked about the house, but only a little. Very much aware that this deal could fall apart just as likely as it could fall through. And so far, today, we’ve not heard a peep. Not a thank you for putting up with us and meeting our unrealistic demands. Not a so sorry for your inconvenience. No we apologize for bothering you on the holiday weekend.
Strange, I think, how sick people get when they lose sight of others. When they think only of themselves and their own bottom line. Sad, how our world’s headed so blindly into ignorance and selfishness, how more and more people are living lives without roots, or a solid foundation. Frightening to see that words cannot be trusted, handshakes are shoved aside, and deals sealed in ink can easily go awry.
But all of that’s for another day. Where we are now is where we were at yesterday. In the basement. Me finishing up an entry. S.B. doing laundry. Our conversation about being “raked over the coals”.
“They are making it miserable for us, aren’t they?”
“They sure are,” she said. “Those bastards!”
“Bastards, indeed,” I said.
I sat a moment. Thinking about the house. The opportunity for us to start our little family off on the right foot. In our own home. Large city lot. Two-car garage. An upstairs. Nice kitchen. Two extra rooms that we could use—one for an office, one for a guest room. And I wanted to write about the house, how Little Man and I found it by driving around aimlessly one day. How the three of us had stopped at it and drove by it at least a dozen times. Silent. Just looking. At the house, the garage, the yard. Me and S.B. secretly hoping that finally, we’d get a break. That things would fall our way.
But I knew I couldn’t write about it. Not yet. We were only days away from knowing for certain, and a month from closing if all went as planned, but I could not write about it. Writing about things too soon is like talking about stories before they’re done. It’s bad news. A good way to jinx good fortune.
I rose up. Stretched.
“The book though…I think it’s good. Not something that millions of people will want to read. But it’s for you. And for Little
She smiled. I walked to her side. Started taking things from the washing machine. Handing them to her to put in the dryer. It was still new and amazing to me. That this beautiful, artistic, good-humored woman could ever possibly love me. That two people could feel so connected. Like they’ve known each other since the moment this place came about and was sent wheeling through the cosmos. That they could stray so very far from each other, but come back as if nothing had ever happened, as if their time apart were only seconds. Slight movements in time. Like fingers tapping out this journal entry.
(copyright © 2008 by k.j. stevens)