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People in Glass Banks... yadda yadda…
Back in
July I found the perfect house. It was a pale blue two story, almost a
hundred years old with immaculate antique woodwork, four bedrooms, a study
and the cutest little window seats you ever saw. Beveled glass windows
lined the dining room and each time I would take a tour of this house, I
could imagine my mother's dark oak dining set and china cabinet setting off
the atmosphere. The doorways were high and curved, inviting you into each
room. The kitchen was huge with an "island" in the middle for cooking. I
planned on putting one of those brass hanging pot and pan holders above it
for ambience. Carpeting was unheard of. Wooden floors reverberated the
steps of my boots as I'd slowly walk from room to room, taking it all in.
The upstairs bathroom was set at an angle, almost having a triangle shape to
it. It had a walk in linens closet with a secret area behind it that led to
the attic. Did I mention the spacious fenced in back yard with large
overgrown pine trees? Or the basement that had once been a multi-roomed
wine cellar back in the day when people cared of those things?
Oh, it
needed some work. Lots of paint downstairs, some electrical work upstairs
and enough drywalling to keep my hands busy for several weekends to come,
but you know… I loved the idea. I couldn't wait to don my grubbiest jeans,
pull back my hair and exhaust every ounce of energy I had on this place.
I've
been building or remodeling houses with my father and grandfather since I
was three years old. All my baby pictures are of me pouring cement or
laying shingles on a roof. Who needed building blocks when you could
install a shower unit? Why wear pretty pink dresses when large clunky
wellies were all the rage on the building site? As an adult, I've never
wanted a new house. As a romantic adult, my dream was to someday find that
old forgotten house and breathe life into it again. This house on
Washington Avenue was my dream. I went through it twice. Had my father go
through it with me another two times. Then, just for an excuse to see it
again without seeming anal retentive, took my grandfather through it. They
saw it through my eyes and immediately knew I had my name tattooed all over
this place. I began to daydream of it, refurnish it and just for fun, even
change the furniture I hadn't even yet moved in, around in my head.
I knew
the young fellow who owned it. I also knew how much he paid for it because
his mother has been my accountant for years and likes to brag of her
children. In those regards, I also knew this lad had to move out of town
for the bank, his ex-wife and a posse of bill collectors wanted his head on
a pike. He paid 70k. He asked for 80k… and had done nothing but let this
beautiful home fall to ruins. I offered 67k and was rejected, but stepped
aside knowing he'd have to reconsider. He had deadlines to meet whereas I
didn't. I knew once the bank got their hands on it, I'd be sitting pretty.
The
bank repossessed it two months ago and put it up for sale at a mere 59k.
When I heard this, I rang my father breathless and in those happy drama
movie tears. It was a sign! I was practically being handed this dream of
mine! After talking to him, I called my realtor and the bank and put plans
to action full force.
Okay,
here's the part where the nice glowing feeling turns into horrid rejection.
My
credit history comes into play. It has a few marks, but nothing to bat an
eye at. All credit cards are paid off. All bank loans paid off. I only
owe money on my car and that's no big deal. BUT… the crafty banker lady
finds something she's just not happy with. It's a $105 debt from 1994. I
had switched insurance companies then and still owed the other company
$105. The company didn't find it a problem so wrote it off without
contacting me. So then what's the problem? It's only a hundred dollars!
Barely even a weeks worth of groceries! The bank lady says she'll only okay
the mortgage loan if that back bill is paid. I call the insurance company,
who has no records of it but lets me know they'll do what they can to have
it erased from the credit history, but that I should give it 6 to 8 weeks to
clear. Meanwhile, they'll send me a letter stating that it's not a problem
and that it will be taken care of… something I can show the bank to appease
them. I get the letter within 48 hours and it's nicely written and very
professional. I could have kissed them for being so helpful had they not
been located in Maryland.
But
the bank is not appeased. They don't want an official letter. They want to
see it wiped from my history. No begging, pleading, or even my elderly
grandfather calling them to say they made me cry (I'm dead serious. Never
upset his eldest grandchild) made them move things ahead any faster. This
banker lady HAD to see, in her hands, the thin little line erased from the
history.
Long
story short...
That
house sold today. One week 'til my history would have been clear enough to
appease the bank, and the house sold. POOF! The dream is gone. So now I'm
sitting here, imagining it being chopped up into a triplex with wayward
tenants who'll scratch the flooring. And yet, another thing creeps into my
mind. My job.
The
banker-bunch eats at my restaurant every day. EVERY day. They each get a
half salad and a glass of water with lemon and all one zillion of them ask
for separate checks. They yadda-yadda on their mobiles, and spread their
little number filled pages all over the tables. So important they look in
their little bank lady suits with their little sensible shoes. They look
like librarians with an "edge".
One
day recently, they couldn't make it in due to a most important meeting of
the minds so they ordered about $200 in take-out. I know this because when
they called to place this order, one of the new girls put them on hold………
for 38 minutes. Yeah. 38 minutes. A few days ago my first comment was,
when the manager brought it up, "What kind of a tard stays ON the line for
38 minutes?" Now I'm glad their little Number Nazi army got told to wait
for an incredibly ridiculous amount of time. Should they call again, and
should I answer, I'd be half tempted to say, "In six to eight weeks you can
have your salads, but first, I'd like to clear up that $.50 tip you left me
last July."
That
said, I'm off to bed. My subconscious dreams rarely disappoint me. When I
wake, I'll try to be chipper and non-biased as I search the neighbourhoods
for my next big let down. That is, after I've pulled my money from the bank
and placed it under my mattress like a good bitter girl should.
Oh,
and after I've had my grandfather place another call. |
