As we drove, Roger told me how they don’t really let you see the insides of a foreclosure property. “Why not?” I asked, surreptitiously lifting the bottle to my lips and taking a dainty swig.
“Well, because a lot of the time they still have somebody living in them.”
“So how do you—”
“Well, you can’t really. I mean, it takes an eye, and with a little time and energy you can go down to the county courthouse, or wherever they keep records, and you can get the plans—won’t tell you how well they kept up the house—but you can sort of count on them letting the place go to hell. People who default on a mortgage usually have other problems than being a flake about money. Still, I think with some binoculars and a telephoto lens you can get a pretty good idea of what’s going on inside—and sometimes …” Roger finished off his beer, dropped it behind the seat, and switched lanes. “Moron,” he shouted at the car in front of him.
“Sometimes what?” I asked.
Roger sniffed and gunned through a yellow light. “Sometimes,” he said, “you can sort of sneak in the back when they step out.”
“Roger!” I twisted around and craned my neck to see if we were okay. Sliding around in the back of the truck was a stepladder and some rope he had stuffed into a five-gallon bucket. I kicked a gym bag that was on the floor, which rattled metallically. “I’ve got to be home by six,” I sighed.
“That’s where you’re wrong, buddy.” Roger swigged his beer. “You don’t have a home. You see, that’s the disease, and old Roger has the cure.”
We drove for a while, drinking on the sly like we were back in high school ourselves, not teachers, but two dumb grizzlies looking for some hive to disturb. Roger constantly punched the presets on his stereo, so we never really heard any music, just a cascade of advertising and the tail ends of songs Roger used to get laid to. When I was just about to the point where I thought I would hit the roof, Roger swung his truck in an abrupt semicircle and came to a stop in front of a horrifying mission-style ranch house with its adobe flaking off in seven or eight immediately identifiable spots. Roger finished off his beer and then reached between my legs. His hand reappeared with a seventies-era pop-up Polaroid Land Camera. “Let’s do her,” he said, grinning.
Roger walked around whistling, but he looked about as nonchalant as a cop on roller skates. When he thought no one was looking, he brought the camera ineptly to his eye and snapped a shot, which he plucked from the front of the camera. As he continued his survey, he flapped the picture and glowered as it developed.
I rolled down the window. “You need me to do anything?” I asked. Roger shushed me wildly and continued flapping his picture. When the image came in, Roger looked at it briefly and then skulked back to the car to hand it to me. He repeated the cycle a few times until I had this poker hand of nearly indecipherable photos of a nearly uninhabitable house.
“I’m heading down,” Roger said, stealing furtive glances over his shoulder. “You watch my back.” Just as Roger broke for the laurel hedges, I saw a curtain in the house part, and a small wizened face peered out.
“Hey, Roger!” I called out.
He shushed me and threw himself against the bushes, and after a few seconds he crept on.
“Roger!” I called out again. I could now see the face of an old woman peering out the corner of her front window, looking right at Roger’s position in the shrubbery. “You’ve got somebody at three o’clock,” I hollered.
Roger glanced up just as the curtain dropped, then he inched forward. I saw the woman move into the kitchen and pick up her phone. “She’s calling the cops, man,” I shouted, and Roger came loping up the driveway, threw the camera into the truck, and we sped off.
“For crying out loud,” Roger said. “I need some intel on that place.”
“Well, she had your number as soon as you crossed the driveway.”
“Gimme one of those beers,” he said.
“Maybe we should wait until we know there won’t be any cops on our tail.”
Roger glanced in the rearview mirror and then forearmed a light film of sweat from his brow. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
I told him to watch the traffic rules. “They’re always catching the bad guys on stupid moving violations.”
“We’re not the bad guys,” Roger said. “The people who welsh on their mortgages are the bad guys.”
“Nobody wants to lose their house,” I said, propping my arm against my head and the lip of the window. “I mean nobody wakes up and says, ‘Today is the day I’m going default on my loan.’”
Roger looked at me with an expression that was half curiosity and half disgust. “These people have made a conscious decision to renege on an agreement most of the rest of the world seems to have no trouble keeping—they think it doesn’t matter what they do, that their self-centered attitudes have no effect on others.” When I grimaced, he said, “Look at it this way. Nobody’s out there with a gun to their head making them be homeowners. They could rent if they wanted to—plenty of people do—they could just sell the house when they run short, pick up the equity and put it in a money market for twenty-four months, rent, and look for something to buy when the time is right—but they don’t—they think someone is going to carry them. It’s irresponsible. You teach social studies, Steve. You should know this. Our whole system works because when someone signs a contract, we take them at their word. If we start letting people slip out of those contracts, we’re no better than a pack of hyenas.”
I had to hand it to him. His logic was completely consistent. And the pitch of his voice was compelling. Once he got going, he had the air of Jonathan Edwards in his rhetoric. These mortgage defaulters were just sinners in the hands of an angry god, and if they were the sinners and the bank was God, then who was Roger? The Lord’s destroying angel?
While Roger was cursing to himself about making a street approach with a whole bank of windows facing the road, the light changed and we came to a stop. Roger gestured to the right of the car and said, “When we come around this next block, take a look. A buddy of mine down in the courthouse told me a Cape Cod across from the grade school might be coming up in a couple weeks.”
I AGREED TO TRY THINGS out with Annie’s realtor. Third time’s a charm, right? I wish now that we had gone with her. Our lives would be unmolested. It was hard to see that then because there was, of course, nothing in our budget—plenty of things just out of it—but nothing that could just slide past the underwriters. This new realtor, Evangeline Raposo, was explosive for about an hour, but then she had us pegged as people whose tastes were beyond their means. I could see her squinting off into the distance, checking her phone, hoping for greener pastures. Her commission from one of these dumps would have barely covered her expenses.
“I’m sorry, Steven,” Annie whispered from the sloping room of a two-bedroom one-bath that would likely need a new roof in one to five years, depending on the drought. I ran my fingertips along a quarter-inch gap in the sheetrock that ran from floor to ceiling. As we toured the basement, I could see why the house listed like a barge: someone had cut one of the floor joists nearly in two to accommodate a “new” drain stack. The joist had since split along the grain completing the breach, each end of the joist free of the other, opening satanically, like a pair of shears.
The next house seemed a little more promising. I suppose in certain circles I’d call the neighborhood eclectic or something, but in reality it was just run-down. The cars parked along the street seemed mostly operational, and a trio of Asian girls jumped rope on the sidewalk one house up and across the street. I nudged Annie, as if to suggest our baby would fit in. Evangeline was having some trouble with the key box, and it seemed like her patience was wearing thin. I wandered around the yard, testing the dryness of the lawn with my shoe. Around the west side of the house was what looked like a small propane cylinder with a blue nozzle stashed away in the shrubs. I also noticed a couple of old jars full of a cloudy amber liquid lyi
ng in a pile of lawn clippings. As soon as we went into the house, Annie started rubbing her eyes and said she was having some trouble breathing. Evangeline opened a window and took a personal call on her cell phone. The house was clean and simple, with great leaded-glass built-ins.
“This is in our price range?” I asked.
When Annie came back into the living room from downstairs, her eyes were red-rimmed and moist. “Come down here,” she said, her voice hoarse and labored. I followed her into the basement and felt dizzy, like I’d spilled gasoline all over myself. “I think people used to make drugs in this house—I can’t stay down here,” she said.
I followed her back upstairs and out the front door. Evangeline had turned her chair and was continuing her conversation with her head half out of the window. Annie burned a line straight through the living room without stopping. I followed. When Evangeline saw that we were leaving, she placed her phone to her chest and asked if there was anything wrong. Annie told her that she was not in the market for a crack house. I had to cover my mouth and tell her that I thought it was methamphetamines they were cooking downstairs, but Annie just stormed out of the house and made a beeline for the car.
Evangeline followed us, clearly unaccustomed to moving that fast. “Listen, guys,” she said, her phone still pressed to her chest. “I’m really sorry about this—”
“Nope, that’s okay,” Annie said from inside the car, a tissue already in her hand. “We’re probably in over our heads.”
Evangeline looked miffed. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“We’re just—well, it’s just. We thought we could afford a little more than what you’ve shown us.”
“Oh, it’s not that,” Evangeline said, waving her phone. “I have to meet a client in ten minutes.”
We just let her go. She waved goodbye and started up her car, put her cell phone to her ear, and drove away. I walked around the back of our car and let myself in. Annie sniffed once and dabbed at her eye. “Are you crying?” I asked. She glared back. I said, “I’m not going to say anything.”
“Good.”
“I could, but I’m not going to.”
“Steven.”
I looked at my watch. “You want to swing by that other house? The one Roger and I looked at?” I proposed. “At this point, it couldn’t hurt, right?”
“I don’t care,” she said.
“It’s a nice house.”
“Fine.”
“The neighborhood seems okay, too. Kind of soon-to-be-hip.”
“I don’t care.”
“I don’t want to sound like I’m gloating or anything.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not even thinking about you.”
I put on a playlist I knew Annie liked and drove to the house. Right as we were turning onto the street, Annie lifted her head and looked out the window. As I began to slow, she scanned both sides of the street. “It’s the Cape Cod right there with the great trees,” I said, parking.
“You’re kidding. What’s a Cape Cod doing in California?”
I shrugged. “It looks just like my grandparents’ house, doesn’t it?”
She shrugged. “It’s got trees.” She was brightening.
“I told you. Want to get out?”
“No, I don’t want them to see us.” Annie said, scanning the property. “We can afford this?”
“I don’t know. It’s going up for auction so I don’t know what it’ll cost, but it’s worth a shot, don’t you think?” I watched the corner of Annie’s mouth curl ever so slightly. It was good to see her smile. I thought that perhaps she was gazing into the future with more hope than she’d felt for a long time. Her face softened. She arranged her hands in her lap like she was sitting for a portrait. I did not look at the house. I just watched her watching it, until she gasped.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Some man. Steven, he’s staring at us.”
“Where is he?”
She lifted her hand slightly, then stopped. “By the side of the house—near the bushes.”
You could vaguely see him, his head motionless, his lean body swallowed by the shadows of the shrubs. I did not want to start up the car and drive off. That would mean there was something wrong with our being parked on a public street. Still, we both felt strange, lurking about in broad daylight.
“What’s he doing?” Annie asked. The man was pulling the cuffs of his sweatshirt up to the elbow. As they swung into the light, you could see that his arms were thick and corded, one of them tattooed.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But don’t get all jerky. Be cool. We’ve got every right to be here on the street.”
“He probably knows we’re scoping out his house.”
“Sure. But he’s probably used to it by now. Roger says these auctions are public events. They get advertised in the newspaper. I’ll bet he’s had people gawking at him all day.”
“So he’s always already aggravated?”
“You want me to talk to him?” I asked.
“Let’s just leave.”
“Wait a minute. Maybe he’ll just go away.”
We watched him stand motionless in the bushes for the next five minutes until I said, “This is crazy. Let’s get out of here.”
When I started the car, the man stepped into the light, raised his arms, and pretended to slide and lock a rifle bolt. Then, he pointed his make-believe “gun” right at us, took careful aim, and make-believe shot. He pantomimed the recoil. Annie and I both jumped and felt immediately stupid afterward.
As we lurched into the once-quiet street, Annie said, “He’s still looking at us, Steven. He’s still looking.”
MONDAY AT SCHOOL, I ASKED Roger if he had ever come across something like that. He just nodded and poked the last bite of a salami sandwich into his mouth. As he chewed he said, “It happens, man. These people won’t stick to their deals. They act like they were asleep at the closing or something. It’s like they never even snuck a peek at their mortgage papers. I tell you.” Roger told me that most of the time they cave and go peacefully when they know the jig is up, but sometimes it takes the cops, and you have to file all kinds of papers and then they have to get a sheriff to go out to the house. “And once in a blue moon,” Roger said, “they have to haul the poor SOBs off kicking and screaming. I hate being around for that. I mean, if you can’t stand the heat, right?”
“Right,” I said, less emphatically than I meant to.
Roger yelled at a couple of kids who were lollygagging.
“What you need to do is get a spine, my man. As civilized as we think we are, we still have basic needs. Everyone wants to be up at the top of that guy’s pyramid about knowledge, beauty, and self-aggrandizement, but you need that stuff in the foundation. It’s survival and safety—food and water and shelter, my friend. When the caveman spears a mastodon, he guts that thing and drags it home. He’s got people to feed. Where does he draw the pictures of the hunt? Out on the prairies? No way, he does it at home. You can’t have anything if you don’t have somewhere to keep it. People aren’t tumbleweeds, Stevie.”
“I hate it when you call me that.”
“So get off your high horse about all this. Go get yourself a home, brother. Nobody’s going to walk up and hand one to you. You’ve got to get out and hustle for it. You’ve got to make it known that Iron Steve’s in town and people better step off.”
“Iron?” I asked.
“You are made of iron. The rest of them are feathers.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” I said, but I nodded sheepishly, then swept some crumbs off the table and into the palm of my hand.
“Auction’s tomorrow,” Roger said. “You want me to coach you?”
I nodded.
“You bring the cajones, I’ll bring the donuts,” Roger said. Then he shouted at the dawdling kids and told them they needed to be in class ten minutes ago.
ROGER DID BRING THE DONUTS, but there was no auction. About six o’cl
ock that morning the sky opened up, and it rained all day long. They rescheduled, but there was next to nobody there to hear about it.
“You could be sitting in the fabled catbird seat,” Roger said, screwing down the lid of his thermos. “When it’s rain on one of these auction days, all the namby-pambies stay in their holes, and a lot of the big-time players have to get on to other things. You could pull a good deal.”
I SLEPT ROTTEN THAT NIGHT. I dreamed I was a lobsterman whose leg got tangled up in one of his lobster pots, which was a strange dream to have, given the fact that I know zilch about lobstermen, but it was disturbing enough to rouse me from my sleep.
When I saw that it was only two thirty, I went to the fridge, chugged some milk from the jug, got my phone, and checked Facebook. An old college friend of mine posted a YouTube video of one of those late-night get-rich-quick real estate commercials. It was unbelievable: the guy in a cerulean blue shirt and yellow tie, smiling, surrounded by charts and mildly attractive couples, also smiling, telling about how they’d like to stay and talk but they should get down to the marina for their boat christening. From there I watched some Kimmel videos and a guy who BASE jumped from a building in Rio de Janeiro. After that, I fell asleep on the couch and awoke only when Annie came into the room and said, “It’s morning.”
In the shower, Roger’s speech about the cavemen returned to me in a single burst. All of a sudden I went from scrubbing my armpits to thinking about how Roger’s diatribe had gotten into my head. I love the guy, but I did not think he was smart enough to pull something like that off.
I thought of that strange man lurking around the Cape Cod, then wondered immediately what you call someone who has been thrown out of their own house by someone who does not even live in that house. I saw my father, whose decisions put us in this place. It chilled me, so I turned up the shower until the water was nearly scalding. In the searing heat, I washed my hair and then slumped against the tile away from the showerfall until Annie parted the curtain and told me to quit hogging all the water.
It Needs to Look Like We Tried Page 5