Moving On
By
J. Price
Here
I am, 50 years old and beginning all over. It’s scary. Rushing to finish my
divorce paperwork, I continue to fill in the required spaces. I,
Pamela James, blah blah blah. OK, I hate doing this. Time for a much-needed
cup of coffee.
Even being caffeinated, it still
takes an hour to get through the legal mumbo jumbo. I push the stack of papers
that now represent my past, into a large envelope, which I seal, stamp then run
to the post office to finalize the difficult act. With a grand flourish I ceremonially dump the
envelope into the large slot. I think, “You can have that young, slender,
busty, vacant headed fool. She surely will love your snoring, smelly feet, big
beer belly, the long hours you spend watching TV sports, and smelling like
stale nicotine.”
These thoughts make me laugh. It
brings to mind how he thought a screwdriver was only a
drink. He never got the hang of a drill,
saw or hammer. Gee, what a winner. All these attributes combined with the
attention span of a gnat. That list
makes me realize I’m liberated. I needed a positive spin on this mess. Yes, I hadn’t
realized how lucky I am to be free of him.
I’ll send an early wedding present to the charming couple. A six-pack
and a bag of jerky will do the trick. I just Shucked Chuck! Wow. My first breath of freedom feels good and the
unknown before me can scare me into needing ‘Depends’.
As I walk through the house, each
room reminds me of little details our thirty-five years living here brought. I
can save $125 a month on gasoline alone if I move to town. Less demands on my
car, saving insurance and car repairs, since I’d be seconds away from all my
shopping needs. Hum, it’s time to stop daydreaming and go for a change. I’ll
put up a For Sale sign and see what happens. Besides I’m sick to death of keeping
this place ship shape. The house is old now and I’ve worked on every corner of
it long enough.
Using black paint, I carefully
construct “FOR SALE” in five-inch letters across a piece of white cardboard and
post it against my huge front window. It
can be seen from blocks away.
Thirty-five minutes after posting
the sign I hear a knock at the door. I brush imaginary dust off my blouse, plaster
a smile across my face. Now I’m ready to open the door.
My word, this scrawny woman standing
in front of me looks like a peeled apple left to dry out in the sun. “Hello,” I’m
careful to be friendly and hide my surprise at seeing her shriveled up face,
“May I help you?”
“Hello, My name is Wilma Wheezer. I
see you have a for sale sign up there in your window and I’m interested in lookin’
at your home. My young’uns are in the
car. I can’t leave’em there. May I bring ‘em in?” Wilma twists the strap of her
purse and nervously glances back at her car where heads are bobbing up and down
making it shake.
I look behind her, but the movement
makes it impossible to tell how many little children she is talking about.
“Well, I suppose so,” I say a bit nervous about inviting this family into my
immaculate home.
Wilma walks over to her car, opens
the door, and calls out ‘Ya ‘all get out of the hot car. We’re gonna look at
this lady’s purty home. Now yo’all behave, ya’ hear?”
Icy cold, in frozen horror, I watch
six youngsters who appear to be between four and ten years old, explode from
the little car. They make noises: monkeys, trains, jet planes, mechanical
Sci-Fi robots, and even one loud, dancing rapper. A sudden cacophony fills my
peaceful world. Shaking with trepidation, I take a deep breath and open up the
door wider signaling this circus of untamed animals into my home.
“Don’t fiddle around with what’s not yours.”
Wilma warns. “Ya’ hear me?”
I sweat in panic as they race through
the house with the speed of bargain hunters at a Macy’s sale.
Wilma walks into my living room and
expresses her pleasure. “My, oh, my I love the way you’ve decorated this
charmin’ room. You have so many lovely collectables that sparkle so nice and stuff.
Your beige carpet is new lookin’ too. I worry about how sturdy it’d be with my
young’uns.” She moves her head bobble doll style as she looks at everything. The
children have scattered like shot gun pellets into every room of the house. Noises
coming from down the hall send my heart pounding with fear. I start to leave Wilma to collect the
children when she says, “Show me your kitchen, I got lots of food to fix every
day and need plenty of space for cookin’.”
Facing Wilma, I point the way to the
kitchen. “Oh, my, then, you have updated everything nice and like fancy.” She
opens and shuts every single cupboard while ‘Oohing and Aahing’ over what she
sees. “I love that it looks like it’s right from HDTV with the open concept thing
goin’ into that big ‘ol family room. I can keep an eye peeled on the lil’ ones
while cookin’. Shoot, that wall can fit our 60-inch TV and I can watch it from
right here while I’m cookin’. ”
Maybe this woman is what they term a
‘lookie loo’. I gather strength enough
to tell her, “Would you please corral your children. My home is not a fun house
for their amusement.” I’m thinking of my cup and saucer collection given to me
by my grandmother breaking into pieces, and my miniature crystal animal
collection sprawled in shards across the floor.
“Well, I never,” Wilma looks at me
with a stare from hell, then softens it with a phony smile. “Sure, now. I’d be
glad to. They are just letting off a little steam from sittin’ in the car.”
She turns toward the hallway and
yells loud enough for my neighbors to drop and cover. “Get yourselves in here NOW, no foolin’ round.“
From every room of the house comes
thunderous pounding of the children’s feet heading right for us. They form into
a neat lineup facing their mother. I realize they can mind. I’m thunderstruck.
It was the last thing I expected. I face Wilma, “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“Sure, now I’d like to see the
bathrooms and bedrooms? Oh, can the kids go into your backyard and play while I
check the rest of the house out?”
I quickly think of the breakables in
the yard. Well, what the heck. They are more replaceable than my antiques.
“Sure,” I hear myself say.
She looks at every nook and cranny, “I
like that the rest of the house has wood floors.” She pulls a pen and wrinkled
paper out of her purse and begins writing copious notes. I’m surprised at the
care she takes making a detailed list.
“What’s yur askin’ price?” She is
looking at her notes as she asks.
When
I tell her $700,000.00 she doesn’t blink as she makes a mark on her paper,
continuing to ask questions. Age of the
house, cost of running the heating system, what the bills average was for air
conditioning during the summer, and any outstanding problems like a leak in the
roof, electrical problems, cracks in the foundation, any history of bug infestation,
average cost of sewer and trash, last chimney cleaning, taxes in this area.
Rating of the schools in this district, location of elementary schools, and
finally she lifts her head, faces me and asks, “Has anybody died in here?”
I answer, “No.” Now, that was weird.
By the time she finishes, I’m ready
to call a Real Estate Agent and never ever do this again. My head is pounding.
“Well,” Wilma puts the pen against
her cheek. She looks at me. Pauses, then digs into her purse and pulls out a
round bundle of cash, $2,000.00. She hands the money to me, “Will this earnest money be enough to hold
toward the sale of the house.
“Yes.” I hear myself say.
Just sign this receipt below where
it says $2,000 on this line. She points. We’ve been pre-qualified. I’ll take
the house. You get the papers ready and we can meet at Mid-Town Bank tomorrow,
say around 2PM?”
My jaw is open wide enough a buzzard
could fly in and not touch my cheeks. I just nod my head yes.
After she leaves, I check the house
and find all rooms neat and clean as though wild children had never been here.
Amazed and flush with relief, I
collapse into a chair, dizzy, realizing everything is moving too fast. What
have I just done? I’m way over my head
here.
At 2:00 P.M. exactIy, I meet both
Wilma and her husband at the bank. He looks like an old biker hippy, down to
the headband and tattoos. He has the preverbal beard that has been darkened by
the magic of hair dye. He seems as interested as a lap dog wanting a nap. Without
reading any of the documents, Mr. ‘Big Dog’ Wheezer, also known as Fred
Wheezer, signs on every line. “Yup, I trust my misses,” he says in a barely
audible mumble. The kids are sitting quietly against the wall. They don’t make
a peep. I’m amazed.
The house goes into escrow and the
usual safety checks are scheduled. Five
days after the papers are signed, an appraiser comes over. He is a pleasant
sort and introduces himself, “Hello, my name is John Plain, of Plain and Simple.
Yeh, I know, everyone makes fun of our name but they remember us.” He laughs
with a smoker’s hack. With his own ladder, he climbs into the attic, then goes
out back and checks under the house for bugs, mice, mildew, looks at the roof
for any wear and tear, checks the water heater and furnace including the vents,
inspects under all the sinks for sign of any plumbing problems, every place is
searched for leaks, and the house passes without a hitch. I am relieved. No
work order. Whew. I’m glad all my hard work has paid off.
Now, it’s time to settle into the
business of moving within thirty days.
THIRTY
DAYS! Reality just hit me. OMG! How do I
find a house, buy it, pack everything and move within thirty days?
I’m
about to find out. I just fell into the
rabbit hole.
To be continued