Anniversary

Today, I was on a plane to New York. It wasn’t until after take-off did I remember, exactly one year ago, to the date, I was on another plane to Morocco. Both journeys were last minute decisions, but that’s about all these two events share in common.

Everything was perfectly in place when the opportunity arose to leave the country. Work was dwindling to nil, there was a contract on the condo and I was more than ready for an adventure - oh, and newly single. Because of my “adopted” family in Morocco, I had been considering a long trip and possibly permanent relocation to the land of the Red City and Gnauoa music.

A few months before leaving for Morocco, I broke the silence between me and Daniel since he disappeared and went to jail (the first time). He left me high and dry on our investment properties where we were “partners,” but all the deeds still had only my name on them. Since then, I did a Quit Claim Deed on one property, was discharged for bankruptcy and another investment succumbed to the grips of foreclosure. After a grim assessment of my domicile reality, I was ready to get ahead of the curve and look into the option of a short sale for my Tree House. Chase, my friend from two buildings over, was still a client of Daniel’s. Actually, Chase and I started this whole real estate “venture,” as partners, sorta. (But that’s another blog entry.) So he had more than one investment that Daniel was working on and finally one day, I couldn’t resist and asked about our crooked broker.

“I don’t care one way or the other about him,” Chase expressed his disinterest, “I just want to get rid of these properties and Daniel knows their histories better than anyone.” “What do you think,” I solicited for Chase’s opinion, “should I contact him about the condo?” “You know, TS, I think he might be trying to make up for what he’s done by helping people like us with short sales and modifications.” “Okay, gimme his number,” I was ready to bury the hatchet, the Paul Bunion sized hatchet and move forward. Hindsight now reminds me, that I was also thinking it would just be easier to do this through Daniel since he already has my files and knows my quirks. *Note to self: there are no short cuts, so stop looking for them!

He didn’t seem at all surprised by my call. “Come into my new office to get your file started. You’ll be working with Shari.” Daniel made it sound like this was his operation. “Wow, he’s resourceful,” I thought - considering he was fresh out of jail and supposedly lost much of his net worth. Actually, it wasn’t even his office. More accurately, he was working for Shari. Daniel was the master of positioning.

Of course, he was nowhere to be found the morning of my appointment with Shari. I was borrowing from Will’s attitude and didn’t care about Daniel or his positioning, my interest was to keep the condo out of foreclosure, even if that meant eating crow in Daniel Howard’s (employer’s) office. The meeting was going swimmingly with Shari. She was personable, down to earth, extremely professional and also a meditator. We were old friends fast. Okay, so, time to get to business. Wait. Did I just see what I thought I saw? Yeah, I’ve got eagle eyes and can read a street sign from 1/4 of a mile away. Danny boy left a sweet little stickie note for Shari inside the folder they started for me. She didn’t think I’d see it, but I did. “Tara Shea is a bit of a flake. Don’t let her ....” that was all I needed to read. Shari was speaking to me at the time I noticed the incriminating introduction, but it felt like my ears were stuffed with cotton balls, my head like a pressure cooker. Did I lose my cool? Oh no. “I want to let you know something about me,” I leaned in on the glossy conference table toward Shari after we were finished with the details, “I got into this investment game long before I was ready and foolishly followed ill advise. You’ll soon see,” here comes my defense, “I am a very smart girl - however, I am not at all clever with this real-estate business. It’s all been very confusing and boring for me. Just because this industry’s red tape and jargon gives me glazed eyes does not make me a flake.” There, I said it. She heard me clearly, compassionately and responded with sharp insight. “I know who Daniel is and I know his story very well. He is putting in his time to fix and clean up some of the messes he made. Daniel is a proud person but also ashamed of how he’s conducted business in the past. Between you and me, I can tell you that I call him out on his shit all the time. Tara Shea, I think he‘s learned his lesson too, honestly I do, but I also keep a close eye on him.” She was humble, sincere, strong and comforting. “Besides,” she added, “he can’t do business the way he did before. Banks are clamping down on that kind of fraud.” There, she said it.

Shortly after reuniting with my shady broker, I got a voice mail from Kia. Her and Daniel had a partnership of their own for a few years. She trusted him so much that he had full power of attorney with her investments. It got to the point that he would call Kia, inform her that she had a closing and needed to sign documents, or he will sign them for her - without her even being aware that she was buying or selling beforehand. For three months, I lived in her shoddily converted garage/spare bedroom before buying the Tree House. Living with her was a temporary solution to homelessness. When it was time for me to move, there was no drama, yet she never returned my phone calls nor did she ever let me know that the IRS continued to send mail regarding my S-Corp to her address. (Yes, even after I submitted the proper change of address forms through a hired accountant). That slovenly, portly, red-faced wench later wanted MY help. I heard no response from her for two years and was still paying off penalties to Uncle Sam when she finally decided to call - expecting what, a response?!? Anyway, big surprise - things went sour with her and Daniel’s racket. Not only that, but her mom got suckered into the investing game with Daniel too. Kia was trying to lasso me into their camp to testify against Danny Boy in the case they were building against him. She called and left all this information in messages three times, none of which I ever acknowledged. I needed Daniel, even though there is a sadistic part of me that wanted to see his nuts in a vice.

On the heels of Kia’s soliciting messages, Daniel came to the Tree House with a potential buyer. It was the first time seeing him since his “disappearance.” Initially, I wasn’t going to say anything, but he was clearly putting in an effort to help me. Then as the party was leaving I asked to speak with him for a moment privately. He stayed behind and I told him about the messages. There was not even a flicker of concern in his eyes. This, as he explained, is part of the business. Someone is always trying to sue him. Although I showed no interest in the story leading up to her calls, he was sure to give me the gory and verbose details. Some things never change.

Several months passed where nothing much happened other than a few showings of the condo; and one other small thing - I fell in love. After only one month, I invited him to move in with me. Jordan worked on yachts and was in town until he found that perfect deck hand job that would take him away again. It didn’t take a psychic to know that this wasn’t a long term thing, but then he did everything he could to stay and work here in Fort Lauderdale. One morning he said to me, “How can I leave now? I can’t leave you here...” There was a richness and depth to our knowing of one another, but in my bones I knew, this was going to burn up fast and I was okay with that. Did I mention that he’s not a U.S. citizen? And still he swore that this was it, I was the one and he would do whatever it took to keep us together. So, I finally bought into the fairytale and allowed my heart to get far too involved. We lived a charmed romance; that was until he landed a cherry of a gig on a big ass boat. No surprise he took the job. It was really the best option; his visa was running out. Jordan insisted that we were still moving forward with our “plans.” I was to meet him in San Diego after the boat finished its passing through the Panama Canal and up the Pacific side of Mexico. We would pick up odd jobs at the ship yards while I got my boating certifications and look for placement on a foreign flag vessel where we could work together. There was nothing else holding me here in South Florida. After all, there was a contract on the Tree House now and Daniel was confident of its approval by the bank. Just a matter of perfunctory protocols.

My mind was in “relocation,” mode. I didn’t know where I was going to go, but I was going. San Diego? Stewardess on a yacht? Start our own sailboat charters? Then the call came, “I want out,” he breathed heavily into the phone one morning. The Jordan I knew was gone, and now there was this unrecognizable, callous, hollow man speaking at me. It was over. There’s no point in arguing when someone wants out and I had no idea where his decision was coming from. My heart sank into a sickening sadness that I never want to visit again.

For a week, I was unable to function. My Moroccan family had a couple parties where they were expecting me; Tata (I call the mother “auntie” in French) and Baba (the father)were in town for only another 10 days. Finally, one week after the love of my life heartlessly dumped me with no explanation, I climbed back from the depths of a catharsis and forced myself out of bed to visit the family. “Where were you?” Tata asked me with her thick French accent. “I was sick Tata.” She gestures as if to say, “What’s wrong with you??” “I had a broken heart,” I gestured the crushing of my heart in front of my chest. “You come. Morocco. With me.” “Yes, Tata. I will. Someday, I promise.” She said something in French to one of my sisters. “She means now,” Gina translated for me. Tata looked at me awaiting my answer. I thought about it....the condo was closing, I’m totally broke and so is my spirit, this could be an adventure... “Sure,” it didn’t take long for me to come to the answer.

I had 10 days to sell, donate or dump all of my belongings, list my car on Craig’s List and arrange to give Daniel Power of Attorney for my closing, which he was sure would happen in the next 60 days. The plan was to stay in Morocco for at least three months all the while looking for my niche to start a new life there.

Then there was Govi. My precocious Tonganese cat. Govi is a most remarkable creature and taught me so much about love. After interviewing four potential new homes, I met the right family for my furry beloved. Three days before leaving the United States, I deepened that crack in my heart and gave away sweet Govi to a stable home.

While in Morocco, I learned from Daniel that I am entitled to the escrow money on another property where a buyer “walked away” from a contract (See entry, “Wonderful News!”). As for the contract on the condo, when I had any communication with my broker it was, “Any day now.” The night before I left, I got a call from Jordan. Something awful happened - he got kicked off the boat and was flying into Miami the same night I was heading out for Morocco. He needed someone to pick him up from the airport and eventually a place to stay. I gave him the number to my best guy pal, Alejandro. (We all spent time together for Christmas and New Year’s that year.) Then I sent a copy of the Tree House’s keys to Alejandro’s apartment knowing that my anal retentive friend would not be able to handle a roommate for long. Jordan let people in to see my condo when the calls came for appraisals and other business. “Any day now, it could close” I parakeeted to him when we spoke on the phone. No matter, he and Alejandro found they didn’t mind small quarters between the two of them so much and Jordan moved into Alejandro’s studio apartment after staying a couple weeks in the Tree House. I hope they live happily ever-after.

Things weren’t working out for me in Morocco. Yeah, I know, “shocking,” huh?. I was too clumsy and didn’t understand their ways of social hierarchy. There were so many “rules,” of conduct. I found it confining and a sure way for me to struggle. Five weeks into the trip, I started thinking about jumping ship and coming back to the United States. Luckily, my car didn’t sell. Before departing for Morocco, I had communication with a buyer via email through a posting on Craig’s List. They said they had a speech impediment and did better with email. Then, the arrangement was that I was to ship the car after their check came in. Yes, I was starting to get suspicious, but if you’ve been following this blog you shouldn’t be surprised by my slow deduction. My mother and step father were to handle the rest of the details of this “deal.” When a cashier’s check for the car came in, my mom emailed, “Check is here. Call me.” “The amount is much more than what you said you’ve agreed on for the selling price and there’s no written note,” she explained. “Mom, do me a favor. Can you go to someone and verify the validity of the that check?” I asked. “Yeah, I have a friend at the bank by the salon. I’ll have her look at it.” “While you do that I’m going to see what this person is up to.” I sent him an email asking about the inflated amount. “That’s to cover shipping. We’ll send you instructions for that shortly,” they answered back. Mom didn’t have to tell me, I knew - the check was a fake. Being the responsible citizen that she is, Mom went to the financial institution that made this cashier’s check, thinking they may want to see it. The bimbo representative thought she was going to get a shiny new plaque on her wall and had security lock the doors. “Ma’am you are in possession of a fraudulent check,” Mom retold the story over the phone. “I am aware of that,” I can hear her now, speaking calmly and slowly, “I’m the one telling you it is a fake. I am the one handing it over to you. This is not an attempt to cash it,” surely by then her voice was starting to rise. “Since you are in possession, you are responsible,” our little Napoleon tried to reason. “I am being responsible and bringing this to you.” Finally, they let Mom leave the bank, but not after a good scare. “We will be contacting you and initiating an investigation ,” our dingy representative warned. “Did they get any of your information?” I asked. “Well, no, they didn’t,” Mom answered. “I’m comin home and I’m gonna kick that stupid bitch’s ass,” I was surprised by my protectiveness. “Don’t worry about me, Hon. I’m fine. Really,” she meant it too.

Later that night she sent me an email, “Honey, you don’t need an excuse to come home.” “Home,” I thought, “sounds like the perfect place to be.”

Not long after the car incident, I cut my trip short by one month and came back to the United States, to Florida, to Fort Lauderdale, to my sweet, vacant Tree House. Once again, I was a lucky, lucky girl. The condo didn’t sell, so I still had a place to come home to, the car didn’t sell and I still had wheels to navigate my around this urban sprawl. It took me several weeks before I could bring myself to stay there, to stay here, in the Tree House and start putting a home back together - knowing that again, it was only temporary. I’ve been open to, expecting even, the possibility of leaving ever since coming back and so I keep my possessions to a minimum. I visited Govi in his new home not long after my return, and thought about taking him back. But his second family loves him madly and he seems happy there. They’re not going anywhere while my future and stability is all too uncertain. Above all, I finally, fully realized that we possess nothing. NOTHING. Nothing is ours to keep, not our furniture, pictures or clothing, not apartments, cars, people or pets. It’s getting easier to accept that fact. But still I ache at times for the things that I thought were mine. Today I am reminded, that a year ago to the date I lost most of my possessions, the love of my life and my cat.... I never dreamed I’d miss the cat so much.