Forever Scarred

Scars, I have always said, add character. What doesn’t kill us only leaves us with... more scars. They create a divination all of their own, almost like the lines in our hands are telling to a palm reader - our scars can read like a road map of our lives. My dermal topography will take you through aggressive skate adventures and roller hockey on Collins Avenue in South Beach to back country mountain biking in Northern California, through surf safaris in Costa Rica and then circle back to slum lording in some of the most undesirable neighborhoods from east to west Broward County, Florida. Oh yes, been there, done that; have the scars to prove it. Only some scars were more fun acquiring than others.

Property, “1800,” wanted to see me dead. I was sure of it. That was the one with the peeling pink paint and dry-to-the-point-of-ignitable front lawn. The crook of a real estate broker, Daniel, did come through with his promise to help me get the property ready for tenants. He lent me his younger brother to put to work. This is the same younger brother that my dad told us about as kids - the one who couldn’t handle his automatic telepathy. Darren reminded me of a youthful Uncle Fester from the Adam’s Family with a vacant stare in his eyes, like Jack Nicholson after his lobotomy in, “One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest.” Alas, Darren knew how to use a paint brush, a hammer, and had a strong back - all which came in useful for the major projects necessary to get that dwelling up to par to meet the standards of a Housing Department inspection.

In the meantime, my tenants in “Progresso,” had yet to meet the difference of what their FEMA vouchers were paying for rent. After three months of insufficient payments, I gave them an ultimatum - relocate or be evicted. Daniel (said he) started the eviction process for me. Not even a year yet as an “investor,” and I had to have that “relocate or be evicted,” conversation twice. “These are families with children,” I lamented and reasoned with myself, “there must be SOMETHING I can do for them.” The banks don’t give a shit about charity....that’s what charities are for and I am hardly at the financial status of a philanthropist. And so, my tenants with the adorable twins started looking for a new place to live. I asked Daniel to stop the eviction paperwork. He had promised to help me with the property management of my investments purchased through him - he also only did a fraction of what he promised. There was no paperwork to stop.

The first day I showed up to tackle property 1800, I dreaded having to face the dilapidated shed in the back yard and all it’s rusting, rotting, and surely rat infested contents. That project alone would take me a couple weeks. Daniel was already there with his brother Darren, prepping the interior for painting. “This is encouraging,” I noted to myself. Through the den windows, the backyard was visible. From the paneled room, I looked out to an overgrown, weeds-waist-high yard and filthy pool. “What’s different back there?” I asked Daniel. We walked out through the patio. I could see clearly the fence was completely collapsed and covered by overgrowth. “Why didn’t I notice that fence before?” the dim witted property investor asked her broker. “Probably because the SHED was in the way,” he answered patiently and in waiting. My hand must have left a mark on my forehead. “It’s GONE! The shed is goooone!” I jumped like a child who found a shiny red tricycle under the Christmas Tree. Daniel was beaming. He took care of every detail concerning that catastrophe and I never heard anything about cost or effort. Generosity incited by guilt? Really, that was not my thought. All I noticed was that I felt supported - like someone had my back and I wasn’t alone.

For the next two weeks, we worked diligently on the property. I started by painting one of the front bedrooms. When I accidentally backed into a bottle of water on the tiled floor, I noticed it’s contents rolling toward the front wall. If there were a marble in the bare room, it would have rolled immediately in the same direction. “DANIEL!” I shouted in my discovery. He swiftly arrived from the den with a roller in his hand. Without words I pointed to the obvious pooling of water. “The foundation too!?” My question was also a proclamation. I dropped my roller and announced that I was going to work outside.

Outside required jeans, work boots, long sleeve shirts (several changes of them), sturdy gloves, a wide brimmed hat, ultra long playlists on the iPod, copious amounts of ganga, and a machete. Don’t worry, this story doesn’t end in disaster... er, rather a bloody disaster. It doesn’t end in a bloody disaster.... well, .... ack, never mind.

Before the lawn could be mowed, all the trash needed to be gathered. Before all the trash could even be found, the height of the grass needed to be whacked down. So I whacked away with the machete bringing the grass to only a foot high. Random trash from hairbrushes to old toys, empty potato chip bags to crack bags were collected from the back yard. I stuffed 10 heavy duty industrial garbage bags with light debris and machete shaved grass.

One gallon of water, two bowls of chronic smokey-weed and four hours later I had a fantastic pile of trash accumulating on the northwest corner of the lot, and I was just getting started.

Parts of the fence were peeking out from climbing, crawling foliage. It looked like a giant, green humpback was sleeping in the back yard. So I started whackin away at the overgrowth to gain my way to the collapsed fence. Before finding the once standing structure, I came across a hidden cactus. Actually, it came across me first. Moments after starting this new part of the project, I was plucking 2” long cactus needles from my forearm. After removing the last one, I thought of calling it quits. I looked around the much to do yard, “Still plenty of sunlight left,” I spoke to myself, “keep swingin, girl.” Zing! “Take that!” I Zorro’d a fluffy patch of green. FFFfftt! “And that!” I whacked at a woody weed close to the ground. “Don’t mess with me,” I was having too much fun with the machete, “you’re nothin but ..... WHAT THE FUUUUUHYEEOOW!” Just then, I unleashed a barbed demon. It was a coiled cactus with vicious barbs that somehow wrapped its way up my leg. The ankle was covered by my boot but my jeans were no match for this mess. Carefully, each barb was plucked from its grip. I slung the machete, blade first into a sandy patch of ground and clocked myself out for the day.

Two more solid days of that kind of work and the back yard was done. The fence didn’t put up much of a fight and most of it was dragged to the collection of trash and weeds. Kudos to the creator of “1-800-GOT-JUNK,” they came and picked everything up from the trash pile that grew into quite a heap. For a super reasonable price, they even swept up loose pieces that were on the concrete slab. (“Where did all that broken glass come from?” I remember asking under my breath.) The service came complete with two congenial, tidy gentlemen(!). The guy driving the truck explained that I didn’t have to work so hard making such a nice pile, “We would have gathered everything for you.” “Thanks. Good to know, I’ll remember that for next time,” I grinned looking at the clean and freshly mowed lot. “I guess I make it look easy,” I mused to myself.

Fresh paint inside and out, new window and patio screens, polished porcelain, and a shock treatment to the pool made 1800 ready for new tenants. And soon they came, with vouchers...that only covered half the rent. “It’s not a problem,” Daniel reassured, “her credit checks out fine and she has a job to cover the difference.” “Would you let her move in to one of YOUR properties, Daniel?” I thought I was soooo clever asking him that way. “Absolutely. Besides,” he added, “the grace period is going to be over soon and you need to make your first payment on the mortgage in the next few weeks.” “Okay. Should I do a lease agreement?” I asked. “Don’t worry about a thing. I got it all under control.”

Shortly after 1800 was occupied, Progresso was vacant. Almost. The family abandoned an entire room of personal odds and ends. A short list of things that were left behind included family pictures and clothing, games, toys, tools, and battery-operated-personal devices. That right, she was kind enough to leave her anatomically correct vibe-rate-or on top of the knee deep pile. It rested right next to a hand-made Christmas ornament constructed of popsicle sticks and glitter, complete with her daughter’s school picture in the center. “Oh, fun. Another scar for my eyes. Yay.” At that sight, I dialed an easy to remember phone number, “Hello, 1-800-Got-Junk, how can I help you?” the operator cheerfully answered.

It was early February. Wilma wrecked this lot in late October and I still had a huge tree fallen in Progresso’s back yard. I figured since the Junk guys were on their way in a couple days, I’d get the tree ready and borrowed a chainsaw from my brother. “What the hell are you up to? A few weeks ago you wanted my machete, now you’ve moved on to chainsaws?” little brother showed some concern. “Yeah, well it’s a tough town,” I half joked, “don’t worry, I’ll be sure to return them clean and without fingerprints.” Before pull starting machinery that could easily remove a body part, I made another call to my neighbor and ex-boyfriend, Chase. “Hey, I’m next door getting ready to cut that tree down that’s been draped over the property line.” “Okaaaay,” he wasn’t sure why I was calling him. “Well, I figured I should let somebody know in case, you know, something happens. Just a precaution.” “I’m only going to be here for another two hours and then I gotta go,” he was still angry with me.

Chainsaws are so satisfying. Some parts were like sinking a knife into soft butter. Other parts of that old stubborn trunk took more patience and muscle. Then the inevitable. After pushing through a less giving layer of the tree, the chainsaw suddenly advanced through. My wrist bent, my weight stumbled forward...I caught myself. “Did I just hit my....?” I looked down to see a very well singed left wrist and forearm. Luckily it was only a wicked burn from the hot motor. While assessing the damage, Chase came out of his house with a chilled can of raspberry La Croix, my favorite drink-treat. Pain from the burn was on a crescendo and starting to make me dizzy. “I’m getting ready to leave soon,” he handed me the ice cold can. “Thanks, I’m almost done here. Just a little more cutting to do. You don’t happen to have any aloe, do ya?” I pressed the icey aluminum directly on my fresh burn. Oh yeah, that left a mark.

******************************************************

“The pool is turned green,” my new tenant called. “How is that? It’s only been two weeks since it was shocked.” So I went back and shocked it again.

“Is green again,” she called shortly after I thought I had it stabilized. I asked the tenant of 1800 to call me if the pool started showing signs of ickiness. This time when I arrived, the green, cloudy pool also had a seven year old little girl swimming in it. “Uhm, can I suggest...no, I urge you not to use the pool when it looks like this,” I told the mother. “Here’s what I’m going to do, I am hiring a pool guy to come here once a week to get this cleaned up and maintained. Sounds good?” A few days later, I met the new pool guy at the house. When we walked into the back yard, there was a new puppy on a long chain that tore through the patio screen, feces on the decking, and paper plates and chicken bones floating in the pool. “I am in so much trouble,” I said in disbelief.

“There’s an awful stink on the side of the house,” was the next call I got. That day, I learned something about plumbing. Apparently, the previous owner removed the proper drainage from the kitchen sink and allowed the gray water to just fall out of the house into the dirt - something that I never thought to “inspect,” when purchasing a home. (The things we take for granted.) Since there was no garbage disposal, I didn’t think I would have to tell them, “Don’t put food down the drain.” But it was important instruction that they needed to hear. “Have you guys been putting meat down the drain?” I asked. “Yeah, maybe,” she tried to think back. “Until I get this plumbing fixed, make sure that you put nothing but soap, water and dishes in the sink. The stink you smell is rotting meat and maggots.” Guess who had the joy of cleaning that funk? My olfactory is still scarred by the stench.

After replacing the pump, it was determined, finally, that there was a leak in the pool. I was ready to just make a skate park out of the place and charge entry.

“Daniel, help.” I whimpered in the phone after three months of 1800 messiness, costliness and short rent payments.
“She hasn’t paid the balance for the past two months. There’s some young guy living with her having parties, gargantuan tires are piled in the car-port, and a poor, sad, tick infested puppy chained up in the back yard. What do I do?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.”
“That no longer comforts me, Daniel.”

Without his help, my tenants left shortly after I made that phone call to my client-turned friend-turned real estate broker-turned property manager. She lost her job, the boyfriend got busted, and the kids were sent to grandma. It broke my heart to see such sweet kids and innocent animals to have to suffer through such ignorant adults.

Another mess was left for me once 1800 was vacant, but the pile of abandonment was much smaller than what I faced a few months earlier at Progresso. It was actually, quite manageable, except for the food left in the refrigerator. Did I mention her power was turned off at least a week before she left? “Why do I have to have a bionic nose?” I said out loud as I discovered moldy ice-cream and jello-ized meat. The last hurrah was delivered by this one clunky, awkward, unidentifiable piece of metal furniture. Was it a desk? Was it a bed frame? I didn’t care, it needed to get out to the front lawn for bulk pick up. As I pushed, dragged and wrestled with the hunk of metal I noticed a warm, sticky sensation on my left calf. Only moments before completion of clean-up, 1800 made it’s final mark on me and sliced my inner thigh with a sharp edge which went unnoticed until that moment. I let the blood run until I got everything out to the curb. And then, before getting in the car, I stood in the front yard and flipped 1800 the most sincere finger and fongul you have ever seen.

The First of Too Many

December of 2005, just six months after my first purchase, I earned $50,000 in equity.

Shortly after cashing in on that equity, I was standing on a lawn of brown grass in front of a tired house just west of 441 and north of I-595. My Realtor, Daniel was in a pinch and needed to sell this eyesore fast. “What do you think?” he asked me as I noticed the faded pink paint was peeling from the exterior walls. “What’s this?” I indicated to rotting wood overhead in the carport. “It’s just some old wood,” he peeked in to see where I was pointing. “I’ll help you get this fixed up, we’ll get a tenant and you’ll sell it in six months once you grow some equity.” “This place is a dump,” I noted out loud. Once again, for the umpteenth time, he launched into the logistics of Section 8 housing and how he’ll help me find a tenant with subsidized checks from the county, that way I’m guaranteed my mortgage gets paid every month. “Easy,” he summated. He said that often.

In the back yard, the grass stood waist high, the pool needed a serious shock treatment and there was a dilapidated shed filled with trash and rusted parts of ancient tools and unidentifiable objects. Inside the house, there was a wood panel living room and the hover of stink. The floor in the utility area had the remains of broken and gooey linoleum. Everything needed a serious scrubbing, cutting, clearing, replacing....bombing.

We returned to the crunchy brown front lawn. My client turned friend turned broker was showing signs of stress. I hated to see him that way. “Will it really be of much help if I buy this? I can’t handle this alone, Daniel...” “Yes,” he showed a humbleness I hadn’t seen yet, “it will help a lot if you buy this property.” With huge resistance I agreed. “Okay, let’s do it,” I said with a tightness in my throat.

At my first property, the one I call, “Progresso,” things were going smoothly. For about a minute. Chase bought the house next door to mine, on the same day I did. Totally intentional; guess who’s brilliant idea that was? Chase, you see, was my boyfriend, and we started this investment nightmare together - as partners. He sold his house in west Sunrise for top dollar at the peak of the market and we used that money to start gathering inventory. My house was to be an investment and his house became our home while we waited for the Equity Fairy to come and grant us all our wishes. We talked about getting married during our four week adventure through Europe - I even wore a ring (for those who know me, know that was TOTALLY out of character. I don’t do THAT). In the end, we never did go through with tying that noose around our necks. But big dreams we still had together. Next to our little iron barred and barricaded sanctuary in the ghetto was a house on the corner where more than one illegal business was thriving. The owner didn’t live there, but we figured who he was and made offers to buy the lot. More than once. He never, for a moment entertained our offers. We plotted to maximize the land and develop the three properties into affordable, multi-family, “Green” and sustainable housing units. I wanted to do something positive for the neighborhood, rather than what so many other greedy investors and developers were doing; occupants were being squeezed out of their rentals to make way for tacky, over designed, over-sized town-homes. Many of which were never completed and most of those that were completed remain vacant today. But alas, I never was meant to use my design skills for such causes. Divine Intervention or again, lack thereof....

Tenants were already living in the house when I bought the Progresso property in June. “Convenient,” we were told to think and so we did. (Looking back now, I never felt like saying, “baah-ahhh,” so much in my life.) By August, the “convenient tenants,” were no longer able to pay their full monthly rent. They were good, hard working people in a bad spot. Already, their rent didn’t cover the mortgage, so from day one it was a struggle for me. (I was a full time student studying interior architecture and teaching private Pilates sessions approximately 20 hours a week.) Finally, they left on as good of terms as possible. Just after their decision to go back to her family in Pennsylvania, hurricane Wilma ripped through South Florida.

As the news became clear that we needed to swiftly prepare, I pressed harder than ever before, “Our roofs still have some spots that need patching,” I reminded Chase. After boarding up both houses and securing Chase’s weather distressed experiments/art projects, he climbed up first on our roof then mine to do whatever damage control he could. The winds were starting to pick up and the sky was swiftly darkening. “Hurry up, huuuurrrry uuuup,” I muttered as I stood holding the ladder waiting for Chase to appear from the back corner of my rooftop. Suddenly, a strong wind came and sharply changed direction, “CHAAAASE!,” I was surprised by the shrill in my voice. Not even a second later, the electrical pole on my property bent to the south and snapped back whipping power lines in our direction. “CHASE! GET DOWN HEEEERE!” He appeared, white as paste and shaking. “You don’t gotta tell me!” he hustled back. “Something really freaky is happening, Hun. Something just..... we gotta get in the....” while I was trying to finish a sentence Chase already saw something was off, ran into the street and turned a paler shade of white. He looked at me, “Holy shit!,” he turned his head back to the south, “HOLY SHIT!!!” he exclaimed again as he looked at me. An old ficus tree, about the width of our street was blown out of the ground from the first strong gust of wind. That’s what snapped the power lines and the tree landed on the front half of a neighbor’s house a few doors down and across. “Oh, Chase. We gotta make sure they’re okay.” Their car was flattened, the fence looked like crushed, metallic paper machet and the branches reached like a thousand tentacles in toward the front windows and door. A muffled voice came through the fallen foliage, “I’m alright, the house is fine! Don’t worry about me, y’all git ready for the storm.” Relieved that we didn’t have to face anything gruesome, we went back home and watched Wilma from the one un-boarded, westward facing window as it peeled our shed apart panel by panel.

After the family moved out, Chase and I practically moved into my house next door. Every spare moment was spent there preparing for new renters. We tore out and replaced water damaged walls, repaired leaky faucets, painted, installed an alarm system and cleared everything we could from the back yard that didn’t require a chain saw. A special project waited for me in the kitchen where the grease was so thick, it smelled like rotting carcass. Efforts to remove the odor took several buckets of bleach, steel wool and a lung transplant.

Chase was working on his MFA at University of Miami and is a brilliant, edgy photographer. Once the house was clean, he made it a studio of sorts where he created a huge, intricate art installation. I was the muse at the time and one night he instructed me to prepare for a shoot without any further explanation. He guided me onto his set and the camera started to flash. Dozens of different shaped and sized plum bobs hung at various heights from the ceiling. A Kravet tapestry that I purchased to funk up an old Queen Ann chair was rolled out on the floor and over various sized pillows and boxes. Broken mirror strategically arranged was propped up on the wall and Kravet landscape. It was a bizarre wonderland and I was invited to explore the absurdities. The photographs were later developed into 8’ x 4’ pieces as a part of his final thesis. Recently, he gave me a smaller image from that series as a gift. Today, it hangs in the living room of my Tree House. I loved the unpredictability of living with a fellow Gemini artist. Neither one of us ever knew what to expect upon arriving home.

Just a week before Thanksgiving, there was a knock on our door. An Amazonian sized, dark skinned woman with smooth features and a tantalizing accent from Trinidad came with her gorgeous twins to look at the house for rent. She and her family were displaced due to the storm. FEMA was providing housing vouchers for them, but it wasn’t enough to cover the mortgage. “It’s okay,” she re-assured, “we can pay the difference.” I wasn’t so confident in her words and felt a doubt that I couldn’t justify without a credit check. Then, I met the kids. They were fraternal twins, a boy and a girl around the age of eight. Sweet, intelligent and polite. I took the family to have a look through the house. We chatted and I asked the little girl what her and her brother’s names were. “He’s Jessie,” she pointed to her brother, “and I’m Jessica,” she thumbed herself in the chest. I froze. I think I heard myself stammer. “Jessie...?....and Jessica?” it was difficult to slow down my thoughts enough to speak. “Uh huh,” she confirmed and started telling me about where they were going to school as they were still dressed in their uniforms. I heard nothing but a soft ringing in my ears. “This is a sign,” I thought to myself, remembering vividly my imaginary, childhood friends. I saw them again in my mind’s eye just as clearly as I did when I was 5 years old. My friends were also fraternal twins with dark hair, dark eyes and olive colored skin. Sometimes I referred to them as, “Boy Girl.” But most of the time I would just call them both, “Jessie,” short hand for, “Jessie and Jessica.”

“It’s yours,” I unintentionally interrupted the mother who was speaking by then, “when can you move in?” “Wha? It’s ours? Just like that?” she asked with excitement. “Yeup. You are supposed to be here. Welcome home.” She turned to her kids and said, “We have a home for Thanksgiving!” Yeah, I know, a little “After School Specially,” for my taste too.

Meanwhile, at the Gemini Mansion, a tension was growing and becoming unbearable. I knew, since our return from Spain in early August, that this romance was soon to be over. Then, the day after Thanksgiving, Chase announced that his grandmother bought us all tickets to visit his family in Texas for Christmas. I had to make a choice. Do I continue like everything is fine and go through the holiday motions? Or break it off now? We had become simply room-mates and good friends. It felt dishonest to go see his family, knowing what I did.

My deadline was to be out no later than Christmas Day.

Daniel stepped in a urged that I save money versus paying exorbitant rent somewhere. His solution was for me to move in with Kia and her three behemoth, grossly undisciplined dogs. Luckily, rent was dirt cheap and my bedroom/converted garage was an escape from the slobbering insanity. With the equity I earned on the first property I was able to pay off all my credit cards, a six month premium for car insurance and part of the ominous student loans. My broker advised that I didn’t use any more of the cashed in equity toward my the debt from school. (A shame too, it would have paid them off completely.) “You take that nut and use it to purchase one or two more properties. That’s how you do this,” he schooled. I thought he had my best interest in mind, after all we were also becoming good friends. Weren’t we? In retrospect I now see that he had other priorities than friends and good intentions - like this house out west with the peeling paint, crunchy lawn and soupy pool.

December 29th, 2005, I signed the papers for the property I came to refer to as “1800.” I didn’t want to do it. Less than a month before, I found the voice to save myself from one mistake, but couldn’t seem to use it to save me from this one. Oh but the things I learned that you don't learn in school....

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.