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.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
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....
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....
Sunday, April 25, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Picky and Bitchy
The morning that the sheriff’s department arrived to shut down The Howards Group due to Mr. Howard’s arrest for grand theft of escrow funds, the soft-spoken and sweet Monica was there to represent us little guys.
December 18, 8 am, Monica, a licensed realtor employed by The Howards Group showed up for work thinking, “business as usual,” and instead ran into two officers guarding the front door. She pleaded to have access to her office and files. Her requests were met with stern rejection. Goddess, I wish I could have seen this first hand when she stood up to the armed bulldogs and informed them that this is beyond punishment to the criminal; their refusal to allow her access affects at least 20 innocent lives. She was granted five minutes to grab what she could. As fate has it, I am blessed to have been one of the more recent files stacked on her desk. After hearing her account on the phone, I had to say again to myself, “Damn, I’m a lucky girl.”
Since then, Monica has shown the Tree House several times. No one can ever say she hasn’t done her best to make up for what Daniel lacked. For one, the woman has follow through and two she has mad patience for a radical seller such as myself. My freak flag started to fly one day after she brought the one millionth prospect over while I was away.
I left the condo for an hour, knowing that they would be there soon. She is always punctual - almost to a fault. As soon as I opened the door upon my return, something felt “off.” Slowly, I put one foot in front of the other, like a cat sniffing out new territory. I opened the half bath in the hall and the hairs stood on the back of my neck. As I made it to the living room, goose bumps showed on my skin. In the bedroom, I could hear dangling remains of the conversations that were happening only moments before. “Ack,” I thought, “your imagination is working over-time again.” But this feeling of being judged, almost violated wouldn’t go away. After a few minutes of arguing with myself, I called Monica.
“Hey, Monica, thanks for showing the apartment today,” maybe if I try a gentle approach, I won’t seem like such a monster.
“No problem,” which is often her answer, even when it is a problem.
“I have a coupla questions for you about the buyers that were just here.”
“Sure.”
“So, there was more than one here. Right?”
“Yeah, there were.”
“A couple. Two boys...?”
“Uhhh huh,” she confirmed.
“What were their attitudes like?”
“Uhmm,” I could hear her confusion starting to swirl.
“Okay, I’m gonna cut to it. I have the feeling that there were two bitchy, judgmental Queens in here and they had some unflattering things to say during their walk through.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t have thought to put it that way, but, yes, they did have an edge,” she confirmed in her gentle manner.
“No potential of them putting in an offer?” I already knew the answer.
“No, it was relatively quick. We probably won’t hear from them again.”
“I apologize to hit you with this, Monica, but I can feel them here and they left a trail of yuck in their wake. Sometimes, I can be overly sensitive to that kind of thing. Is it possible to screen those kind of people out? It would save us both time, and I wouldn’t be left with this funky feeling.”
The last thing I was thinking was that this was her responsibility, but the negative ooze that dripped from my walls was overpowering and I had to speak up. Would you believe, she gracefully apologized on behalf of those guys? All done without compromise to her own confidence or capability. Where do they grow people like that?
After hanging up the phone, I immediately went on to thoroughly smudge the Tree House with burning sage.
The next potential buyer was much more respectful, even goofy in a very sweet way. Monica was not only on time, but 15 minutes early for the appointment and caught me with my pants down. Literally. I stuck my head out the door, asked her for two minutes while I threw on some cut offs and a pair of flip flops. Tousled and sloppy, I scooted past the party for a short walk on the property by the canal while they explored my living space, room by room, closet by closet. I keep the place tidy and relatively clean, but leave belongings like books, photos, and a couple altars exactly as they are, where ever they are. A tapestry of Ganesh, a Hindu God, hangs on one wall, pictures of Ammachi - a living saint from India, are on both my altars, crystals and Om symbols are scattered around and a sticker that says, “Namaste,” (a sanskrit greeting used in India, pronounced nahm’-uh-stay) is stuck on the inside of the front door at eye level. None of which is unusual to me or most of the company I keep, but I have had a couple, “normal,” friends over in the past that commented on my few art pieces and small statues. “You have a thing for fat guys?” one of them asked. “What would make you say that??” I was totally confused by the question. “Because you have all these little statues of fat guys around here. What’s that all about?” After I took my friend in for a moment, I realized he was serious. “That would be Buddha. He represents the realized man,” I answered stifling a hearty laugh from my own belly. So, I can only imagine how my choice of objects may look to the “straight,” eye.
After what must have been at least 20 minutes, I returned from my walk to the Tree House and didn’t expect to cross paths with Monica and those with her. I was kind of hoping that they would be finished with the walk through and that Monica had locked up, like she’s done in the past. Before I reached for the handle, the door opened, “Oh good, here you are. We have a couple questions,” Monica said as the buyer and his realtor filed out of the condo behind her. He had an eager, childlike look on his face and was trying to catch my attention with his eyes. Feeling a little exposed, I quickly smiled back at him and turned my focus to Monica as she asked her questions. My answers were directed to all three of them. “Anything else you need to know?” I asked. “That’s all. Thanks, Tara Shea.” After Monica and the other realtor stepped toward the elevator, the buyer stood in front of me, brought his palms together and bowed clumsily as he said, “Naam-eh-stee.” My heart melted at his gesture. I felt seen and respected. “Namaste,” I honored him in return.
If only the others could have been remotely as gracious.
Monica and I were having difficulties coordinating our schedules for a couple buyers and decided that it would work best if we put a lock box on the door for days that neither one of us could be there. We agreed that only perspective buyers accompanied by a realtor will be able to see the apartment without Monica or myself present. Seemed like a brilliant idea to me.
I can be so naive sometimes.
One afternoon I came home after another realtor brought their client to do a showing in my space and found the stove pulled several inches away from the wall. What were they looking for? Crumbs? Also, it is customary for a realtor to leave a business card behind in a conspicuous location before leaving an unattended showing. There was no card to be found.
Only a couple days later, we had another interested party come to see the condo. This time the evidence of their presence needed to be swept up with a broom. One of the most detestable features of these apartments in Royal Park are the 4 1/4 ceiling tiles and filter right above the front entry, covering the air conditioner and air intake. One of the tiles in the Tree House had an old water stain from a backed up drain. In the past, I had the unsightly tiles covered with a tapestry but removed it just before this showing to have it cleaned. The ugly tiles and the stain were in clear sight. During their walk through, someone reached up and moved them for a better view of the even uglier, ancient machinery above. When I returned there were parts of broken ceiling tile on the floor and those on the ceiling were disheveled leaving the air conditioning unit exposed.
Yes, I know, I’m a little sensitive, but can we maintain some dignity here? Understandably, I’m in a short sale and I should be grateful for everyone that takes an interest in the condo. The cliche, “beggars can’t be choosy,” seems to run circles in between my ears, but this is still my home and my misfortune does not give people the right to treat my space with any less civility or dignity than they would a multi-million dollar mansion.
As I stood in the kitchen, dog earring the realtor’s business card and contemplating how I would express my disdain for her clients’ tact (or lack thereof), the phone rang. It was Monica. “They want to know what is wrong with the air conditioner,” she innocently asked. “Tell them there is nothing wrong with the A/C,” I answered tersely. After a breath, I calmly explained to her the ceiling parts I found on my floor. She showed surprise and disapproval. This time I asked, “Am I asking too much?” “No,” she consoled, “that sort of thing really shouldn’t happen. You’re right, it’s totally inappropriate. Lemme call her right now and I’ll get back to you.”
She called later in the day, not to discuss our previous conversation but to schedule another showing for more prospects. This time, I was prepared and posted this note:
It hung in the kitchen door frame facing the entry, so it was the first thing the buying party saw upon entering. No one ever saw it though. Monica called once again to say that the ceiling tile wreckers want to put in an offer and she was confident the bank would accept. So there is no need to endure any more tire kickers kickin around the Tree House.
Monica stopped bringing people over all together - these buyers are serious. And just in the nick of time; the countdown to foreclosure continues.
December 18, 8 am, Monica, a licensed realtor employed by The Howards Group showed up for work thinking, “business as usual,” and instead ran into two officers guarding the front door. She pleaded to have access to her office and files. Her requests were met with stern rejection. Goddess, I wish I could have seen this first hand when she stood up to the armed bulldogs and informed them that this is beyond punishment to the criminal; their refusal to allow her access affects at least 20 innocent lives. She was granted five minutes to grab what she could. As fate has it, I am blessed to have been one of the more recent files stacked on her desk. After hearing her account on the phone, I had to say again to myself, “Damn, I’m a lucky girl.”
Since then, Monica has shown the Tree House several times. No one can ever say she hasn’t done her best to make up for what Daniel lacked. For one, the woman has follow through and two she has mad patience for a radical seller such as myself. My freak flag started to fly one day after she brought the one millionth prospect over while I was away.
I left the condo for an hour, knowing that they would be there soon. She is always punctual - almost to a fault. As soon as I opened the door upon my return, something felt “off.” Slowly, I put one foot in front of the other, like a cat sniffing out new territory. I opened the half bath in the hall and the hairs stood on the back of my neck. As I made it to the living room, goose bumps showed on my skin. In the bedroom, I could hear dangling remains of the conversations that were happening only moments before. “Ack,” I thought, “your imagination is working over-time again.” But this feeling of being judged, almost violated wouldn’t go away. After a few minutes of arguing with myself, I called Monica.
“Hey, Monica, thanks for showing the apartment today,” maybe if I try a gentle approach, I won’t seem like such a monster.
“No problem,” which is often her answer, even when it is a problem.
“I have a coupla questions for you about the buyers that were just here.”
“Sure.”
“So, there was more than one here. Right?”
“Yeah, there were.”
“A couple. Two boys...?”
“Uhhh huh,” she confirmed.
“What were their attitudes like?”
“Uhmm,” I could hear her confusion starting to swirl.
“Okay, I’m gonna cut to it. I have the feeling that there were two bitchy, judgmental Queens in here and they had some unflattering things to say during their walk through.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t have thought to put it that way, but, yes, they did have an edge,” she confirmed in her gentle manner.
“No potential of them putting in an offer?” I already knew the answer.
“No, it was relatively quick. We probably won’t hear from them again.”
“I apologize to hit you with this, Monica, but I can feel them here and they left a trail of yuck in their wake. Sometimes, I can be overly sensitive to that kind of thing. Is it possible to screen those kind of people out? It would save us both time, and I wouldn’t be left with this funky feeling.”
The last thing I was thinking was that this was her responsibility, but the negative ooze that dripped from my walls was overpowering and I had to speak up. Would you believe, she gracefully apologized on behalf of those guys? All done without compromise to her own confidence or capability. Where do they grow people like that?
After hanging up the phone, I immediately went on to thoroughly smudge the Tree House with burning sage.
The next potential buyer was much more respectful, even goofy in a very sweet way. Monica was not only on time, but 15 minutes early for the appointment and caught me with my pants down. Literally. I stuck my head out the door, asked her for two minutes while I threw on some cut offs and a pair of flip flops. Tousled and sloppy, I scooted past the party for a short walk on the property by the canal while they explored my living space, room by room, closet by closet. I keep the place tidy and relatively clean, but leave belongings like books, photos, and a couple altars exactly as they are, where ever they are. A tapestry of Ganesh, a Hindu God, hangs on one wall, pictures of Ammachi - a living saint from India, are on both my altars, crystals and Om symbols are scattered around and a sticker that says, “Namaste,” (a sanskrit greeting used in India, pronounced nahm’-uh-stay) is stuck on the inside of the front door at eye level. None of which is unusual to me or most of the company I keep, but I have had a couple, “normal,” friends over in the past that commented on my few art pieces and small statues. “You have a thing for fat guys?” one of them asked. “What would make you say that??” I was totally confused by the question. “Because you have all these little statues of fat guys around here. What’s that all about?” After I took my friend in for a moment, I realized he was serious. “That would be Buddha. He represents the realized man,” I answered stifling a hearty laugh from my own belly. So, I can only imagine how my choice of objects may look to the “straight,” eye.
After what must have been at least 20 minutes, I returned from my walk to the Tree House and didn’t expect to cross paths with Monica and those with her. I was kind of hoping that they would be finished with the walk through and that Monica had locked up, like she’s done in the past. Before I reached for the handle, the door opened, “Oh good, here you are. We have a couple questions,” Monica said as the buyer and his realtor filed out of the condo behind her. He had an eager, childlike look on his face and was trying to catch my attention with his eyes. Feeling a little exposed, I quickly smiled back at him and turned my focus to Monica as she asked her questions. My answers were directed to all three of them. “Anything else you need to know?” I asked. “That’s all. Thanks, Tara Shea.” After Monica and the other realtor stepped toward the elevator, the buyer stood in front of me, brought his palms together and bowed clumsily as he said, “Naam-eh-stee.” My heart melted at his gesture. I felt seen and respected. “Namaste,” I honored him in return.
If only the others could have been remotely as gracious.
Monica and I were having difficulties coordinating our schedules for a couple buyers and decided that it would work best if we put a lock box on the door for days that neither one of us could be there. We agreed that only perspective buyers accompanied by a realtor will be able to see the apartment without Monica or myself present. Seemed like a brilliant idea to me.
I can be so naive sometimes.
One afternoon I came home after another realtor brought their client to do a showing in my space and found the stove pulled several inches away from the wall. What were they looking for? Crumbs? Also, it is customary for a realtor to leave a business card behind in a conspicuous location before leaving an unattended showing. There was no card to be found.
Only a couple days later, we had another interested party come to see the condo. This time the evidence of their presence needed to be swept up with a broom. One of the most detestable features of these apartments in Royal Park are the 4 1/4 ceiling tiles and filter right above the front entry, covering the air conditioner and air intake. One of the tiles in the Tree House had an old water stain from a backed up drain. In the past, I had the unsightly tiles covered with a tapestry but removed it just before this showing to have it cleaned. The ugly tiles and the stain were in clear sight. During their walk through, someone reached up and moved them for a better view of the even uglier, ancient machinery above. When I returned there were parts of broken ceiling tile on the floor and those on the ceiling were disheveled leaving the air conditioning unit exposed.
Yes, I know, I’m a little sensitive, but can we maintain some dignity here? Understandably, I’m in a short sale and I should be grateful for everyone that takes an interest in the condo. The cliche, “beggars can’t be choosy,” seems to run circles in between my ears, but this is still my home and my misfortune does not give people the right to treat my space with any less civility or dignity than they would a multi-million dollar mansion.
As I stood in the kitchen, dog earring the realtor’s business card and contemplating how I would express my disdain for her clients’ tact (or lack thereof), the phone rang. It was Monica. “They want to know what is wrong with the air conditioner,” she innocently asked. “Tell them there is nothing wrong with the A/C,” I answered tersely. After a breath, I calmly explained to her the ceiling parts I found on my floor. She showed surprise and disapproval. This time I asked, “Am I asking too much?” “No,” she consoled, “that sort of thing really shouldn’t happen. You’re right, it’s totally inappropriate. Lemme call her right now and I’ll get back to you.”
She called later in the day, not to discuss our previous conversation but to schedule another showing for more prospects. This time, I was prepared and posted this note:
It hung in the kitchen door frame facing the entry, so it was the first thing the buying party saw upon entering. No one ever saw it though. Monica called once again to say that the ceiling tile wreckers want to put in an offer and she was confident the bank would accept. So there is no need to endure any more tire kickers kickin around the Tree House.
Monica stopped bringing people over all together - these buyers are serious. And just in the nick of time; the countdown to foreclosure continues.
Friday, March 12, 2010
It's Not Sad, Only Temporary
I would like to address a couple of the comments I have received since openly announcing to the world my grim state of financial affairs and potential homelessness. More than once, people have said how sad my circumstance is. Call me crazy, but all I see is good fortune and abundance. I have been given the opportunity to spend time on myself and focus on some deep emotional healing. This has also given me the opportunity to work on a very time consuming project that may lead to some financial abundance. But at the very least, I have had adventures that would be impossible otherwise. Other than the cat companion I had for three years, it’s just me (and maybe a few of my demons). There’s no children, no “significant other,” or ailing parent. There’s no crippling disease or any reason why I can’t get out there and make the money it would take to save this ship from sinking. Oh, but there is a reason - I insist on doing it my way. Not necessarily the smart or easy way, but I refuse to be another desperate zombie going through the motions of “what we’re supposed to do,” to be successful, which in turn should make us happy; because that doesn’t make me happy. I’m still not entirely sure what DOES make me happy, but as a result of getting tangled in this snowball of investments and wreckage, I have been afforded the luxury of time to find what might make me happy. From field experience and research, I’ve found that teaching, dancing, hula hooping and writing make me happy; all the while bringing a little happiness to the people in my classes. Unfortunately, I haven’t figured how to use my talents to any financial advantage. (Yet.) But none of this is sad. It has all been a blessing.
I have been on evacuation stand-by for roughly 20 months. Nothing is certain, except that this place is the closest thing to “home,” that I have ever known; more so than the house where I grew up. Even if I leave the Tree House only to get the mail, there is an instant relief when I return and open my front door. This is my Home, my nest and there is a loving comfort that cradles me every time I enter.
One night, just over a year ago, I realized that time was running short here. There was no way I would be able to keep up with the mortgage, taxes and maintenance fees - not to mention all the elements of a home that need constant repair and replacement. It was early evening, the sky had wispy clouds and strokes of blue, gold and pink. The trees across the canal looked especially green and camouflaged an elegant blue heron. I stepped out on to the balcony, sat in my deluxe camping folding chair with the built-in foot rest and cup holders and rolled myself a cigarette. My movements were slow - this was my meditation for the evening. Consciously, I drew each breath in from my tobacco and said farewell to every tree and every animal that lived in them. I memorized how the water rippled on the canal and the air felt on my skin. The day was coming soon that I would have to leave and I wanted to be ready. In my mind I decided, “This is my choice to leave." And so there was peace.
Since that night, I have flip flopped like a regular John Kerry (no offense, just thought it would be a vivid reference) as to whether or not I would be able to save 105 2E. Never did I not want to keep my home - I’ve just done my best to be realistic, practical. It’s been like that on again off again relationship. You know, you’re crazy in love with that awesome person but sometimes love and comfort aren’t enough to keep it together.
Each day that I am here, in the Tree House, is a gift. It has been especially cold these past few weeks and that makes Home even more comforting. Now, there is very little furniture inside; on the balcony only my pink bicycle and Tibetan prayer flags. (The previously mentioned camping chair, went out with almost all my other possessions exactly one year ago.) Yet as soon as people enter my Home, what I hear most often is, “Cozy.” And it is. A couple months ago, I got a little country style kitchen table, the kind with the white tile; it’s nestled into the corner under the window, across from the fridge with two chairs at right angles. Someone moving out of a friend’s building gave it to her and her to me. In the hallway to the living space, across from the archway to the kitchen, is an embellished tapestry of Ganesh, the most beloved saint of Hinduism. He blesses me every time I leave and greets me every time I come home. Inside the living space, I’ve made a desk out of cinder blocks and a sawed down, interior door. My ex-boyfriend gave me this ergonomic chair; the kind with the big, blow up Pilates ball in the center. He also salvaged a wheeling cart with three exposed shelves from a friend that was going to throw it away. The desk, cart and a contemporary “bronzed” lamp, make for my “office.” Just past my desk that is slightly angled from the wall are two Persian “looking,” rugs. They look like a million bucks but are Home Depot fakes. My friend Chase, who lived two buildings away, left them for me when he moved to Boca with his girlfriend. The rugs cover the width of the living room. Chase also left his daughter’s twin bed, which I put to good use. My Moroccan family gave me a handmade, low profile, leather ottoman from Fez. It was stuffed with tapestries and wool. One of the pieces from inside this ottoman was actually a duvet cover. A deep olive green, satin cover made for a queen size duvet. So, I wrapped the twin size bed with some old blankets to give it a little softness and stuffed it all into the duvet cover. Ziiiip. Threw on a couple yellowish/gold pillows I reclaimed from Will’s place upon my return to the states and viola, I have a Moroccan lounge! Included in the “lounge” is a money tree that I nursed back to health from the ex’s house. And the floor lamp my friend Karen salvaged from bulk pick up. The bolt that connected the lamp’s top to the bottom was stripped, so I fixed it with copious amounts of wood glue, vice grips and patience. The television and the two-in-one DVD, VCR player were also hand-me-downs. (Or are they on “loan?” I can’t remember at the moment.) They both sit on a coffee table that I’ve had for years; another one of the many pieces that I gave to Chase when I left the country, ne’er-to-return-again-but-did. He was very understanding when I reclaimed whatever his cats didn’t spray in my two month absence. Then there’s my guitar, a narrow, old wooden, Italian chair that was my grandmother’s, a spindly end table from 1950-something with the veneer peeled off and a few original art pieces from Chase and another super talented friend.
A few times, it’s been tempting to add more comforts to the place where I finally found Home. Especially when I see an undiscovered treasure from Goodwill or a rock bottom sale at Ikea or a post from FreeCycle announcing a most perfect love seat free for the taking. But then I remember, my time is limited here. There is an exciting journey soon ahead and I prefer to travel light. And that’s not sad, nope. Maybe, as a result of these circumstances, I’ll even finally find my happiness. Don’t you see? The possibilities are endless! Well, except for the possibility of getting another loan anytime soon....
Monday, February 22, 2010
Wonderful News!
To echo and alter the wise words of Mrs. Gump, opening my mailbox is like a box of chocolates, only never quite so sweet. I’ve grown accustomed to stink-bombs in the mail. The most recent one came from an attorney who is representing someone that backed out of a contract to purchase the first house I ever owned. That would be the Progresso Park property; the next quadrant of Florida real estate predicted to BOOM that went POOF instead. Mr. Buyer wanted his $5,000 escrow deposit returned. A deposit dating back to August 21, 2008.
“Ooooh, yeah,” I muttered under my breath as I adjusted my eyes on the attorney’s letter. I was remembering how my broker, Daniel Howards, told me that this guy put in an offer on my property and a few others that Daniel represented. Mr. Howards figures that once the transactions had started, the buyer did some research on our beloved broker and saw that he has a record for “domestic violence.” Let me explain that a little further. Daniel (who stands at 6’2”, weighing approximately 190 lbs is Buff Boy thru and thru) and his live-in-boyfriend (is a mere 6’4”; not as solid but very able bodied), just a year before, got into an ugly lovers’ brawl. Teddy, the boyfriend, had some more powerful municipal connections and beat Daniel to the punch (pun totally intended) and pressed charges. Whatever happened, I’m sure neither one of those boys are wearing halos. According to Daniel, that’s why the buyer didn’t want to do business anymore. Also according to him, a buyer losses their deposit when they terminate a contract. Security deposits are the same as escrow. That kind of deposit money, I learned only until reading the attorney’s letter that day, does not rightfully go back to the home owner unless the buyer “executed a release of escrow form.” And of course, my buyer did not do that. Not only that but the buyer was “protected from any rejection of the offer AS PRESENTED to the short sale lender, or if the Buyer cancels the contract prior to any confirmation of short sale from the Lender.”
Have your eyes begun to cross from this jargon yet? Welcome to my world.
The letter demanded I return any of the escrow money that I may have received. Well, that’s easy, I haven’t seen didley from any of my properties since 2005. Daniel swore that he had initiated the process to apply for the escrow money which he guaranteed to be legally mine. He said we would split the money when everything cleared. As stated by this letter, the attorney’s client, Mr. Buyer, had made several attempts to reclaim the deposit, which as far as I can tell, is rightfully his anyway. But then again, my melon gets totally twisted on all this legalese and grown-up speak. Further, the letter gave me a deadline - 8 days to advise the attorney’s office as to whether or not I will “execute this return of escrow, thus demanding that the Howard’s Group to return funds to [the attorney’s] client.” Meaning, I sign this paper saying that I, Tara Shea Ananda, don’t want anything to do with this money. I was further warned that the client was prepared to move forward with a legal action, blah, blah, blah, “PLEASE GOVERN YOURSELF ACCORDINGLY.” So I called the lawyer directly.
He did his best to explain what the letter meant without providing any legal advise. Basically, if I don’t sign this request for return of escrow, I could be personally held accountable for the $5000. (Which is almost laughable. Have you ever heard of blood being drawn from stone?) His only suggestion was to get myself a lawyer. Resourceful as I can be at times, I remembered a yoga friend of mine who specializes in real-estate law. As she reviewed the letter and enclosures, she shook her head, “How do people do that? How can he be getting into the escrow money?” I’m not sure if she was speaking logistically or consciously. “Sign it,” she said referring to the form relinquishing my interest to the monies. “You could contest the demand. But do you think $5000 is worth the stress of a law suit? Save yourself the burden and walk away.” I nodded, “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been feeling too.”
My next stop was to the attorney’s office who generated the letter. He and a witness met me in the conference room to discuss and sensationalize the situation at hand.
A few weeks before the delivery of the most recent stink-bomb in my mailbox, the mortgage broker who had been working on the short sale of a property in Boynton Beach and the Tree House called to let me know that she quit working for Daniel and The Howards Group. Twilah is a soulful, christian woman who has confided in me much about her personal life and her struggle to lose weight and gain respect. “Girrrrl,” she warns, “that Danny boy, he up to no good. I couldn’t take it no moe. I qui.” Twilah often avoided the consonants in her words. “He werk me too hard and don’t pay me enuff. He jus mean. And you know,” she added in a hushed voice, “he be takin escrow money.” You know the cliche....all stories have at least two sides. It’s not that I didn’t believe her, I just needed to investigate a little further on my own. At that moment, I was more worried about where she was going to work next. “I dunno,” she responded to my concern, “I’m jest prayin.” “Please keep me updated, Twilah, okay?” “You got it, Baby Cakes.” I knew it wouldn’t be long for her to find another office to hang her license. She is a short sale miracle worker. Several days before my visit to the attorney’s she called me again, “I gotta place,” she announced. “Can you finish my files?” I asked. “Yeeeaahhh,” was all she said calmly with a little squeak. After some silence she said, “Well, you’ll hafta fill out some papuh werk to release The Howard’s Group.” “Okay, let’s do it,” I was eager to get going on the plans to take my Tree House off the MLS (“market”) for a short sale and apply for a loan modification. In other words, the bank might be willing to adjust my monthly payments and allow me to keep the property. “Lemme call you tomorrah and we’ll arrange a time.” She didn’t call, didn’t answer and never returned my calls. That was, until I was leaving the friend’s office, gearing up for my next destination.”
“Soooo, when can I see you?” I asked Twilah. (I am so slow to learn sometimes.)
“Where you at now?”
“Just west of 441 on Commercial.”
“Oh, girl. You right by me,” she might sound informal, but this woman knows her shit when it comes to working with the banks.
“Well, I’m on my way east. Why don’t I come by now before my next appointment?” I’m juggling a steering wheel, mobile phone and pen and paper ready to write directions.
“Can’t right now. Maybe this afternoon or tomorrah.”
“Okay, Twilah. You just let me know.”
That was it for me. Of course it was several weeks before I heard from her again. Even if she did call me back the next day, I had decided I was not going to work with Twilah. I don’t have anymore time to waste. According to my most recent notice from the bank, I only had 40 days to foreclosure unless I can generate a contract or stop the process by applying for a loan modification.
While meeting with Mr. Attorney I learned that his client is fighting for over $20,000 in escrow money to be paid back by Daniel. “But he backed out of those contracts, didn’t he?” I asked about the buyer. “As the letter states, Ms Hendrick, those funds were never to be released by my client, except to his possession, as he never executed any release of escrow form. In addition, Mr. Howards never fully executed a contract and never returned any phone calls or correspondence after the checks were made out to escrow.” And really, that’s the catch, a contract on the property was never fully executed by my broker. He said, she said, yadda, yadda, let me just sign the flippin paper to release my interest and be done with this. And so I did.
With Twilah no longer working on my files, another mortgage broker, the soft spoken Monica, has stepped in trying to pick up where the other left off. From what I understand, Twilah was making a deeper cesspool of the Progresso Park property and hadn’t touched the other two. *Sigh* What do I know about anything.(?)
I do know this; according to an email that I got from Monica this morning, Mr. Daniel Howards is in the clink. Yeup. Grand theft. “Of what?” you ask. ESCROW FUNDS.
Turns out stink-bombs have gone digital.
“Ooooh, yeah,” I muttered under my breath as I adjusted my eyes on the attorney’s letter. I was remembering how my broker, Daniel Howards, told me that this guy put in an offer on my property and a few others that Daniel represented. Mr. Howards figures that once the transactions had started, the buyer did some research on our beloved broker and saw that he has a record for “domestic violence.” Let me explain that a little further. Daniel (who stands at 6’2”, weighing approximately 190 lbs is Buff Boy thru and thru) and his live-in-boyfriend (is a mere 6’4”; not as solid but very able bodied), just a year before, got into an ugly lovers’ brawl. Teddy, the boyfriend, had some more powerful municipal connections and beat Daniel to the punch (pun totally intended) and pressed charges. Whatever happened, I’m sure neither one of those boys are wearing halos. According to Daniel, that’s why the buyer didn’t want to do business anymore. Also according to him, a buyer losses their deposit when they terminate a contract. Security deposits are the same as escrow. That kind of deposit money, I learned only until reading the attorney’s letter that day, does not rightfully go back to the home owner unless the buyer “executed a release of escrow form.” And of course, my buyer did not do that. Not only that but the buyer was “protected from any rejection of the offer AS PRESENTED to the short sale lender, or if the Buyer cancels the contract prior to any confirmation of short sale from the Lender.”
Have your eyes begun to cross from this jargon yet? Welcome to my world.
The letter demanded I return any of the escrow money that I may have received. Well, that’s easy, I haven’t seen didley from any of my properties since 2005. Daniel swore that he had initiated the process to apply for the escrow money which he guaranteed to be legally mine. He said we would split the money when everything cleared. As stated by this letter, the attorney’s client, Mr. Buyer, had made several attempts to reclaim the deposit, which as far as I can tell, is rightfully his anyway. But then again, my melon gets totally twisted on all this legalese and grown-up speak. Further, the letter gave me a deadline - 8 days to advise the attorney’s office as to whether or not I will “execute this return of escrow, thus demanding that the Howard’s Group to return funds to [the attorney’s] client.” Meaning, I sign this paper saying that I, Tara Shea Ananda, don’t want anything to do with this money. I was further warned that the client was prepared to move forward with a legal action, blah, blah, blah, “PLEASE GOVERN YOURSELF ACCORDINGLY.” So I called the lawyer directly.
He did his best to explain what the letter meant without providing any legal advise. Basically, if I don’t sign this request for return of escrow, I could be personally held accountable for the $5000. (Which is almost laughable. Have you ever heard of blood being drawn from stone?) His only suggestion was to get myself a lawyer. Resourceful as I can be at times, I remembered a yoga friend of mine who specializes in real-estate law. As she reviewed the letter and enclosures, she shook her head, “How do people do that? How can he be getting into the escrow money?” I’m not sure if she was speaking logistically or consciously. “Sign it,” she said referring to the form relinquishing my interest to the monies. “You could contest the demand. But do you think $5000 is worth the stress of a law suit? Save yourself the burden and walk away.” I nodded, “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been feeling too.”
My next stop was to the attorney’s office who generated the letter. He and a witness met me in the conference room to discuss and sensationalize the situation at hand.
A few weeks before the delivery of the most recent stink-bomb in my mailbox, the mortgage broker who had been working on the short sale of a property in Boynton Beach and the Tree House called to let me know that she quit working for Daniel and The Howards Group. Twilah is a soulful, christian woman who has confided in me much about her personal life and her struggle to lose weight and gain respect. “Girrrrl,” she warns, “that Danny boy, he up to no good. I couldn’t take it no moe. I qui.” Twilah often avoided the consonants in her words. “He werk me too hard and don’t pay me enuff. He jus mean. And you know,” she added in a hushed voice, “he be takin escrow money.” You know the cliche....all stories have at least two sides. It’s not that I didn’t believe her, I just needed to investigate a little further on my own. At that moment, I was more worried about where she was going to work next. “I dunno,” she responded to my concern, “I’m jest prayin.” “Please keep me updated, Twilah, okay?” “You got it, Baby Cakes.” I knew it wouldn’t be long for her to find another office to hang her license. She is a short sale miracle worker. Several days before my visit to the attorney’s she called me again, “I gotta place,” she announced. “Can you finish my files?” I asked. “Yeeeaahhh,” was all she said calmly with a little squeak. After some silence she said, “Well, you’ll hafta fill out some papuh werk to release The Howard’s Group.” “Okay, let’s do it,” I was eager to get going on the plans to take my Tree House off the MLS (“market”) for a short sale and apply for a loan modification. In other words, the bank might be willing to adjust my monthly payments and allow me to keep the property. “Lemme call you tomorrah and we’ll arrange a time.” She didn’t call, didn’t answer and never returned my calls. That was, until I was leaving the friend’s office, gearing up for my next destination.”
“Soooo, when can I see you?” I asked Twilah. (I am so slow to learn sometimes.)
“Where you at now?”
“Just west of 441 on Commercial.”
“Oh, girl. You right by me,” she might sound informal, but this woman knows her shit when it comes to working with the banks.
“Well, I’m on my way east. Why don’t I come by now before my next appointment?” I’m juggling a steering wheel, mobile phone and pen and paper ready to write directions.
“Can’t right now. Maybe this afternoon or tomorrah.”
“Okay, Twilah. You just let me know.”
That was it for me. Of course it was several weeks before I heard from her again. Even if she did call me back the next day, I had decided I was not going to work with Twilah. I don’t have anymore time to waste. According to my most recent notice from the bank, I only had 40 days to foreclosure unless I can generate a contract or stop the process by applying for a loan modification.
While meeting with Mr. Attorney I learned that his client is fighting for over $20,000 in escrow money to be paid back by Daniel. “But he backed out of those contracts, didn’t he?” I asked about the buyer. “As the letter states, Ms Hendrick, those funds were never to be released by my client, except to his possession, as he never executed any release of escrow form. In addition, Mr. Howards never fully executed a contract and never returned any phone calls or correspondence after the checks were made out to escrow.” And really, that’s the catch, a contract on the property was never fully executed by my broker. He said, she said, yadda, yadda, let me just sign the flippin paper to release my interest and be done with this. And so I did.
With Twilah no longer working on my files, another mortgage broker, the soft spoken Monica, has stepped in trying to pick up where the other left off. From what I understand, Twilah was making a deeper cesspool of the Progresso Park property and hadn’t touched the other two. *Sigh* What do I know about anything.(?)
I do know this; according to an email that I got from Monica this morning, Mr. Daniel Howards is in the clink. Yeup. Grand theft. “Of what?” you ask. ESCROW FUNDS.
Turns out stink-bombs have gone digital.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Repeat Encounters
“Big city, small town,” is one way to describe our sub-tropical, concrete jungle here in Fort Lauderdale. I often say, “You never know who you’re talking to or who is within earshot,” because again, “Big city....” It can keep you on your toes.
Growing up, my dad would come home from work with some of the most outrageous stories of his clients. Pops owned a pool table and billiard supply business. His clientele ranged from pro sports celebrities to the elite to seedy club owners to upper middle class families. Often, he would get to know the families that purchased pool tables from him. There seemed to be a consistent order of events in this process. The “man of the house,” would wander into the showroom dazed by all the neon and felt and carved wood and start to talk about .... pool tables. Then, the Mr. would come back with the Mrs. for a second look at his favorite floor model, only to return a third or fourth time to kick more tires. Sometimes the kids were dragged along too. Purchasing a pool table was an extravagant expense; rarely a snap decision, so in the evaluation process my father often got to know the whole family before the final install. Some of the stories and their characters, I will never forget. Especially the one of the two psychic boys.
I was 15 at the time when my dad came home and told the story about a customer with two unusual boys.The older son, the 14 year old was “normal,” in appearance and outgoing; and the younger son was showing signs of withdrawal, problems with emotional development and avoided physical contact. What was so sensational was that these boys would see flashes of a person’s life - past and future when they touched someone. How this information was revealed to my father is beyond me; Pops always had a way of getting involved in the most obscure conversations with people. The Mr. was not the biological father of these fascinating boys, but the step father that raised them with a stern hand, customized by the U.S. Marines. Terribly traumatized by this “gift,” the younger boy shunned much interaction with other people. Even though he did not care to experience these visions, the elder son handled them more gracefully and in stride.
The cherry on this feast of a tale was on the day of delivery for the family’s pool table. Pops had two men from his crew do the installation. One of them accidentally left a “special bag,” behind. That evening at the dining room table after a meal, my dad laughed through his cigarette smoke as he retold my mom about how one of his guys left a fresh bag of weed at Mr. Marines and the psychic boys' job site. The weed, never to be found again.
~~~~~~~~~~oooooooo~~~~~~~~~~
Daniel and I developed a friendship from the hours we spent in Pilates sessions together. As superficial as he can be, Daniel also has a very spiritual side. We are both fascinated by the occult and we started to dabble in Tarot classes together. He bought me my first deck. Then he became my real-estate broker, and finally, we became business partners. There were a pool of investors that Daniel worked with, it was almost incestuous. Before I knew it, I was buying property with my immaculate credit and he was bank rolling them if we didn’t fill them with tenants in time for a mortgage payment. I was a design student and Pilates/Yoga teacher - I had no money to float investment properties that were coming up in the red. And they were all in the red. The plan was to put Daniel on the deeds to three of my most recent purchases. Legally, he had no obligation to any of these investments - all I had were verbal promises. Once the equity grew, we would sell the property and share the profits. That was the plan.
The very last property I purchased was in the remaining land of “transitional neighborhoods,” that never transitioned. Major work needed to be done on the house before we could get a tenant in there and Daniel was handling the details. At this point in his career, Daniel was pulling the strings on all aspects of property investment: real estate, mortgage brokering and property maintenance. He was the conductor and the symphony of this (nearly) one-man-show. So, I get into this property and I don’t feel good about it. I just sold a terrible money pit of a house a couple months before and got that burden off my hands. Then, for some ungodly reason, I trusted Daniel on this new purchase. In addition to that, I had two other condos and a house. The house was my first ever purchase, the condos were part of our “partnership,” deal. Things weren’t going according to Daniel’s plan when two months go by and there’s no tenants and mortgage payments are due. Getting him to keep his end of the bargain was getting more and more challenging. Then, one day, he stopped answering phone calls. Finally I called his new(er) boyfriend, Allan, and learned that Daniel was in jail for some violation of his probation from the domestic violence incident. I was totally screwed.
Every property I own(ed) has a nick name. This one was, “Lauderdale Manors.” I was trusting, naive and uninformed when this property was purchased with my minimal involvement. When Daniel went “missing,” I took matters into my own hands and visited the property.
There was a man there - one of Daniel’s goons...er, I mean, upstanding crewmen, doing renovation work - like turning a carport into a bedroom & bath “renovation” work. I might not know much but I was smart enough to deduct that there was no permit, this guy was not licensed and barely spoke English. Thanks to my crude knowledge of Spanish, he was able to understand that I owned the property and wanted him gone. “Shiiiit. Now what do I do?” I assessed the partly completed work and shuffled in the construction dust looking at hundreds of dollars of product from Home Depot. Daniel was paying this guy, although little did our “construction,” worker know that he would not be seeing another paycheck. I knew I was in over my head and sought consult from a friend of mine that did commercial real estate law. “If you do that kind of construction without a permit, then sell the house, and let’s say 10 years down the road something happens - there’s an inspection....you could be liable. It has happened many times before. In other words, Tara Shea, THIS IS NOT GOOD.”
A few days after that conversation, I returned to the house. I am conspicuous in that neighborhood and stand out like an albino. But there was a peacefulness and it was quiet there. Maybe I’ll see something and get some ideas. Instead, I find two huge planes of mirrors hidden in the tall grass of the back yard and an even larger receipt from Home Depot on the newly formica’d kitchen counter. Forty minutes later, the car was loaded with unused bags of mortar, plywood, interior doors and a porcelain toilet. Thank God I work out.
Everything was returnable....for credit. “I’ll take the credit,” I told the cashier.
Two months had gone by since the purchase of Lauderdale Manors, and Daniel had been “away” for a month. There were two lien holders, both local guys. That’s right, not banks, but private individuals. I still don’t understand what THAT was all about. The first lien holder was all up my ass. He didn’t care about my dilemma or charm. Franco wanted a payment.
“You know Daniel is my business partner on this purchase?”
“Maybe so, but it’s your name on the title, lil lady.” I never met Franco before in my life.
“I don’t have anything right now. What are my options?” I was desperate to buy time.
“You’re already two months behind. Make a payment and I won’t default your loan.”
“Gimme a week, Franco. Ok?”
“One week. You got my number.”
I felt like I was dealing with the mob. Especially when I called him back the following week and we arranged a “meeting,” at the Heavenly Hot Dog on Sunrise Boulevard. I paid him $1000, cash; money that needed to pay that month’s mortgage on the Tree House.
With the help of John my commercial real estate law friend, I learned about a “Quit Claim Deed.” Basically, I needed the second lien holder to take responsibility of the first mortgage. Of course “Mobster #1 had to agree to Mobster #2 signing this transference of the deed. Franco willingly gave me Ron Rollins’ phone number. He was the guy I needed to convince to take the mortgage over. I knew Ron and Daniel had history, Daniel worked with the same people several times over. Or was it he worked them several times over? I digress.
After a couple phone calls, Ron agreed. He was willing to sign the “Quit Claim Deed.” It was only two or three weeks after I made my payment to Franco.
I met Ron for the first time at the attorney’s office of his choice. My friend John had drawn up my own legal documents - just to be sure. May 7th, 2007, the papers were signed. I am no longer responsible for the future of property “Lauderdale Manors.” “There’s an attorney’s fee of $500,” I am informed that day. “Ron, when I get it, I will pay you,” I was sincere and uncertain all at once. A couple weeks later, Ron called. “I have some copies that you may want for your records.” He gave me directions to his home; his gorgeous, newly renovated, $25K-brand-new-kitchen home that he shared with his husband of several years and two Yorkie dogs.
~~~~~~~~~~oooooooo~~~~~~~~~~
One day, early in our knowing of one another and after a Pilates session with Daniel, I unintentionally surprised him and touched his left upper arm. He gave a shudder and said, “Don’t do that. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t always do well when people touch me. Especially when I’m not expecting it.” Another time, shortly thereafter, he had his hand wrapped around the foot bar of the equipment and I reached to adjust his placement. Daniel looked up at me and tried to startle me with his insight, “You and your boyfriend will break-up. But that won’t last long.” Honestly, I hadn’t discussed the current issues I was having with my boyfriend. I hadn’t opened up to him that much yet. Our discussions were still mostly about him. Then suddenly, it clicked.
“Did your family get a pool table when you were a teen-ager?” It was a shot in the dark, but I knew he grew up in the area and that he was about a year younger than I, even though he was already going grey.
“Yyyyeesss,” he slowly answered. There was no expression on his face. Now, it was my turn to be the shocker.
“So whatever happened to the bag of weed that installer left behind?”
He was quiet for a moment. "The guy came back, but we had already found it. We denied to our dad that we saw anything. He was gonna kick that skinny guy's ass who accused us of stealing the stuff. My dad would have kicked our asses if he knew we turned around and sold it." He was quiet again. "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU??"
~~~~~~~~~~oooooooo~~~~~~~~~~
It was partly a stalling technique, since the last buyer for a short sale fell through and I was nearing another foreclosure date for my condo, and partly a sincere inquiry.... “Am I eligible for a loan modification?” So, just a few months ago, after lots of water under that proverbial bridge, I was back at Daniel’s office, exploring my options with one of his representatives. Twilah was helping me put together my package to apply for the modification. After knowing each other for less than an hour, we were getting along like old gal pals. Our work for the day was complete and she stepped away for a moment to retrieve my copies that were printed on a machine outside her door. I heard some conversation and Twilah’s voice say, “Yeeeeaah, that her name. You know her?” She returned to me and said, “Hole up. Der be sumbody here dat say he know you.” That always makes me nervous. She gave me a name that I didn’t recognize. I took the papers from Twilah to stuff them in my bag. Before I got up to face the door, my visitor came in for a little reunion, “Hiiiii, Tara Shea,” I heard his sweet voice with a Wilton Manors twang sing my name. It took me a second to connect the dots, “Ron?” Uh huh. Well slap me on the ass.
Growing up, my dad would come home from work with some of the most outrageous stories of his clients. Pops owned a pool table and billiard supply business. His clientele ranged from pro sports celebrities to the elite to seedy club owners to upper middle class families. Often, he would get to know the families that purchased pool tables from him. There seemed to be a consistent order of events in this process. The “man of the house,” would wander into the showroom dazed by all the neon and felt and carved wood and start to talk about .... pool tables. Then, the Mr. would come back with the Mrs. for a second look at his favorite floor model, only to return a third or fourth time to kick more tires. Sometimes the kids were dragged along too. Purchasing a pool table was an extravagant expense; rarely a snap decision, so in the evaluation process my father often got to know the whole family before the final install. Some of the stories and their characters, I will never forget. Especially the one of the two psychic boys.
I was 15 at the time when my dad came home and told the story about a customer with two unusual boys.The older son, the 14 year old was “normal,” in appearance and outgoing; and the younger son was showing signs of withdrawal, problems with emotional development and avoided physical contact. What was so sensational was that these boys would see flashes of a person’s life - past and future when they touched someone. How this information was revealed to my father is beyond me; Pops always had a way of getting involved in the most obscure conversations with people. The Mr. was not the biological father of these fascinating boys, but the step father that raised them with a stern hand, customized by the U.S. Marines. Terribly traumatized by this “gift,” the younger boy shunned much interaction with other people. Even though he did not care to experience these visions, the elder son handled them more gracefully and in stride.
The cherry on this feast of a tale was on the day of delivery for the family’s pool table. Pops had two men from his crew do the installation. One of them accidentally left a “special bag,” behind. That evening at the dining room table after a meal, my dad laughed through his cigarette smoke as he retold my mom about how one of his guys left a fresh bag of weed at Mr. Marines and the psychic boys' job site. The weed, never to be found again.
~~~~~~~~~~oooooooo~~~~~~~~~~
Daniel and I developed a friendship from the hours we spent in Pilates sessions together. As superficial as he can be, Daniel also has a very spiritual side. We are both fascinated by the occult and we started to dabble in Tarot classes together. He bought me my first deck. Then he became my real-estate broker, and finally, we became business partners. There were a pool of investors that Daniel worked with, it was almost incestuous. Before I knew it, I was buying property with my immaculate credit and he was bank rolling them if we didn’t fill them with tenants in time for a mortgage payment. I was a design student and Pilates/Yoga teacher - I had no money to float investment properties that were coming up in the red. And they were all in the red. The plan was to put Daniel on the deeds to three of my most recent purchases. Legally, he had no obligation to any of these investments - all I had were verbal promises. Once the equity grew, we would sell the property and share the profits. That was the plan.
The very last property I purchased was in the remaining land of “transitional neighborhoods,” that never transitioned. Major work needed to be done on the house before we could get a tenant in there and Daniel was handling the details. At this point in his career, Daniel was pulling the strings on all aspects of property investment: real estate, mortgage brokering and property maintenance. He was the conductor and the symphony of this (nearly) one-man-show. So, I get into this property and I don’t feel good about it. I just sold a terrible money pit of a house a couple months before and got that burden off my hands. Then, for some ungodly reason, I trusted Daniel on this new purchase. In addition to that, I had two other condos and a house. The house was my first ever purchase, the condos were part of our “partnership,” deal. Things weren’t going according to Daniel’s plan when two months go by and there’s no tenants and mortgage payments are due. Getting him to keep his end of the bargain was getting more and more challenging. Then, one day, he stopped answering phone calls. Finally I called his new(er) boyfriend, Allan, and learned that Daniel was in jail for some violation of his probation from the domestic violence incident. I was totally screwed.
Every property I own(ed) has a nick name. This one was, “Lauderdale Manors.” I was trusting, naive and uninformed when this property was purchased with my minimal involvement. When Daniel went “missing,” I took matters into my own hands and visited the property.
There was a man there - one of Daniel’s goons...er, I mean, upstanding crewmen, doing renovation work - like turning a carport into a bedroom & bath “renovation” work. I might not know much but I was smart enough to deduct that there was no permit, this guy was not licensed and barely spoke English. Thanks to my crude knowledge of Spanish, he was able to understand that I owned the property and wanted him gone. “Shiiiit. Now what do I do?” I assessed the partly completed work and shuffled in the construction dust looking at hundreds of dollars of product from Home Depot. Daniel was paying this guy, although little did our “construction,” worker know that he would not be seeing another paycheck. I knew I was in over my head and sought consult from a friend of mine that did commercial real estate law. “If you do that kind of construction without a permit, then sell the house, and let’s say 10 years down the road something happens - there’s an inspection....you could be liable. It has happened many times before. In other words, Tara Shea, THIS IS NOT GOOD.”
A few days after that conversation, I returned to the house. I am conspicuous in that neighborhood and stand out like an albino. But there was a peacefulness and it was quiet there. Maybe I’ll see something and get some ideas. Instead, I find two huge planes of mirrors hidden in the tall grass of the back yard and an even larger receipt from Home Depot on the newly formica’d kitchen counter. Forty minutes later, the car was loaded with unused bags of mortar, plywood, interior doors and a porcelain toilet. Thank God I work out.
Everything was returnable....for credit. “I’ll take the credit,” I told the cashier.
Two months had gone by since the purchase of Lauderdale Manors, and Daniel had been “away” for a month. There were two lien holders, both local guys. That’s right, not banks, but private individuals. I still don’t understand what THAT was all about. The first lien holder was all up my ass. He didn’t care about my dilemma or charm. Franco wanted a payment.
“You know Daniel is my business partner on this purchase?”
“Maybe so, but it’s your name on the title, lil lady.” I never met Franco before in my life.
“I don’t have anything right now. What are my options?” I was desperate to buy time.
“You’re already two months behind. Make a payment and I won’t default your loan.”
“Gimme a week, Franco. Ok?”
“One week. You got my number.”
I felt like I was dealing with the mob. Especially when I called him back the following week and we arranged a “meeting,” at the Heavenly Hot Dog on Sunrise Boulevard. I paid him $1000, cash; money that needed to pay that month’s mortgage on the Tree House.
With the help of John my commercial real estate law friend, I learned about a “Quit Claim Deed.” Basically, I needed the second lien holder to take responsibility of the first mortgage. Of course “Mobster #1 had to agree to Mobster #2 signing this transference of the deed. Franco willingly gave me Ron Rollins’ phone number. He was the guy I needed to convince to take the mortgage over. I knew Ron and Daniel had history, Daniel worked with the same people several times over. Or was it he worked them several times over? I digress.
After a couple phone calls, Ron agreed. He was willing to sign the “Quit Claim Deed.” It was only two or three weeks after I made my payment to Franco.
I met Ron for the first time at the attorney’s office of his choice. My friend John had drawn up my own legal documents - just to be sure. May 7th, 2007, the papers were signed. I am no longer responsible for the future of property “Lauderdale Manors.” “There’s an attorney’s fee of $500,” I am informed that day. “Ron, when I get it, I will pay you,” I was sincere and uncertain all at once. A couple weeks later, Ron called. “I have some copies that you may want for your records.” He gave me directions to his home; his gorgeous, newly renovated, $25K-brand-new-kitchen home that he shared with his husband of several years and two Yorkie dogs.
~~~~~~~~~~oooooooo~~~~~~~~~~
One day, early in our knowing of one another and after a Pilates session with Daniel, I unintentionally surprised him and touched his left upper arm. He gave a shudder and said, “Don’t do that. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t always do well when people touch me. Especially when I’m not expecting it.” Another time, shortly thereafter, he had his hand wrapped around the foot bar of the equipment and I reached to adjust his placement. Daniel looked up at me and tried to startle me with his insight, “You and your boyfriend will break-up. But that won’t last long.” Honestly, I hadn’t discussed the current issues I was having with my boyfriend. I hadn’t opened up to him that much yet. Our discussions were still mostly about him. Then suddenly, it clicked.
“Did your family get a pool table when you were a teen-ager?” It was a shot in the dark, but I knew he grew up in the area and that he was about a year younger than I, even though he was already going grey.
“Yyyyeesss,” he slowly answered. There was no expression on his face. Now, it was my turn to be the shocker.
“So whatever happened to the bag of weed that installer left behind?”
He was quiet for a moment. "The guy came back, but we had already found it. We denied to our dad that we saw anything. He was gonna kick that skinny guy's ass who accused us of stealing the stuff. My dad would have kicked our asses if he knew we turned around and sold it." He was quiet again. "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU??"
~~~~~~~~~~oooooooo~~~~~~~~~~
It was partly a stalling technique, since the last buyer for a short sale fell through and I was nearing another foreclosure date for my condo, and partly a sincere inquiry.... “Am I eligible for a loan modification?” So, just a few months ago, after lots of water under that proverbial bridge, I was back at Daniel’s office, exploring my options with one of his representatives. Twilah was helping me put together my package to apply for the modification. After knowing each other for less than an hour, we were getting along like old gal pals. Our work for the day was complete and she stepped away for a moment to retrieve my copies that were printed on a machine outside her door. I heard some conversation and Twilah’s voice say, “Yeeeeaah, that her name. You know her?” She returned to me and said, “Hole up. Der be sumbody here dat say he know you.” That always makes me nervous. She gave me a name that I didn’t recognize. I took the papers from Twilah to stuff them in my bag. Before I got up to face the door, my visitor came in for a little reunion, “Hiiiii, Tara Shea,” I heard his sweet voice with a Wilton Manors twang sing my name. It took me a second to connect the dots, “Ron?” Uh huh. Well slap me on the ass.
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