Ownership

Ownership

Aaron

They say it's a buyer's market. They've been saying it for a while now, but that's never been my experience...really in anything, but specifically in real estate. Renting, being somewhere temporarily on someone else's terms, that part seems to be easy, but it sure has been tougher to own it for sure.

We've been married almost 10 years, most of it renting. But we wanted to own. So we saved. Changed jobs a few times. Changed parts of the country a few times, passing up going out for dinners in three different time zones.

Shannon's been patient. Really patient. Years of not being able to paint a wall the color she wants it to be. Picking from a few houses on the list -- just the rentals -- not all of them, her eyes diverting from the ones that look like homes, focusing on the ones that look like houses. Sweating out lease renewals. Seeing places she'd rather have come and go because we were in the middle of a lease. Landlords who were slow to make repairs. Who'd drop by unexpectedly. Drawers of her unfolded underwear when she knew she folded everything she put away.

Now, finally, I have the right job. We have money in the bank -- enough for a down payment. We're in the right city -- a big city. So when I finally told her it was time, it was a great day. She smiled, we hugged, we kissed, we toasted, we went out to dinner. Back in our duplex that night she stood at the foot of the bed, peeling off her bra and panties slowly, crawling naked on all fours towards me, my hands running from her shoulders around her arms around the curves of her breasts down her sides, coming to rest on her buttocks. Me inside her, her head tossed back, easing up and down on me. This one felt better than most. After years of silent apologies for giving her less than she deserved, I was finally giving her what she wanted most. I was providing her with a home. My dick warm inside her, watching her breasts shimmer in the sepia lamplight as she moved up and down, that word _provide_bouncing along in my brain, I felt more control, more deserving than I ever had in this marriage. My hand caressed her face as pure pride spurted out of me and up inside her. I slept soundly in the dark, forgetting to even put on the television to fall asleep to. When I woke up the next morning she was already on her iPad, still naked, covers pulled up below her breasts, her tan/pink nipples bouncing and poking forward as her fingers scrolled through the houses on a real estate site.

Over the next month we spent nights after work and weekends walking through houses. Some closer to the city, some further out in the country. Realtors showed us living rooms, kitchens, raved about open floor plans, railed against paneling that would have to come out. Generally with a little more drama in their voice, they'd present the master bedroom.This is where you'll fuck her, they seemed to say.These are the walls her moans will bounce off.Me nodding contemplatively as if I'm kicking the tires on a used car, looking at the floor my semen would drip onto as I headed to the bathroom for a towel or a shower.

We'd go home, talk about what we liked. What we didn't. Drink wine and listen to her dream about color schemes and which room would be what. Which room our daughter would live in. Which room would be a guest room. What she'd need to buy to make the house work. It felt like we were fucking more often, the anticipation an aphrodisiac.

One day we found ourselves touring a new build, the first on a cul-de-sac. It was bigger than most houses we'd looked at. More room than we'd need. Room for another kid if we decided to. Room for friends -- or worse yet relatives -- to visit and not be sleeping, snoring, talking ten feet away. An open floor plan. No paneling. The price was slightly higher than what I'd planned for, but Shannon's face as she looked around was so alive. You could see the plans and ideas running around her head.

That night we went out to dinner.

"What did you think?"

She tried not to seem too excited, but she lit up pretty brightly.

"I mean, it's everything we want, I think," she said. "The floors are beautiful; it's got a ton of room. One of us can be cooking in the kitchen and still be talking to the other in the living room. Tons of bedrooms. Plenty of storage space."

I nodded, taking another bit of pasta.

"I think it's it, Aaron," she finished. Nope: started again. "I know it's a little more expensive, so if we can't we can't. I get it. But it's so much better than anything else we've seen..."

Her eyes were pleading and conciliatory at the same time. She wanted it a lot, but over ten years she'd gotten used to settling.

We got married in a rush, having known each other for several years, but having dated for about two -- me coming out of a shipwreck of a marriage, Shannon coming straight out of her parent's house. I was in my early thirties. She was twenty-two. We'd known each other through work, her initially an intern who had worked her way up into a full-time job. Me much further advanced in the company, but sending almost all my paycheck to an ex-wife and therefore living on not much more than she was. We'd talk politely at work; I'd give her some advice from time to time. After she was twenty-one we'd occasionally cross paths in the same bars, me with my friends or whatever girl I was hanging with at that point, her with the other new kids at the company. One night we ran into each other, neither of us with anyone. She was wearing a jean jacket, her long brunette hair cascading against the denim collar. She was tall. Tall enough you wouldn't realize just how large her chest really was. Her long legs in jeans clearly much tighter than she ever wore to work. For the first time I noticed her brown eyes, as dark a brown as they were big, her round eyes and high cheekbones set against an oval head and face. We ended up pretending we both played pool, balls bouncing off the sides but rarely landing in a pocket, all of the just-misses leading to more and more margaritas. We kissed for the first time out by her car, salty lips and tequila tongues, my body pressing against hers, back pockets of her taut jeans pressing up against the driver-side window. Although things progressed at a very odd pace, less than two years later we ended up both more than ready to be married, now with a daughter, even though our bank accounts might not have been nearly as ready for any of it at all.

Now, I looked at her and felt like she was already bracing for the fact that we wouldn't be able to buy this house, but there was no way I was saying no. Her face brightened up when I told her I agreed. Told her I'd find a way. We'd find a way.

Every bank we talked to said it wouldn't be a problem. They looked at my income, I told them my credit score, they said it would be an easy fit. We signed the paperwork with the builders and gave notice on our rental.

Shannon was a cyclone -- picking out furniture, deciding what to sell at a garage sale. She'd take our daughter to school each morning then concentrate on something -- purchases, packing or planning. She had everything down. Our close date was targeted for about ten weeks.

That's when I got the phone call from the first-choice bank. There was a problem.

A few years into our marriage we were already tired of duplexes and apartments. Having no more than four friends over; having our visiting parents sleep on an air mattress. And so we bought a house. Bought at the peak of the bubble. And we had to leave it behind after everything burst, an empty house in a neighborhood of empty houses.

It was a lifetime ago. But now suddenly it wasn't, the ink bearing its name looking very alive and threatening on the credit report that the banks had pulled. It wasn't even up to the bank, they said. Federal regulations. You'll just have to wait longer, the bank person on the phone said. Years longer. Those words echoed, getting louder and icier each time across several other calls, enough of them I realized it was pointless. I asked the last person on the last call the question I ended up asking way too often: Is there anything I can do? It was quiet on the other end of the phone for awhile.

"Call a Savings & Loan," she said. There was a click, then nothing.

Kevin

We generally aren't the first S&L people call. For one thing, they just don't know we're here. We don't have a big sign, we don't advertise. We mostly deal with people who have a lot of money or people who have a problem. Sometimes both of those things.

But the people who build houses know about us. They know we can often help them out, especially since we often hold a lot of their money for them. If someone is in the middle of a buy -- or worse a build -- and they hit a snag, then often we get asked to meet with them. Sometimes we can help, sometimes we can't.

I've been doing this for over thirty-five years. Not at this S&L of course. I did it at small banks, then bigger banks. Then I managed one bank, two banks, a lot of banks at one point. These days I'm here. Probably don't have to be at this point. I could retire and sell my house then buy a condo in a mid-level Florida town or an even nicer place in Mexico, but I'm just not ready to do that yet.

I come back from lunch and sort through a new batch of emails, quickly deleting LUCRATIVE INVESTMENT PROPOSAL and IT'S A SMALL INVESTMENT FOR A LARGE RETURN and sorting through the rest. A few are updates on current loans, one close date is confirmed, one mortgage insurance company tells me one loan just isn't going to happen. Towards the middle of the screen one says JUST.

I click on it, opening it into an email from the woman I've been seeing. Apparentlywasseeing, after last night. Neither the email nor the relationship turn out to be that long at all:Just need you to know. I know you were trying. Please, for me, don't write back. Stephanie.

I really don't care that much, but she did surprise me with the timing. She capped off last night at my place in the living room kneeling between my legs, skirt hiked up, my shirt unbuttoned, her shirt unbuttoned, breasts on the verge of spilling out of her push-up bra. Talking heads from cable news grew more muffled inside my head as her tongue licked me, her lips stroked me and her head turned as I came onto her cheek and neck. It was only after that when she needed to talk. Needed to define things. So I gave it a definition and now it's over.

Stephanie was a nice woman. She was good at listening, picking good restaurants and pulling her mouth off my dick at the exact right split second. What she wasn't so good at knowing was what I don't want. Or will ever not want.

Next email below was a forward from a co-worker, with two new words added to the subject line: Any Chance? I moved Stephanie into the trashcan and opened it up, slumping into my chair as waited for the attached file to open.

Aaron

I had a list of about four or five S&Ls that the builders passed to me. A couple got to the foreclosure part of the phone call and cut me off right there, saying they couldn't do it. A couple said they could take a look, but they never called back, sending form letter emails couching polite denials between thank-yous and credit-building credit card offers.

Shannon knew we were scratching and clawing for the loan. If I didn't update her when I came home each day, she'd wait for as long as she could before she couldn't hold back. That was usually about ten minutes.

"Did you hear anything on the house?"

A twinge of anger -- she knew if I had good news I'd be telling her -- always drowned itself in frustration and sorrow. I didn't have anything to tell her.

"I'm trying, baby. I'm doing everything I can."

Some nights she'd look at me, which made me feel bad. I didn't want to makeherfeel sorry formefor lettingherdown. But then some nights she wouldn't look at me when I told her no. She'd look off at the wall, or blankly at the TV. Or down at her phone. Those nights I felt even worse.

One night we cuddled in bed. Our normal sleeping clothes: me in just underwear, her in just a t-shirt. It was quiet in the room, the TV volume low. I was curled up behind her.

"I love you, baby," she said in a low voice.

"I love you, too. I know this is all going to work out." My hand slid from her thigh up into her shirt, cupping her left breast into my hand. I could feel it warm my palm, her nipple touching my wedding ring. She was quiet. She stayed curled up as my hand massaged her roundness. I started to harden in my underwear and pressed up closer behind her.

"You can fuck me if you need to," she said, eyes still closed, body still in a curl. My fingers stopped moving. I loosened my grip on her, pulled my crotch slightly away from her buttocks.

"It's okay," I said. "We'll wait until you're up for it." She reached back and rubbed my leg with her hand. A few minutes later she was asleep.

The next day my cell phone buzzed -- an unfamiliar number. I answered: it was the last of the S&L's I'd reached out to. They'd reviewed my situation. Was now a good time to talk? Uh, yeah. She paused before moving forward.

"We've had our people look at this. Unfortunately we just can't see it working."

I exhaled. I hadn't even known I'd been holding my breath. She went on.

"Your income is fine. More than fine. You have a decent down payment. But the foreclosure is tough to get around. We had a number of people look at it. Even Kevin."

"Kevin?" I asked.

"Sorry, Kevin Barr, who is the best one at finding ways. It just doesn't look right for us."

My office got smaller and the temperature suddenly grew hot just inside my skin and cold just outside it. This was the last one. The very last one.

"If all the numbers match up, can't you do something? This isn't all those years ago. We'll never miss a payment. Never be a day late."

"I'm sor-" she began, but I couldn't let her finish a word she didn't mean. If she finished the word then it was over. We'd be moving again, but to another rental. We'd have to walk around places again, visions and excitement replaced by empty reassurances thatthis won't be so bad. I couldn't face that.

"Please," I said. "Let us plead our case. We can talk to someone right? We made a mistake. We'll never make it again. Let us meet with someone."

She was quiet, then put me on hold. After a minute of listening to the Muzak version of "Everybody Have Fun Tonight" she came back on.

"Mr. Barr will meet with you both Thursday, 3 o'clock," she said. "You know where we are?"

"I'll figure it out," I said, voice rising. "Thank you."

"Good luck," she said, then hung up.

Thursday we sat in the car in the S&L parking lot, waiting for the clock to say 2:57 or maybe 2:58. Didn't want to look too eager.

Shannon had all sorts of papers. Letters to our old mortgage company. Letters confirming perfect credit with our car loans. Maybe a letter from our third grade teachers.

"I think the key is to just make sure they know how serious we are. And how easily we can make this payment," I said. I looked at her. Those brown eyes I'd seen so clearly for the first time at that sports bar. I had to get her this. Just had to.

We strategized a little more, then walked in and asked for Mr. Barr. We were told to take a seat.

Kevin

One last appointment on the day. The 3 o'clocks are usually either the easiest or the worst. It's always a no-go. It's just a question of whether they understand that quickly or they don't.

I looked out my office window. A combo couple: the middle-aged guy with the hot younger wife. He's about forty, balding, fairly skinny. She's maybe thirty. Pretty face. He looks intense. She looks worried.

I glance through their paperwork again. They're worried for good reason.

They come in and we get the intros done. Kevin. Aaron. Kevin. Shannon.

Both of them sit. I pick up their folder and look at it one last time, trying to - and probably failing - to give the illusion I was still deciding. I set down the folder.

"Guys, I look at this credit report and I see the work you've done. You're making all your payments. Credit cards. Cars."

They brighten.

I lean up.

"But the foreclosure." I shake my head. "It's hard to defend. It's hard to make a case around."

They both slouch, almost in unison. I glance out the window of my office. A stray dog is chasing two feral cats in the alley behind us. One cat has its back arched, the other is cowed.

He tells me the backstory. Reminds me what the world was like back in 2007. He tells me what's changed. Laws. Regulations. Them. She sits next to him, deep brown eyes -- huge eyes -- intense, head nodding.

I pick up the folder again. I wish I had something to grab onto. A strand. But I don't.

"I don't see it," I say.

His head falls. He's looking at his clenched hands.

"There's got to be something," he says into his own lap.

I start to tell him about time. How two years will make this easier. Make this doable. He won't even need a savings and loan by then. Any bank will write them. Before I open my mouth I glance over at her. A few tears running down her face. Down her cheek. Onto her neck. And down onto her cleavage, settling on her chest. She holds her gaze on me, waiting for me to say something as this drop of salt water settles into her bosom.

It's so cliché. Women, tears. Tits. I look at him. I'm buying time, before I have to kill their dream, but somewhere in my brain the darkest thought. The rudimentary framework of a terrible idea.

"Mr. Beechum..." I look at him. At her. I look out into the lobby. The empty chairs, the water cooler. "I need more time."

I look at him.

"Are you available later tonight?"

Aaron

As we pass a KFC, a 7-11, an oil change place, she asks for the third time.

"What does it mean?"

I shake my head again, one hand on the wheel, one holding her hand, resting on her left leg.

"I don't know."

I'm trying to figure out what he could be working on.

"Maybe he wants to help us write a better Letter of Explanation," I say. McDonalds passes by the passenger window. A purple Grimace stands outside waving. When was the last time I saw that?

"Explanation to whom?" She asks. "He's the one who decides."

"Yeah but he answers to someone," I say. "A board somewhere. Someone."

At the stoplight I turn to her.

"Look, it wasn't a no. It wasn't a yes, but he didn't close the door. He's...he's looking for a way., I think."

Three people cross in front of us. Two are at least seventy, shuffling slowly in long pants, shirts and shawls. Bringing up the rear is a Hispanic girl, maybe nineteen. White low cut shirt, carrying a skateboard. I try to picture peeling her her cutoff jean shorts down those brown legs. She's going to have some hair there. Not too much, but not shaved bare either. I picture the humidity in there as my nose touches the tips of those hairs, the tank on the bedpost, the skateboard in the corner of the room, one wheel still spinning lazily.

I snap back, no train of thought remaining. Shannon's still looking at me intently.

"He's looking for a way," I repeat.

Always the safest thing to say.

Kevin

We meet at a bar I picked, one I go to a decent amount - many people from work do, which doesn't thrill me. It's a country bar, a throwback with one of those bulls that you ride if you're a guy looking to look tough or a girl who wants to show what she'd look like riding something.

Aaron is at the bar. I wonder where Shannon is. Scan the crowd a little to see if she's hiding somewhere. The thought of her in a white tank and cowboy hat hovers, disappearing as he shakes my hand.