So yesterday I closed on my new house, smooth and easy as a glass of
water.
We were in the lobby, my finance officer, my realtor, and my realtor's
brother, waiting for the previous owners to finish signing, and out
walks this blonde, professional, doesn't look up, reading some papers
in her hand, disappears behind a glass door in the neighboring
offices. Then out pops this pregnant lady and ushers us into what I
now consider the wrong damned door.
Anyway.
The pregnant lady sits us down in this empty office, brings in an
extra chair. My finance officer didn't have to be there, she says, but
she wanted to meet me -- we talked a lot, I guess, especially about
gas. So we meet, shake hands, and talk while we wait. We talk about
gas.
Then in walks that blonde with more papers in her hand, sets the
papers on the desk, shakes my hand, shakes everyone's hand, then says,
"Let's move to the big office."
So we move.
I sit next to the blonde.
I start signing, and they make fun of my signature, even have me pull
out my driver's license to prove it matches. My signature is terrible.
It's something a drunk monkey might scribble with his ass-picker. A
doctor would be embarrassed. My parents were embarrassed. My seven
year-old son is embarrassed. I don't get embarrassed by silly things,
so I scribble away.
At one point the blonde giggles. I say, "What, has my signature gotten
worse."
"No no," she says, "You're fine."
I think she was looking at my bald spot in the back, that little
circle of scalp, how I'd said it was Sniper Bald -- I was hit, but
couldn't see the shooter.
We get to the liability page, and the blonde points to my ex-wife's
name. "So that's your other liability?"
"Nah, she's a good girl. She's my son's mom more than she's my ex-
wife."
"That's good."
Oh my God what blue blue eyes you have. She looked right through me.
I scribble at the bottom.
We spent half an hour, maybe more, signing, then it was done. My
finance officer shook hands, left, and my realtors for some reason
stuck around. They were supposed to leave and give me, you know, just
a few minutes with this blonde. Thirty seconds, that's all I needed.
Didn't happen.
So I think maybe I'll sneak her a note, figure that's too Rick
Moranis, and I shake her hand and leave.
I head for Chick-Fil-A and order an extra-large cup of unfiltered,
over-mineralized, straight-from-the-lake tap water, with ice, and a
small ice cream cone. I take a colossal piss.
I get in the car, lick my ice cream, back out, pick up the phone, and
call the title office. I ask for the blonde, give my name, say, "I was
just in there."
I get her on the phone, say, "I meant to ask you this while I was in
there, but didn't have a chance -- are you single?"
She laughs. "Sort of. Not really, but, well, I need to have the talk
with him. I'm at that point."
I say, "Well, it'll be a couple of weeks before I can go out anyways.
If you don't make up with him and run off to get married, maybe..."
And so on. My ice cream dripped on my hand and the steering wheel. I
almost pulled out in front of a red four-door.
I give her my number, say, "Call me whenever. Don't take it personally
if I don't call for a week or two, though, I'm gonna be pretty busy."
And I will be.
I take the left at the light, head south to pick up my boy. It's a
thirty minute drive.
She was a gymnast in her younger days. You could tell.
- Saul
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