Well, I still have no place to live. Other than the hole I am currently
in, that is. I have now become so immune to living amongst stacks of cardboard boxes that I fear I will need to get a job in a UPS warehouse in order to feel truly at home for the rest of my life.
The conversation with the attorney (he called me back this afternoon) left me with no more information than I had when I called him. In fact, he knew less than I did. And as he has no real stake in the matter---he was only hired to handle my closing, after all---he could only advise me to "try to find out what happened to my earnest money." Um, yeah, I'll get right on that.
The lender also called me back, but was unavailable when I returned her call a bit ago. She made it clear that "this is the first she's hearing about the bankruptcy situation" with the developer.
Sigh. How can so may parties be involved and yet nobody know anything? How can measly, pathetic, never-owned-property-in-her-damn-life Susan be the most knowledgeable one in the room? Irony at work, my friends.
What this means for the time being is that I need to do some more digging to find out where my escrow money check was deposited. Then I must call that financial institution to see if it's still there. Hopefully (and these are the lawyer's words) I "will not be out that money, and it has not disappeared into the bankrupt developer's pockets." That would be the icing on the cake now, wouldn't it?
"Hey you---sucker---yeah---over here! Come pay us and sign on the dotted line for this condo that doesn't exist yet, and soon, yeah, SOON, you will be able to move in. What's that? It's a year later and you're still not in? Hmmm. Lemme check on that. Oh, yeah. We're bankrupt and we're outa here. Oh, and thanks for the money. Sucka!"
Bigger sigh.
No apartments I have managed to view have jumped out at me---all of them are either
A) smaller than my current hole,
B) in abominable condition,
C) way out of my price range, or
D) located in outer Tanzania. A few places didn't even bother to call me back when I left a message inquiring about their
FOR RENT sign. Also, I have decided firmly that I will NOT take an apartment if there is not laundry in the building and if heat is not included. So there. Beggars
can be choosers, and I am a fine example of it. I cannot be any more miserable than I am no, so I may as well shoot the moon.
Well, maybe I
could be more miserable. I could have a fatal disease, or a broken limb. Or, I could have a skin condition that causes painful itching and pustules. Or, I could be pregnant. Or, I could have a toddler that I'd have to drag around everywhere and nurture. Or, I could have a job wherein I work from home, which sucks if you don't really have a home, or in my case, id you have a home that is nothing more than contained fetid air in a crawl space insulated by ceiling-high box stacks.
What if I just had the boxes moved into a big truck and drove around the country looking for a new place to live? That might be interesting. Of course, with the price of gas being what it is, it would not be a long-term solution, but at least it would be a diversion until the money ran out. And when it did I could use the last of it to hire some migrant field hands to unload my belongings into an open field, where I could build a lean-to from bed linens and broken furniture and slowly sell everything I could not burn, eat, or wear.
With that money, and the returned deposit on the truck, I could buy an electric car and spend the rest of my life driving around at my leisure and looking for free outlets to plug the vehicle in every evening. No address. No debts. No landlords. No banks. No bosses.
Just me. And a whole lotta road. And when I got too old to drive anymore, I'd find another empty field and pull my car into it and allow it to roll to a stop under a tree. I'd sit inside the car with the seat leaned back and watch the weeds grow around me, tall enough to obscure my view of the horizon. I'd sit and look up through the windshield glass and watch the birds and the clouds and the stars and the rain, until the life slipped from me and my soul drifted up and out of the car and over the field and past the moon and it did not matter that I, Susan, never owned anything bigger than a car. It only mattered that I was free.
