And The Puppy Howls No Longer: A 21st Century Adult Fairy Tale Continued

By E. P. Lee

Post-surgery, Eric is healing, mourning, and learning to walk, see, and be again – he’s back in the land of the living, and the living drive him nuts. Friends, family... the Ex. While he was out of it, they’ve been odd at best, self-centered, ego-centric, selfish maniacs at worst. But that’s family...

And Eric has to push forward. Sell his home, heal his wounds, and move on with his life – wherever it heads next.

"And the Puppy Howls No Longer" continues the story of getting back up after being hit by everything modern American life can throw.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. P. Lee
• Release date: Jul 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310754975

E. P. Lee

After a lifetime spent in his native New York Eric Paul Lee now resides in beautiful, tropical, Miami, Florida. Born in Brooklyn and raised in Coney Island, Eric often wandered the Boardwalk in his childhood. Eric frequently wasted his allowance at the now demolished Steeplechase Park and the other dated, dowdy and declining amusements that defined Coney Island... and much of traditional society... back then. The traditional was still IN back then. And the traditional like Coney Island had seen its glory days, its heyday, long passed. But the new hadn’t arrived yet. Just the old was fading... And so the forms still had to be obeyed. And with that Eric’s parent’s obeyed those forms and Eric was dispatched to college in Upstate NY to return to Brooklyn some four years later. Upon graduation from college Eric bounced from job to job until the Graphic Arts caught his creative eye and a new career began. With his first graphics production position under his belt Eric moved in to Manhattan some two years later never to live in Brooklyn again. Success built on success as corporate stints in California brought about even greater successes leading to Eric’s eventual New York City return and the opening of his own Graphics Agency in Manhattan. That enterprise ran successfully for over twenty years. Now out of industry entirely, Eric is happy to enjoy the perpetual Florida sun and write.

Book preview

2

Regardless of the Long Road metaphor this isn’t about a finite destination at all. If I ever arrive at a final (sic), destination I’m sure the luggage will remain packed for the next voyage.

Nooooo…

This journey isn’t going to end at a place.

Perhaps the trip will end with death. That would be final, fitting even, but at a place short of death…

Nooooo…

I don’t think so.

When I first started to ponder this road trip I was in a different space. I still had my health. I still had money. I had a different dog too. I had Sigmund, a white, attitudinal, major personality of a French Bulldog.

Well…

Two-and-a-half years ago Sigmund sorrowfully came to the end of his being and bereft was I.

So I got Freud.

Get it?

Sigmund Freud.

Originally they were supposed to be a pair of Frenchies living together, Sigmund, and Freud. But as with so many other things in this tale it just didn’t play out that way.

And Sigmund didn’t stay Sigmund long when Freud didn’t appear. No, Sigmund became Ziggy, or Zig immediately. For years, for three or four years at that, the only person to call Ziggy, Sigmund, was the veterinarian who checked him out on day one. Finally that ceased.

Finally the vet became one with the program.

Meanwhile Sigmund was my little man or Mr. Ugly or just plain Ziggy.

For (14) years Ziggy ruled my life and then, old age, physical weakness and infirmity crept up and stole "my little man" from me. Ziggy died just seven weeks after my lover, Mitch, had a fatal accident at work and died.

It wasn’t a good time then, not a good period of time at all. But I started moving on down that long twisty road then and…

Well…

Here I am now.

I’m just not sure of where that "am" am.

3

Three years ago Ziggy was by my side on New Year’s Eve.

Ziggy was asleep in the big green chair near my desk. That’s the same big green chair that Freud has adopted as his favorite bed now. Back then Ziggy was asleep in that chair, sound asleep as the symbolic decadal fireworks were being shot off and exploding all around us.

Ziggy didn’t budge.

And neither did I.

I made it up to midnight that night, midnight as the old year died, as a new year began, the end of a decade, the beginning of a new one too.

Etcetera.

Etcetera…

Etcetera.

And so what?

It was just like any other day into another for me except they were screaming outside in the street and shooting off firecrackers. It was somewhat unnerving, the display of so much emotion over so little. It was like they’d never seen this before.

Stupid people.

It was only the passage of time and they’d lost it. I’d thought it was really silly all of that loud and raucous behavior. I’m glad I stayed home and avoided it then.

The dog got it though, Ziggy slept right through it all.

And me…

Me?

I didn’t even watch the ball drop. Why bother, nothing had changed. I was waiting then, and I’m waiting now.

As before…

I hate waiting.

4

The agent can’t come, I’m going to do the showing myself.

Alone.

Again.

The whole point of having a feral real estate agent is for the feral agents to do the showings. The seller should be distant (so the maggot real estate agents tell you), dispassionate, uninvolved.

Well…

Just how can I be any of that if the sloth of a real estate agent doesn’t show up?

I’m sympathetic though. Vermin real estate agents have properties to sell. I just have a property to sell. I have one commitment. Those stupid leaches of pseudo professionals have multiple commitments.

It’s OK though.

I know how to show the house. I know how to sell the house too. I don’t need an agent. I just wanted an agent for that dispassionate distance mentioned before. And now on the very first showing of the new listing I don’t have that:

dispassionate distance.

I’m it again.

IT.

AGAIN!

…

Damn, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

The same.

5

I’ve been trying to sell this place for almost three years; at first my sales attempts weren’t genuine.

I love it here and I still had enough money to not worry about immediate funds. I had to be careful, cautious, smart (and I wasn’t). But I didn’t have to sell yet. Selling would have been cautious, careful and smart, but I didn’t have to do it yet.

So I didn’t.

Now I have to sell.

That money I had back then is seriously depleted now and my physical abilities are not as strong as they were. Combine the two and I’m in need. I need to sell now, "need" to. I need smaller, less demanding space, and I require less expensive monthly costs.

I’m lesser so I need lesser.

Well…

That’s not really true and that’s the rub. My body requires less, my finances require less, but my mind shouts more, more, more.

MORE.

Even when I stopped working (12) years ago, closed my business, and said no mas to the daily grind and daily toil, even then I didn’t stop thinking about how to keep on moving forward. I knew that I needed to go forward.

Shit.

That I wanted to go forward, that I wanted to:

Keep On Keeping On.

Life is change and if you stop change, and changing (not necessarily the same thing), you die.

Well…

I had, and have, no plans for dying, and there’s that rub again. I don’t know how to plan to live any longer. I can’t work at anything. My physical condition won’t allow it. My brain injury is so severe that its disabled me.

I still find that humorous:

Brain Injury.

My brain injury was caused by a surgeon. My brain wasn’t injured in any way before the surgery.

Oh…

I did have this huge tumor. And the tumor had to be killed. The tumor had to be eradicated. The tumor had to be eradicated or killed, or it would have "killed" me.

So eradicated or killed the tumor had to be, but excised?

Nah!

Yet unless cut into and excision attempted they wouldn’t know if that tumor was Cancer, and if it was Cancer I would require chemotherapy to possibly live. And without the excision they wouldn’t know.

Actually…

It was more like that without the "excision" the surgeon wouldn’t get paid.

But no matter that.

I said:

NO!

…

I said NO to surgery for the first two weeks I was hospitalized.

I had seen too many horror movies as a child where brain surgery was performed on the patient under a local anesthetic with a saw and a drill for me to readily allow that.

Sooooo…

NO!

Let these geniuses practice on other dummies, just not on me.

Radiation.

I wanted radiation. I kept saying:

"If the radiation doesn’t work, OK, surgery.

But radiation first.

We’ll do this up the line, one thing after the other."

But said the Surgeon:

WHAT ABOUT CANCER?

Said I:

"Who cares…

Radiation first!"

The Surgeon wouldn’t let go though.

That Nazi Bastard of a Surgeon held me captive in a hospital bed with a Compliant Radiologist’s agreement under the guise that the tumor might be too large to be radiated effectively. And after two weeks of being kept a drugged prisoner in that hospital bed the tumor was too large to ignore, and now too large to be radiated.

I was in agony.

On the 15th day the Nazi Bastard Surgeon told drugged and befuddled, lying in a Hospital bed me, meeeee, with Grace my healthcare advocate, standing and crying silently at his side:

Surgery or Death.

Death?

Death…

And I said:

"Uh…

OK.

Operate…"

I died twice on the operating table the next day, I died for ten minutes once. They brought me back both times. I still don’t know why.

At first they didn’t know if I was even there.

I was.

Then they didn’t know if I would ever walk or talk again.

Well…

I could speak right away, I’m told I said:

OH SHIT!…

… when I heard that possible prognosis in the recovery room.

What I couldn’t do then was stand, or walk.

I still can’t do either well.

And now I’m a cripple.

6

The punch line, all jokes have a punch line you know.

Well…

This joke’s punch line is this:

The tumor was too large to be surgically removed, and 13 weeks after that horrific, invasive surgery that made me a cripple I had to have massive radiation, over three hours-worth, to save my life. I needed massive radiation from the Compliant Radiologist of record who’d said:

it might not work…

… to kill the huge tumor on my brain.

The Nazi Bastard Surgeon was paid $228,000 for nine hours of fruitless work. And 13 weeks later the Compliant Radiologist of record was paid $282,000 for zapping the same area that had been decimated by the Nazi Bastard Surgeon’s knife.

The system would have saved a cool quarter million if they’d listened to me, a cool quarter mil…

I’d still be walking too.

Yep.

Finally, after being diagnosed with a huge brain tumor five months prior, and being told that radiation was iffy, radiation was my lifesaver this day.

Radiation, my:

lifesaver…

… radiation therapy that I’d fought for pre-surgery and was not allowed to have was what saved my life eventually.

The radiation therapy that I’d fought for while trapped in a hospital bed under large doses of morphine, and large doses of anxiety relieving drugs, my faculties minimized, my physical activity limited, and all of my personal control and responsibility obviated and IGNORED, saved my life. Radiation therapy that I had researched on the Internet, that I’d fought for over, and over, and over again, and was told over, and over, and over again:

"NO!

Radiation might not work"…

… some five months later, that same radiation saved my life.

Only now, for those life-saving radiation treatments, I walked into that radiation treatment facility as a cripple leaning heavily on a cane, and I left that radiation treatment facility doubly impacted.

Alive.

Yesssss…

But doubly impacted nonetheless.

And that Nazi Bastard Surgeon got a $228,000 fee.

How cool is that?

7

So with that cane I’m traveling down the road, but actually not, as I gave up the cane over two years ago.

I totter a lot, and I hold on to nearby walls, cars, and pieces of furniture often, but I no longer use a cane. I’d rather push the window of infirmity than wear infirmity at the end of my right arm. Why should anyone else know that I’m incapacitated? It’s bad enough that I know, but broadcast the information to others?

No!

I’ll just do this my way and try not to fall.

My way.

I try to do everything:

my way.

That’s why I wasn’t overly perturbed today by the no show feral real estate agent. Although I like this agent and to a degree respect her professionalism and her demeanor I don’t know that I can work with her all the way through the actual sale of this house.

Missy and I have done a deal together before. It’s because of that successful deal that I gave her the opportunity to move forward with me on this property.

But on the other deal Missy was functioning in a market I knew nothing about and selling a property I wanted unloaded at any cost that the bank would accept. It was a "short-sale" and the entire package was designed to get me out from the claws of the bank.

I desperately needed help then and Missy provided that help.

And for her efforts Missy got a full fee.

8

This time around I’m in my home market and I know my home.

I know my comparative values. I know the inventory. I know the market trends and I know the other properties available. I also supplied all of the copy, wrote the entire listing and provided all of the photographs and the virtual tour being used now.

I know that everything works too because six months ago, from all of the same material, I had an offer within ten percent of my walk away figure. But I wasn’t ready to sell then and I made that offer go away. Then I pulled the house off the market to settle my emotions and recharge my spirit to get ready to really, really, really:

DO THIS NOW!

And Missy should be helping, but she’s not.

Even though I gave Missy the listing copy Missy listed the property wrong.

Even when I corrected what was wrong Missy made the corrections improperly.

Finally I went through the listing line by line and DEMANDED the corrections be made exactly as I supplied them. Then and only then was the listing posted correctly. It took 20 days too. What should have been correct on the first day took 20 days of emails and phone calls to make right.

I don’t do things like that calmly or well.

Not calmly.

And not well at all.

And today for the first showing Missy had a crisis with another property and didn’t show up. Like I said before, vermin real estate agents have properties to sell, and I have but one property to sell.

Only this property at that.

And Missy didn’t show up for the first showing of the property. And the buyer’s agent was a maggot airhead agent with an agenda of her own. And I had warned Missy about that.

I had warned about said:

Maggot Airhead Agents…

… with agendas for other properties, who would be using this property to abet the sale of those other listings. And I had warned Missy about buyers with bloated property appetites and meager financial resources.

I had vetted this buyer’s credentials as best I could second hand too. I questioned the finances of the buyer then, and hard. I questioned the stated desires of the buyer on what kind of house they said they wanted to live in also. I made sure that this house met those stated specifics in the buyer’s mind. But I knew from the answers that those buyer expressed desires were gratuitous. I could sense by the way the information was supplied to me, that worse, those expressed desires were lies. And I knew that the needed funding wasn’t there. And even though I did all of that questioning, even though I raised all of those potential red flags, Missy scheduled the showing anyway. And then Missy didn’t show up.

And so I was up at 7:30 a.m. sweeping the second floor terrace and steps leading down to the pool, then fluffing couch cushions, dusting tables, wiping off counter tops, and polishing a floor. I’m doing all of those things even though I can hardly stand up straight and hold the broom.

I was doing all of those things even though my housekeeper Divinity was due to be here in four hours for the first round of her bi-weekly house cleaning gigs on my behalf. I was doing all of those things even though I didn’t get enough sleep last night because of STRESS over the fucking showing to come today.

And Missy didn’t show up.

And so at the appointed moment, in walk the Maggot Airhead Agent and her client. The duo aren’t through the door (13) seconds and they want to leave.

Tour?

A tour?

Who wants a tour?

Why?

…

And why?

Because I hadn’t swept the terrace enough?

Nooooo…

Because the counters weren’t clean enough?

Nooooo…

Because the couch cushions weren’t fluffed enough?

Nooooo…

Because the house had steps.

9

There’s a stairway as you come in the front door that leads up to the main living area on floor two of the house, and Madame Client didn’t want a house with steps.

Well…

The house is very modern on the outside.

It’s a two-story house with the main living area resting on a platform that sits on top of stilts that surround the main, central, entry foyer and the downstairs family room. The house is shown as two stories from the first picture of the 24 you see on the main realtor.com listing page, and the stairs and railing (the railing imported from Italy no less), appear in two additional near photographs.

They can’t be missed.

It’s impossible.

In fact, the realtor.com sales page Virtual Tour walks you down the steps, not up perhaps, but definitely down. There’s no way anyone with eyes, there’s no way that anyone who had looked at the listing in its simplest form, could be surprised by steps.

No way.

Three hours of my time, three hours of work wasted. All of that set up work for nothing, absolutely nothing. That doesn’t play well with me.

I don’t waste time.

I don’t wait well, and I don’t tolerate fools easily.

Or often.

Or more than once.

Still…

I don’t want to do this by myself. The whole point is that I’m not as strong as I was, and that I need help.

But I don’t tolerate fools.

Often…

Or at all.

10

Missy wasn’t happy with me this day, Missy was not happy with me at all as I was furious after that showing, furious, and I sent Missy an email expressing that fury.

Nooooo…

… not just an email did I send, it was a blasting LOUD and rancorous email. The email got an immediate response from Missy too:

I apologize and can assure you that this won’t occur again.

I didn’t hear another sound from Missy after that for quite some time. Which was fine as I was at peace with that statement that Missy emailed to me. I agreed with it 100% that this wouldn’t occur again. But I knew from that moment going forward that something else, something just as nasty, would.

Just like the listing prep that was incorrect for 20 days despite repeated phone conversations and multiple emails to correct it, just like all of the appointments that had been broken, and rescheduled, and broken again, unless Missy changed something fundamental in Missy’s pattern of business behavior I was now doomed to dealing with these types of circumstances throughout our business relationship.

I knew that now.

I wasn’t sure where the situation would go from here. I was of two minds then, perhaps three. In my first mind, my angry mind, I wanted Missy to go away. I wanted to rid myself of Missy just like I ridded myself of all of the other scumbag real estate agents in the past.

Except.

I liked Missy, her personality, her joy for life, her sense of humor. Missy’s commitment to process and her work performance on basic shit, not so much, but that other stuff…

Yesssss…

I liked it all, and a lot.

In my second mind, my rational mind, I knew I needed help physically. I shouldn’t do this alone. There are times when it’s all too much for me.

And in my third mind, my game playing process-oriented sense of things I also knew that the maggot real estate agents liked working with other maggot agents, and clients liked touring properties where they could comment freely about how horrible things were in real life and not insult the owner.

I knew all of this only too well.

I knew too that these scumbags (the agents and the buyers) all try to take advantage of the unwary un-agented owner (me). Except I’m not unwary and that makes for a much more tense game as I wait for the next shoe to fall, for the next gambit to play out, and they always deliver.

But along with the powerful pull of my first two minds I also knew that I do/did it all pretty well. I’ve had two offers, and three almost offers, all by myself. No agent has brought me nothing. It’s almost happened on just my efforts twice; on just my efforts.

But almost…

Close?

…

Close only counts in a game of Horseshoes, close don’t mean:

Diddly Squat…

… in real estate.

Not:

"Diddly!"

And I need to deliver this time.

It may have been entertainment for me before, but it’s not entertainment now.

Nooooo…

This time it’s about survival.

Survival.

11

When I met Missy six months ago I was in deep do-do with a down market house with a submerged value vis-a-vis the original sales price.

The property’s mortgage was so underwater that deep-sea divers couldn’t resurrect it. That investment had gone sour, so sour it had spoiled.

It was rotten even.

Way rotten actually as my partner in the property, my partner in the investment, my ex-lover from years, and years ago (like over a decade), Gal, had stopped paying all parts of the mortgage months before and moved out of the house that had formerly been his only residence. Since the real estate market peak in the Keys in 2006, and the burst of the Real Estate Bubble nationally in 2008, the Florida Keys real estate market had fallen in value some 60%. And Gal didn’t think the Keys market would ever come back. And since rents locally had fallen too, Gal thought that he could rent a beautiful apartment in downtown Key West now and save $20,000 a year.

So why pay for this money losing house?

But Gal save money?

Nooooo…

That wouldn’t happen, but the allure, that possibility, oh that allure, so Gal was out of there.

Outta there.

Gal was out of that house!

Up until that fateful moving day Gal had resided in the house full time and paid the mortgage. We had entered the arrangement eight years before when I was healthy and had money to invest. With the informal participation of Gal’s employer (as they paid Gal’s monthly rent, so 30% of the mortgage was informally paid by them), we journeyed forth into what we thought was a secure and well-grounded real estate investment.

But this one fine Florida April morning Gal packed up his clothes and moved out of the Sugarloaf Key house and into a small apartment in New Town, Key West. Gal took everything Gal could over the next few days, mostly all of the good furniture and all of his clothes. Gal left the appliances, the window treatments, and some old and dilapidated living room and bedroom furniture in the house.

I do have to give Gal that, there was some consideration there I suppose.

Me, I knew nothing at first.

"Nothing".

Gal did all of this without telling me. When the April monthly mortgage monies were due in my account for payment to the Bank Gal didn’t make the deposit. When I called and asked Gal:

Wad up?

That’s when I got told of his move out of the house and of:

No more.

So started the saga with the Mortgage Lending Bank.

To Gal it was a:

fait accompli.

Not so to the Bank.

And not so to me.

Not so.

12

The Mortgage Lending Bank wasn’t pleased, the Bank wanted its money, and the Bank would not be denied.

And since Gal didn’t have a single unattached asset in the world except his worthless nine-year-old car with 200,000 miles on it, Gal didn’t give a shit. So the Bank came after me. After all, I had assets, I owned another house; the Bank could try to attach that.

"Pay Me.

PAY ME!

PAY ME NOW!"

Was the unending mantra of the moment:

PAY ME!

I was besieged with phone calls, letters, FedEx packages and other communications all designed to threaten and scare me into submission and a repayment plan for all missed sums. Except I had no money, except I’m completely disabled, except I couldn’t.

I just couldn’t.

So I didn’t.

And the barrage of missives continued.

So I hired an attorney.

13

The attorney attempted to negotiate with the Bank.

But the Bank was obstinate, the Bank wouldn’t budge. Not only wouldn’t the Bank negotiate, the Bank wouldn’t engage in any way. The Bank wouldn’t appoint a human being to discuss anything with anyone. For months, and months, and months it was Form Computer Rejection Letter after Form Computer Rejection Letter until finally in month six the Bank appointed a:

Litigator.

(I so love that word:

"Litigator"

I suppose that’s a fancy term for:

killer asshole of an attorney.)

…

Said appointed Litigator was to move towards immediate foreclosure.

Just then a flunky in the "Litigator’s" office had, just "had", had to speak with my attorney as the law required specific contacts now. So now a People, my attorney could finally speak to a People and they agree, that "People" and my attorney, to attempt a "short-sale".

The Peep said a:

short-sale…

A:

"short-sale…"

Now I have to sell the fucking house for the bank?

14

A short-sale is accomplished when the Mortgage Lending Bank agrees to sell the property in question to an unknown and unrelated buyer for a sum less than the mortgage amount owed to the Bank for the property by the original owners.

Frequently that sum is for less than the market value of the property. The Bank forgives the Owner/Mortgagee the balance of the unpaid outstanding mortgage, and grants full and free title to the new buyer.

Great for the buyer.

Just great.

It’s great for the seller too in the sense that the seller has unloaded a property that the seller can no longer carry, no longer afford, so it’s:

great…

… it’s just "great" all around.

Except the seller loses every ounce of equity the seller has put into the property over the years of ownership. Except the Bank suffers a much larger loss with the short-sale than it would have suffered with the Hardship Loan Modification originally applied for eight long months before. With the short-sale process the Bank’s loss has increased by at least seven additional months of nonpayment from us, the existing mortgagee.

Short-sales are driven by the conditions in the local market and short-sale properties are known to be distressed by definition. All short-sales have to be under market value to attract interest. In this instance the bank had to accept a loss of at least $100,000 dollars greater than with the Hardship Loan Modification mentioned above.

The whole gig made no economic sense to me. Gal and I had wanted to keep the house, and we had made every attempt to keep the house. Gal and I had never been late with a mortgage payment either.

Never.

But our circumstances had changed. Gal’s income was stagnant because of the economic meltdown abounding then, business in Key West wasn’t booming since the beginning of the recession that had started three years before. And Gal’s three children in Israel needed more and more stuff on a weekly basis. And Gal…

Well…

Gal couldn’t, he just couldn’t, manage this under water mortgage on an over-valued house, on his own any longer. That’s what Gal said, and Gal said that over, and over again. That’s not at all true, but that’s what Gal claimed to be the case.

And me?

Meeeee…

ME?

I was worthless where the mortgage was concerned.

My savings were gone, depleted, vanished now. I was four years into recovery from the brain surgery mentioned before where the doctor had said:

"I don’t know if he will ever walk or talk again".

And although I do both, and I drive (I’m a fucking walking miracle I suppose), but, I can’t work, I’m disabled, so I can’t help support that mortgage. Four years into recovery and my money is gone. Personal medical care is expensive, and on Social Security Disability I don’t get much government support. So when Gal mouthed off at first, I needed, and Gal wanted, to bring the mortgage payments down to mirror our new economic realities. Hence we filed for a:

Hardship Loan Modification.

And we had a legitimate claim of hardship, the Hardship of my illness, my federally recognized 100% disability, to justify this new reality. And so we asked the Bank to honor my new, permanent health condition, and my new financial situation. We provided documents, and more documents, and still more documents, and pay stubs, and Doctor’s letters, and Social Security forms, and more, and more, and more, and the Bank said:

NO!

We’ve never been late with a payment and showed honesty and integrity through eight years of mortgage payments, and the Bank said:

NO!

Again.

We offered the Bank more than $100,000 less of a loss than the Bank would accrue with a short-sale. The Bank would lose more than an additional 35% on the "short-sale" vs. the Hardship Loan Modification when all was complete, and the Bank said:

NO! …

… over, and over again.

Whatever.

I still don’t get that. That Bank decision still rattles my cage to this very day. There’s something wrong with the system, the whole fucking system, with stuff like that.

But I digress.

I digress.

15

So a:

short-sale …

Now I had to sell the Sugarloaf Key mansion for the Bank. Now I needed a real estate agent for a disastrous real estate DOWN market I knew nothing about. And Gal was worthless, less than worthless actually, with the process.

Worthless.

Would this never end?

I couldn’t move on with anything else in my life until this was over. I was stopped, stymied, trapped by the Sugarloaf circumstances until the situation with the Mortgage Lending Bank was satisfied.

TRAPPED!

I was:

trapped.

Every last asset I have is homesteaded in Florida as is. And as long as the "Homestead" protection existed the Mortgage Lending Bank couldn’t attach those assets. But I couldn’t stay where I lived. I couldn’t afford to do that anymore than I could contribute to the mortgage payment for the house in Sugarloaf Key. I’m disabled. I live on a Social Security Disability stipend.

I couldn’t continue to live where I was.

But…

I couldn’t attempt to sell because if I did the Mortgage Lending Bank could attach the now free:

"non-Homesteaded"…

… equity.

So I was:

trapped.

Trapped.

I was trapped in my Homestead.

A Homestead in Florida is any primary residence from a house, to a boat, or an RV (recreational vehicle), that the Federal Government has accepted as a primary residence. It could be a ten-room mansion like the one OJ Simpson owned and once lived in, or it could be a doublewide trailer on a bare, trash strewn, back lane.

No matter what it was, a federally designated primary residence, is a primary residence under the law, and a homesteaded primary residence can’t be touched by any creditor except the mortgagor of that specific property. Retirement accounts like IRA’s, and employer pensions, are protected too. Those funds are Homesteaded in the state of Florida and those funds can’t be attached either.

So I was trapped in place until the Sugarloaf Key lending Bank released me. I was trapped in a "Homestead" I love. I was trapped in a "Homestead" I couldn’t afford. And each and every month I drew monies I couldn’t afford to draw from my Homesteaded retirement account as it dwindled, and dwindled, and dwindled, towards nothingness.

I was:

trapped.

So now I needed a real estate agent, a maggot, leach, vermin, feral, sloth real estate agent in the Florida Keys to help release me from my trap. And my attorney knew of and recommended Missy, Missy a real estate agent for a disastrous real estate market in Florida where I knew of no one. My attorney referred a real estate agent named Missy to me, and…

I jumped on it.

Missy it was.

16

And Missy did her job well.

Within a week of the listing Missy brought me three good offers. I chose what I thought was the best offer, the least contingent one. And then a new waiting game began, a waiting game where the Bank equated the reality of the short-sale offer with the reality of the Bank’s loss to be. Meantime, the supplicants, Gal and me, the Buyers, and the two agents, waited, and waited, and waited for an answer.

Like I said before:

I don’t "wait" well.

But wait I did.

A week went buy, then two, and three, and four, and five, and on, and on, and on and not a word from the Bank was heard. Complete silence reigned, nothing was enumerated, no communication from the Bank of any type on the short-sale was received.

NOT A PEEP WAS HEARD FROM THE BANK ON THE SHORT-SALE.

There was the occasional Bank computer form letter demand for full loan repayment. And the occasional Bank computer form letter reminder of delinquency, and the occasional Bank computer form letter threatening immediate litigation, immediate foreclosure, but nothing, ZILCH, on the short-sale.

Nothing!

In week (11), a counter offer from the Bank arrived, and it was a great counter offer at that. The Bank wasn’t being greedy, not at all. The Bank was just upping the ante by 7% or so while keeping the price advantageous to the Buyer. The house was still being let go by the Bank for a distressed price 15% to 20% below current market value.

The buyer’s agent was pleased, Missy was relieved, and I was exhilarated by the counter offer. I was almost passed out with pleasure. This albatross was going to be taken off my head. The Bank had finally accepted a claim of hardship. I was going to be free to move on. I would be free to get on with the rest of it.

Except.

The contracted buyers no longer wanted the house.

These buyers who had agreed at contract’s onset to:

Stay with the process for the long haul…

These buyers who at contract’s onset had agreed to go up in price somewhat if the:

Increase demanded was reasonable.

These same buyers who at contract’s onset stated that they wanted to live in the house until:

forever.

Well…

These same buyers experienced a change of heart and they no longer wanted any part of the deal. And with the counter offer just received from the Mortgage Lending Bank, these buyers were free to cancel the contract and waddle on into the future without penalty.

And waddle on they did.

I was crushed by it all.

Simply:

crushed.

Crushed.

17

This was where Missy’s star got to shine really brightly.

Missy didn’t hiccup once. Missy told me immediately to calm down. Missy stated forcefully:

Don’t worry, back-up offers are available.

And…

I will take care of it.

And:

"take care of it"…

… Missy did.

One week later I had a new contract in hand for the exact amount that the Bank had countered on the original contract. The new contract was fully funded too. And all of that was great but it was a new contract and the Bank had to do its thing all over again. And a Bank’s:

"thing"…

… takes a lot of time. So I, we, all of us, started to wait again. And wait, and wait, and wait we did. But finally, in week eight the Bank agreed to the new contract.

Done!

We’re moving on to closing now.

Except.

Except.

Well…

Not so fast dudes.

Not so fast…

As there were these last-minute issues in existence to be dealt with first, issues concerning of all things, dogshit.

Yesssss…

Dogshit.

It seems that Gal in his never-ending pursuit of his own personal gain had rented out the house to a few of his friends who had a dog that they didn’t want to walk regularly, and they had trained said dog to relieve itself on the rooftop terrace that looked out on the harbor.

That rooftop terrace was a truly lovely spot. That terrace was why I saw value in this particular house in the first place and had purchased it. And now that lovely rooftop terrace was covered in dogshit, piles and piles of weeks old, dry, dogshit.

Along with some more recent, still smelly, specimens.

One day immediately after the Bank’s contract acceptance letter arrived the new buyer brought his Missus to overview their future retirement "forever-home" in paradise and up to that lovely spot for the beautiful harbor-view they went and…

Dogshit!

All they saw that day was dogshit and dog-pee, no beautiful harbor view did they see.

This day they were regaled with weeks of old dogshit and "dog-pee", along with some fresh material still sort of smoking upwards towards them in the bright, white hot, tropical afternoon sun from the rooftop terrace floor. Nothing else was visible to them at that point.

And this wasn’t a pretty sight.

Nooooo…

It was not a pretty sight.

I only know of this because the buyers took pictures of the smoking fecal matter and sent the pictures to their real estate agent, who sent the pictures to Missy, who sent the pictures to me. I knew nothing until I opened an email from Missy entitled:

PICTURES OF YOUR ROOF.

Pictures of my roof?

?

…

There’s nothing wrong with my roof.

My roof was only 11 years-old, and that roof had a 25-year transferable builder’s warranty in place. Roofs don’t have problems in the first 15/25 years of existence, so:

pictures of my roof…

… why? The house had passed its pre-mortgage defect inspection with flying colors just a few months before. A roof problem was not possible now, it just was not possible.

It simply was not possible.

Oops.

…

It was very possible, and very nasty.

Nasty.

18

The buyers were