My Mortgage Can Beat Up Your Mortgage

There are those who live in bizarre squalor, and those who bid for the privilege of settling in festering hovels for a king’s ransom and the delight of a non-conforming 30-year mortgage. It is, as realtors will remind the disconsolate first-time homebuyer of the greater New York City suburbs, a game of visualization. Do you have the foresight to envision this bedroom without the corroded toilet bolted illegally against the far wall? Do you have the ability to ignore the smell of animal urine (not to mention the cacophony of a kid practicing piano in an adjacent unit) pervading the bedrooms of this otherwise spacious townhouse with garishly mirrored walls? Do you posses the mental calm to pretend that you did not walk into the third bedroom of a labyrinthine former doctor’s office and observe a moustached imbecile (whether the owner’s socially inept thirty-something son or a dangerous vagrant) masturbating in his closet, before cautioning you, your fiancée, and your female realtor that he “needs a few minutes” to presumably locate pants or deflate his apparatus?

Unless one claims independent wealth from grandpa’s lockbox, young buyers in these bustling outskirts of Metropolis must eschew the “ideal” and focus on “potential.” In other words, the faster one realizes that “walk to commuter rail” is a fair swap for “1960’s-era kitchen slapped together by part-time handyman to minimize functionality,” the quicker all involved parties can assume seats at the bargaining table. Boasts implying that a marvelous time was spent trolling the overpriced tumble-downs festooned in crackhouse chic should always be met with suspicion, and generally dismissed as senseless drivel from the insane, or from those medicated to the point of waking coma. As you might guess, shoppers with greater imagination tend to delude themselves into making wiser choices. Because ultimately, wiser choices spawn wiser investments when eventually cutting loose of that former crackden-cum-colonial. After endless weekends spent eradicating the geriatric vibes (which taunt openly, mind you, lingering in floral wallpaper, shag carpeting, and abandoned Lawrence Welk VHS collections), one has finally earned the privilege of stratospherically boosting the asking price and trouncing a new generation of idealistic, soon to be dejected, newlyweds. And yes, it does feel good, in the same way that hazing your frat brothers by dropping them off in the center of town, pants-less without wallets, might have stroked the ego ten years prior.

A brazenly self-confident bunch, New Yorkers are not idiots. We realize we could sell our modestly-sized (but much better constructed) tax-saddled homes and trade-up handsomely for the fifteen garage, faux-sided, character-devoid, McMansion monolith with a space shuttle launching pad in the backyard, located in some bumfuck flyover zone near a culturally bankrupt city, to live comfortably amongst affluent rednecks and the town doctor. But unless we’re playing beer pong, most of us prefer our brew from the bottle; not to mention our teeth firmly in our gums, roadkill estranged from the skillet, the Yankees, unrivaled pizza, and the ability to ride elevators without some damn fool asking us about our day. We also believe in evolution, which prohibits our settling in certain states.

Imagine knowing that the condominium on which you are prepared to make an (astronomically high) offer – while part of a beautifully manicured Tudor-style complex in a quaint village with excellent schools – was actually a steaming hellhole masquerading as … a steaming hellhole. My wife and I could momentarily condone the stained carpet, Nixon-era appliances, and smoke-dulled walls by maintaining the foresight of “potential”; that survival mechanism tucked away in the mind’s recesses for instances demanding reinterpretive reality. Not only was the prior owner a crazy old crow who refused to descend ten stairs to her mailbox (although her gait was unencumbered) – opting for tête-à-têtes with the postman after said box had sufficiently exploded with catalogs – but she’d smashed to shit all four burners of the electric stove, for reasons known only to almighty God and possibly her ex-husband. On the flip side, she was kind enough to bestow two gifts upon a weary couple firmly in the throes of disillusionment and surrender: a wrapped box, with instructions to open on December 23rd, and a carton of eggs squirreled away in the oven; unexpired, for those taking notes. Beseeching my wife to keep the present untouched for nine months, I was hoping that our friend was loony enough to have bequeathed a surprise of gold bullion, or at very least some safe deposit box key holding a Caribbean timeshare. Of course, I was equally preparing to extract the head of Jimmy Hoffa, complete with “Merry Christmas New Owners!” stapled to the ear. Unfortunately, a set of “Twelve Glorious Angels” tree ornaments, while thoughtful, was not going to alleviate our debt service. At least we weren’t Jewish.

Five years were enjoyed in that condominium, transforming it into a charming, and in turn very marketable, home. Hardwood floors, stainless steel appliances, crown molding, fresh coats of paint, and smaller detailed renovations fully erased the spectre of decrepitude. So when the time arrived to draw market bids, I could only righteously smirk. After all, this was a perfect “walk to commuter train” gem; and if I was getting properly spanked by the eighty year old former owner of our current house, then my biggest paddle was making an appearance during condo negotiations, forearms tightened in anticipation of levying ‘Animal House’-type swings at lawyers, buyers, and notaries alike. If it goes around, it sure as hell comes around, stronger and longer, like an awful case of bird flu.

In this neck of the woods, when someone leaves you a dozen eggs, whether inside the oven, under the bedsheets, or cracked within the fuse box, you make omelets and smile.