NOTE: I originally published this on another blog in early 2007. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was having one of my earliest firsthand experiences with the mortgage crisis that has become part of the country's day-to-day lexicon since. I'm not saying there's anything particularly prescient about this post, in fact, it's really more a meditation on the nature of family, money and the suffering that's caused by the absence of either of those two things. It seems, every year, there's less and less to be thankful for, but I remain optimistic things will get better and mindful that things could be much worse.
It was maybe 10 days before Christmas. My second of three appointments was a medium sized cape code; a two family home in Staten Island.
Maybe I should backtrack one second. I'm a real estate appraiser: I go to people's homes, I inspect them, I compare them to other houses in the area and finally ascertain value through a series of systems that are so excruciatingly boring seppuku or some other violent self-flagellation would probably be preferable to me actually describing them.
I mention my job because it has me meeting strangers everyday. Many of the strangers I meet walk-up up to the door when I knock and stare at me, without greeting, as if they were thinking the well-coiffed-chubby-white-boy-fairy had unexpectedly paid their doorstep a visit and they simply did not know what to do with me.
Often, even after I'm greeted with nothing more than a vaguely enraged eyelid-half closed silence and some dogs barking in the distance I politely identify myself: "My name is Matthew, I'm the appraiser for your house." Often, I motion to the tidily written piece of paper on my clipboard which contains their name, address, phone number, appointment time and exact loan amount from the bank, they themselves hired, as proof that I have indeed not materialized out of thin air to steal their muumuu or 15" Maury Povich-viewing television.
I explain that I simply have to perform the service they authorized and leave... quickly... because for real, this place reeks of cigarettes and dirty dishes.
Very often I am greeted with only a hesitant "Yeah, whatever." They let me in, I finish and I leave.
I digress, though. This hypothetical only serves to contrast what happened to me about ten days before Christmas. I approached the house and took an outside picture, as I always do, but when I looked down at the view screen of my camera I noticed that a man had walked out of the house and into the shot. When I looked up he was waving politely and smiled. I introduced myself, he put down the to Dell computer boxes he was carrying into the large trash pile already on the curb and invited me inside.
I don't remember his name. I suppose I could look it up but it doesn't matter very much. He was mid-40's, slightly graying full head of hair, average build, in pretty good shape and he had that gruff, manual labor coloring to his hands and face. He didn't look beaten down or old for his age, though, he looked like my grandfather -- like a man who worked his whole life -- like a man who worked harder than me.
Inside, he offered me a bologna sandwich and I said no thank you. He motioned to the fridge anyway and started pulling out cold cuts. I politely told him that I had another appointment and that, while this was a unique and very appreciated gesture -- and it was -- I simply didn't have the time.
The inside of the house was clean, but seemed empty. There was a brown leather couch on the far wall facing the large flat screen tv. I remember noticing stockings hanging from the chimney with three boys and one girls name on them; as well as one that said mom and one that said dad.
The home market is not very good right now for people who already own houses, interest rates are higher and many people are paying off loans on houses that are not worth, or barely worth, the loan amounts on which they are paying their mortgages. People who refinance their homes right now do so for a reason and very often they tell me about it.
This man was no exception, he casually explained to me:
"Money got a little tight around here these past couple weeks."
He said to me "I mean, you know how it is, I haven't been able to work these past few weeks because I've been trying to take care of all this bank and lawyer stuff."
He said to me." I mean, money was tight before my wife took all my kids and took off."
He clarified: "Well, all except my oldest boy, he decided to stay here with me."
he said to me: "I haven't talked to her since. I'm not even really sure where to send my kids' presents."
He said all of this to me pleasantly with an almost smile. The type of smile you could only have when you're pouring your heart out to a complete stranger.
This man was easily one of the nicest I'd come across in my time appraising, or really in my life. He just had that air of accommodation and decency.
He was seated at the dining room table ashing a cigarette into a half-full tray with a half opened Milwaukee's Best can on the table in front of him and another empty one beside it. It was just before 11 am - my only insight into where his wife went.
I finished inspecting the downstairs and we went upstairs to the bedrooms: the purple one, bed half-unmade with at least 10 dolls sitting slouched over waiting for their mom to return. The next room over with the John Cena poster on the wall across from the picture of the Playboy logo, with a perfect dust spot under the television in the shape of an X-box and finally to the loft upstairs where his last remaining child was sleeping. His son. About my age.
In my eyes, Christmas transcends cynicism and the idea of "glory to God in the highest, peace on earth and goodwill towards all mankind" sounds so complete in its unbroken loveliness I have a hard time understanding why people would let concerns like commercialism or generalized counter-culture cynicism get in the way. I stand by my childish belief that Christmas is the most beautiful and enchanted time of year for anyone who lets themselves feel any foolhardy altruism.
But Christmas has a cruel way of bringing the harshness of real life into clearer focus.
Towards the tail-end of the appraisal, the man left my side and went downstairs to answer the phone. I didn't hear the particulars, but the tone of voice he had conveyed the desperation people have when they simply cannot do what they need to do to satisfy whatever person or company or agency is on the other end. He got off the phone when he saw me coming down the stairs, returned the smile he wore the entire appointment and asked one more time if I would be interested in a sandwich.
He paid me what looked like pretty close to his last $500 when I told him we couldn't accept personal checks. He did so pleasantly and with that same air of accommodation.
I finished my appointment, and I left. I wrote the report the next day. The house was worth more than enough to get the loan he needed.
I think about that day a lot. I always wonder what happened to him and his family. I think about his wife. I think about how in love with him she must have fallen when she was with that same kind, laid-back, accommodating and decent man I met.
I think about how scared and heart-broken she must have been the first time she saw whatever it is he must turn into when he's had more drinks.
I think about my parents.
My mom made a very bad decision marrying my dad -- and somehow it worked - it might have been the luckiest things she ever did. I think about what would've happened to my dad if he hadn't met my mom -- or if she refused to tolerate him as much as she did.
I have a tough time reconciling the suffering that is that family's life. I have a hard time reconciling why I deserve to be so much luckier. Who's to say that he isn't a generally well-intentioned man who loves his family but has more flaws than he knows what to do with -- like my dad?
How close was my dad to staring an empty stocking with my name on it, not knowing where I was?
In my time as an appraiser, I've seen broken down, ramshackle shells of home, I've seen a house less than a year old that looks like a warzone, babies crying in rooms with no one attending to them, and the most ungodly filth you can imagine.
I don't know why that story sticks with me.
My dad always says: "There but for the grace of God go I." Its probably the most incredibly trite thing you could hear someone say.
For my father, and I guess for me, it's also so completely true.
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