FORECLOSURE IS NO FUN
They foreclosed on my house yesterday. I still can’t believe it. I have sixty days to vacate this building I’ve lived in for ten years, with all my possessions. I know what they’re up to. They’re going to tear it down rather than try and sell it. They already tore down two other homes in the neighborhood for the same reason: the owners were no longer able to pay their mortgages. This has never been a premium neighborhood. Most of the homes here are worth way less than $200,000. It’s always been working-class—lots of two-family deals, lots of six-room or five-room ranches with one tiny bathroom and a couple of small bedrooms, and a kitchen the size of a shoebox. There was a time when that was the most you could hope for, believe you me. But back to the present—I guess it’ll be time soon for me to be filing bankruptcy or something. What else can I do? If I can’t get some kind of government help, I may as well just go hide somewhere and put a gun to my head. At least they didn’t come by with balloons and party favors and say Congratulations; we’re foreclosing on your house! Got any champagne? No, these people meant business. First they sent a warning notice in the mail, then a week or so later they sent two people right to my door to give me the bad news in person. I wouldn’t say smug, but very serious, very solemn. Kind of like when the military comes by to let you know your kid died overseas.