Bando (fiction) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mitchell Sommers

BANDO

here is a homeless man living in our house. I can ’t really complain, I suppose, since we walked away from the house two months ago, and when the gavel falls at the Lancaster County Courthouse in another ten days and turns it into the property of JeffFi Mortgage, it won ’t be ours anymore. But until that happens, my wife and I are still on the deed, and it’ s still our house, on what was our block, where our son played in the backyard with our dog Libby and our neighbors ’ kids. We used to live here, in this house, on this block, in this development across from a retention basin where frogs make froggy noises at night. Hence Jeremiah Place: our developer thought naming the development after the old Three Dog Night song was the height of cleverness.

But even though it is narrowly, technically, still our block, I’ m not sure what to do about the homeless man living in our house.

That’ s not entirely true. I do know what to do. I can call 911. Or I can call JeffFi, assuming I can ever get someone on the phone who isn ’t from Bangalore and knows what to do when I call. Hell, I could just walk in the door. After all, I still have the key, since JeffFi was too stupid to change the lock even after I sent them two letters saying change the damn locks and winterize the damn house—it’ s the middle of February, you asshats.

Just to clarify: I did not actually use the word “ asshat. ” It’ s a word I learned from my 16-year-old son. But, given the circumstances, it seems to fit.

Eight months ago two guys in khaki colored shirts and brown pants served Gwen the foreclosure notice at 9:15 in the morning. Gwen worked for County Children and Youth, and she ’d been up all night, taking an abused child into custody. She ’d not quite fallen asleep, and I had told her when our financial problems first started that nobody would ever be coming to the door like this, that I’d take care of it before things reached the level of sheriffs and courthouses.

When we ’d received the first notice, the one that my lawyer called an “Act 91” letter, I tried minimizing its importance. This was not easy, given the fact than an Act 91 was designed by the Pennsylvania Department of Banking to be written in a manner precisely so you will not minimize its importance. It’ s meant to make you piss yourself.

T

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But I’ m good. I brushed it off. So I figured I could do it again when she came to my office.

Here ’ s how that conversation went:

“I almost hit a duck. ”

“Gwen?”

“A duck. I almost hit a damn duck. ”

“Gwen, what’ s wrong?”

“You told me this wasn ’t going to happen. ”

I guessed this had something to do with the mortgage even before Gwen said that, but I didn ’t let her know. Denial is a gas, a vapor. It seeps into everything if you let it.

“Talk to me. What’ s the matter?”

I meant the exact opposite of that. Don ’t talk to me. I will only have to find some other form of emotional defense.

“We ’ re fucked. We ’ re fucked. We ’ re going to lose the house. ”

When Gwen gets angry, she mixes crying and rage into one, mashed-up, superheated emotion. She tears up, but she doesn ’t cry, exactly. No sobbing lamentations, not even understated sniffling. The cry does not move one inch beyond her tear ducts. At the same time, she shows me the serrated edge of violence. Maybe she ’ll throw something. Maybe she won ’t. Maybe she ’ll just slam shit around. Like the paper in her hand, thick with legal-sized documents folded to fit the letter-sized pleadings they were attached to, making the whole of it look thicker, plumper, and all the more intimidating—like its accusatory language couldn ’t be contained on mere paper but needed to spill out and beat me up.

“We are not going to lose the house. Jesus, Gwen, I work at a bank. I know how this goes. I know how this game is played. ”

Which was true. I did know how the game was played. I knew we ’d lose the

house.

Now that we no longer live there, there ’ s no reason to drive past our house except anger or revenge. It’ s not near any of my life ’ s touchstones anymore—not where I worked, not near the house we now rent, not near Jason ’ s school, not especially close to anything, really. Which is why I’ m surprised to see anyone living there in the first place.

I drive past, slowly but not too slowly, like a stalker whose heart isn ’t quite in it. I had left the basketball stuff in the driveway, thinking that the ghosts of Jason and his friends might still want to shoot a round of H-O-R-S-E, but now the only thing there is a mid-80’ s Buick. So I pull up behind it and get out of my car, but then what? What do I do? What’ s the protocol? I’ ve been going to work earlier and earlier so Gwen won ’t have to look at me, but for Squatter Guy I have no coping mechanism.

I stand by my car for maybe 45 sec-

onds. I fiddle with my BlackBerry, looking for some newish email to distract me. Finding none and hoping it’ s not because they cut my service, I put it back in my pocket and start heading towards the door, trying to walk very softly, then realizing that it’ s still my house and I’ m not the trespasser here.

I don ’t go to the door, though. Instead, I cut across the lawn, which is just starting to look unkempt, to the window. Squatter Guy has the blinds pulled down only half the way. I walk right up to the window. Torso up, I see a vague silhouette of a man, like the blinds are keeping him in a witness protection program. Torso down, gray sweats.

I stare at the window, waiting for him to pull the shades in either one direction or another. He doesn ’t. I spend about 45 seconds like this then walk back to my car.

I had seen plenty of legal captions and documents before, but never one with my name on it. I’d always wondered what it would be like, but now I didn ’t have to. I stared at the paperwork that Gwen had thrown on my desk moments earlier, reading that caption, over and over again:

In The Court Of Common Pleas Of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania Civil Action-Mortgage Foreclosure Charlotte National Bank, As Trustee Of Jefferson Financial Corporation, Asset Backed Pass Through Certificates, Series 2005R-7 Under The Pooling And Servicing Agreement Dated As Of September 1, 2005 Without Record

Vs.

You, Seth Weinstein And Gwendolyn Weinstein, Deadbeat Losers, Who Took Out Too Much Loan Than You Could Possibly Afford And You ’d Have Known That If You ’d Have Not Had Your Heads Up Your Ass And Actually Looked At The Adjustable Rate Which Was Going To Go Up To 9.5% On A $388,000.00 Mortgage But You Figured You ’d Be Able To Refinance It Because Housing Prices Always Go Up And Ha, Ha, Ha You Sucker, Lost That Bet Didn ’t You, But So Did We Because We Sold That Mortgage, Then Sold It Again, And Now Jeff Fi Is In The Crapper Along With Everybody Else, So We ’ re Both In This Together, Aren ’t We?

Husband and Wife.

When we moved into the house in Jeremiah Place, Jason was nine, I had just jumped from residential to commercial, and Gwen was working as a sales rep for a company that sold used construction equipment. She drove to various places in Central and Eastern Pennsylvania and Northern Maryland, often wearing her trademark hard hat with a Hello Kitty decal on the front. She made more money than me, more money than any of the men who were sales reps at her company, and, with all that, we could finally afford a really great house.

Two years later, she was back at school, finally completing her Bachelors Degree at Millersville, then driving back and forth to Temple to get her Masters, all so she could work more hours for less money—way less, gaping chasms less—doing what she really wantedtodo,whichwastorescuekidswith cigarette burns on their genitalia in the middle of the night.

I could have had a conversation with her back then. I could have pointed out that we ’d purchased a whole lot of house. That we needed her money to afford it. That what she wanted to do didn ’t make sense unless we sold the house, took the equity we had, and put a really big down payment on a smaller place. It’ s what the lending officer in me would have done. Here ’ s the thing, though. The socially unacceptable secret. There aren ’t many ways to randomly display testosterone when you ’ re a middle-aged loan officer with bad knees and a receding hairline. But they do exist. In my case, those ways

involved home equity loans. And credit cards. And refinances. And credit cards again. Debt was great. Debt was wonderful. Debt allowed me to be both stoic and supportive.

Debt rocked.

I leave early again. Gwen doesn ’t ask why. She ’ s in the kitchen, pouring cranberry juice. Jason—I’ m not sure where Jason is. In his room, maybe, with the boxes from the move still mostly filled with stuff. Gwen kept telling him, halfheartedly, to unpack them before she finally gave up. Only the computer and the Game Boy have seen light. The sheriff’ s sale is nine days away.

I drive from this house that I rent—a house that I will not call “ our house, ” or “ my house, ” not yet, not today, not tonight—and pull to the end of this development, which doesn ’t have fullgrown trees. Granted, my old development didn ’t have full-grown trees, either. But here I notice and resent their shortness, their lack of maturity. There ’ s lots to resent here, including the fact that I took this place so Jason would graduate next year in his same school district and on his same basketball team, and I thought I’d get some kind of credit for that.

I am about to confront a strange man in a familiar place. I pull up in the driveway. This time, if there are any ghosts still here, I imagine my tires rolling over them, cracking their incorporeal bones. I get out of the car. I consider honking the horn, announcing my presence, but decide against it. I don ’t need to announce my presence. This is still my

house.

I then notice that Squatter Guy ’ s car is not in the driveway. Or maybe I noticed it subliminally, as I was pulling in, and the thought that nobody would be there to confront me made me fearless. Regardless, I’ m here. I pull out my key, wondering if it will work. It doesn ’t. I stand in front of my door, hovering between panic and rage.

Then I turn the doorknob without

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