The Moomba flashed me a smile, which exposed a gold central incisor, and she said, “I do not give a shit about lowering my mortgage payment, Jordan. I just want to take cash out of my house.” She winked at me. “You know, a little mad money?Didn't you ever get the urge to spend a few dollars?”
Her name was Thelma. I smiled and held back from saying, “Well, Thelma, there was this one time when I was high on Quaaludes and decided to extend my yacht to make room for my seaplane!” Then I said, “How much cash would you like, Thelma?”
As I would soon find out, Thelma's answer was typical of many American homeowners, the majority of whom would eventually fall behind on their mortgage payments and end up in foreclosure. She so much as said, “Listen, Jordan, get me as much fucking cash as possible, and I don't give a shit if the rate's exactly the same as it is now. I just want to redecorate my home and travel to exotic places and buy a new sewing machine and a flat-screen TV and a twin-engine speedboat, and then I want to pay off the balances on my credit cards so I can run them back up again in six months and refi once more!
“And, by the way, Jordan, if you can figure out a way to get me approved for one of those newfangled adjustable-rate mortgages, where the payment is supercheap for the first few years and then explodes to a level that I won't possibly be able to afford, then that's what I want too. I'll worry about the payment when I'm living in a homeless shelter!”
Ahhhh, the refi boom. It was everything my friend had made it out to be. One day, of course, there would be hell to pay for all these newfangled mortgage products—products that allowed anyone with a pulse and a Social Security number (regardless of credit rating and income) to borrow 110 percent of the value of their home and worry about being able to afford the payment at some murky point down the road. But, still, for today it was wonderful; and all the homeowners and builders and bankers and mortgage brokers and real estate brokers and appraisers and retailers of luxury items and, of course, all the Wall Street hedge-fund managers who were buying these wacky mortgages to lock in perceivedprofits—which they could then tout to investors to support the notion of their continued mastery of the universe—couldn't be happier. And, of course, I was happiest of all.
Within a week I had grossed $50,000 in commission, and the week after that I doubled it. And just like that my money problems were over. The dark cloud that had followed me around since that horrific day on the courthouse steps had finally evaporated.
At first KGB didn't notice anything. That was no shock; after all, she spent the bulk of her day playing Crash Bandicoot III (Crash Super Smash,she called it), and what few words we didexchange were in the form of grunts and groans, during sex.
Nevertheless, she wasmy fiancée, so I figured it was only right to tell her the good news—which was that, in thirty days, when the loans began to close, I would be rolling in dough again. Then we could resume the semblance of a normal life.
“Good!” was all she said. “Then you can take me to store again.”
In the eighteen months we'd lived together, the girl had uttered the word theonly once, and it had been at the wrong time. That momentous event had occurred while we were still living in the city, while I was under house arrest. Such happy times, those were!She had said to me: “It is nice day outside. I will go to the Central Park now to take walk.”
KGB and I were living together on borrowed time, and we both knew it. In fact, I wasn't the least bit surprised when, after my first loan closed and I booked a flight to California, she wasn't offended when I didn't invite her to come along. In fact, she seemed relieved.
And what a trip it was!I couldn't remember ever being happier.
For $79 per night I rented a tiny room at the Manhattan Beach Hilton, and for an additional $29 per day I rented the cheapest car Hertz had to offer. And how had I flown? Coach!I had also flown through Boston, to save a few extra dollars. The new me!
And the kids? Well, apparently the Duchess had told them that I was having money problems, because when we went toy shopping they refused to buy anything other than candy. At first I was devastated—no, worse; I was embarrassed. I had always tried to be a larger-than-life character to my kids, a daddy who could buy them anything and take them anywhere. After all, it was a daddy's job to show his children only the bestin life, wasn't it?
Apparently not, because as the week progressed, I began to realize something very important, something that my prior life of wealth and affluence had entirely camouflaged: My children couldn't care less about all the pomp and circumstance. All they wanted was their father. And all they wanted to know was that he loved them unconditionally and that he always would. Those were simple truths, yet they had also been the most difficult for me to grasp.
And as I went about meeting their new friends, eating in their favorite restaurants, and playing in their favorite parks, I found a new peace in my life. I began thinking that this might have been God's plan all along: a rise and fall of biblical proportions, only to be resurrected once more with a newfound ability to appreciate things.
Before I flew home, I promised the kids I would come back in two weeks and that I would do that every other week until I finally moved there. And then we said good-bye, with laughs and smiles instead of tears. Without saying it, we all knew that Daddy was back.
When I landed in New York, I went straight to work—finding the refi boom accelerating at an exponential rate. In 2000, Americans had dot-commed themselves to death; in 2001, they were mortgaging themselves to death. A real estate bubble was forming right before my eyes. When would it burst? It was as if every person I spoke to either wanted to refinance or had just done so. I brought in thirty loans in two weeks and hopped back on a plane to California.
Obviously, with all the loans, it only made sense to take a slightly larger room in the Hilton (a suite, actually) and rent a slightly better car from Hertz (a Lincoln, actually). By my third trip, the loans were closing so fast that I decided to fly first class out of JFK. I mean, what was the harm? I was making my money legitimately now, and at the rate I was going I would be a millionaire in no time flat!
When I landed in L.A., my limo driver (yes, to save time I had a limo waiting for me) said he was surprised that a man of my means would choose to stay at the Hilton. “Why not stay in the Beach House?” he asked nonchalantly. “It's only a few steps from the sand, and every room has a view of the Pacific. I mean, the place ain't cheap, but it's definitely the best!”
“Well, what the hell are you waiting for?” I said to the driver. “Take me to the Beach House, for Chrissake!” And just like that I found my new home away from home: the Beach House. It was quaint and gorgeous and less than two miles from my kids. By our third stay, Chandler and Carter were like little celebrities there. Everyone knew us, and we knew everyone.
Life seemed wonderful.
There were only two things eating away at me now.
The first was my beloved fiancée, KGB.
We hated each other.
Just why we were still living together I don't think either of us could figure out, although it had something to do with inertia. Her clothes were in my closets, her panties were in my drawers, her sheets were on my bed, and no one, including Mary Poppins, likes to pack. But, alas, as 2001 came to a close, the sex began to fade away—which meant there was no reason to be living in the same zip code anymore.