Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang (14 page)

"Call me after you send the money to Mrs. Danziger. She wants five thousand dollars. Are you clear?"

"Yeah, I'll send the money, but make sure she knows she is not welcome back."

"Okay, I'm hanging up now."

"Chelsea, hold the wire. So you haven't heard anything from the
Boston Globe
? I'm surprised this isn't something they'd be interested in picking up.
Martha's Vineyard Times
is pretty small potatoes."

I stared at the plane outside that was taking off from LAX, wondering why it couldn't just fly right into the living room my father was sitting in. "No, nothing from the
Boston Globe
. I'll call tomorrow to make sure you sent the check. No fucking around."

"Chelsea, there's no reason to use that kind of language."

Ted had taken off his reading glasses and was staring at me when I hung up the phone. "Please don't tell me he said what I think I just heard."

I sent an e-mail to my brothers and sisters informing them of the phone call and asking them to confirm the execution of the FedExing of the reimbursement. My brother Greg responded to all of us with the suggestion of our having our father euthanized, but after the New Year so that the inheritance tax we'd owe for the properties he owned wouldn't put us all in debt.

"I don't know any euthanizers personally, and I'm not sure if that's a service that is publicly advertised, but I'll ask around," I replied.

The next e-mail we received was from my oldest sister, Sidney. "As an attorney, I am advising you all to cease and desist any and all discussion of the euthanization of our father via e-mail. I am available by phone at your earliest convenience."

Chapter Nine

The Suspect

A
week after my father reimbursed only one of the hundreds of dissatisfied renters he's had, my brother Greg sat him down for a grave intervention. Once Melvin realized that we were all serious about not providing him with any more financial dispensation, he became amenable to selling his main residence in Livingston, New Jersey. Greg took it upon himself to spearhead this debacle, mostly I believe because he has three small children and was looking to get out of his house. After his visit he sent a detailed account of the day to my brothers, sisters, and me.

September 17, 2008

4:30-6:45 P.M.

35 Morningside Drive

Dad--the suspect-is sitting out front on the porch basking in the warmth of a sunny and beautiful September afternoon.

Mariana Wallingford, a 46-year-old woman who hails from Livingston and claims she smoked pot in high school with Ray, saunters up Dad's decrepit driveway with her sidekick Realtor husband.

These two had also stopped by several days earlier to tour and assess the house and its ethereal state of utter disrepair. I left work early that day and ordered Dad off the premises in the hopes of giving our new Realtors as little contact with the suspect as possible. The showcase items Dad left behind in order to ensure a lofty appraisal were as follows: Three cabinet doors missing along with a can of soup on the kitchen island from the year 1995. A shutter on the second floor window missing and another shutter on the first floor in front of the living room resting gently on the bushes underneath it. The back room with the fireplace, which Platypus refers to as the "Blue Room" (despite there being no blue in the room), was covered in black mold. The upstairs linen closet had a hornet's nest, which was mildly surprising considering the landscaping bees are drawn to, and being that there are no living plants at 35 Morningside Drive.

I prepared both Realtors for their impending sit-down with Dad, and made them fully aware that they would be dealing with a very delusional, irrational, but nonviolent, common-day lunatic. I assured them I would be there to supervise the meeting and hopefully prevent Dad from demolishing a hot pastrami on rye in their presence.

On the day of the meeting, Dad answers the front door in a pair of sweatpants and a sweater Mom knit for him from the earlier part of the previous century. The four of us move inside and up in the living room, where everyone sits down so they can make their gay and pointless real estate presentation.

We get down to the only relevant point and they indicate that the most favorable listing price to create potential multiple bids is $699,000. This is the same number Ray's Realtor came up with one or two months ago and shared with the suspect. (Dad leisurely answers two calls on his cell phone during the middle of the meeting. He takes his time on the phone while everyone else waits around like a jackass.) I indicate to the suspect that I agree with the Realtors and fully and articulately explain to the suspect that the listing price is only the "listing price" and you generally wind up receiving bids above that number; I am careful to re-explain that the listing price is not the "selling price"--it's merely a widely practiced marketing ploy to produce a higher selling price; this well-accepted practice was then illustrated with actual sales examples of many nearby properties that actually sold for well above their listing prices.

Dad indicates his disagreement with the $699,000 number and proceeds to compare his property to other properties that are actually inhabitable and that sold for much more money. He mentions how he cleaned the mold in the "Blue Room" with some soap and it comes right off, so that problem is solved; I mentioned that remediating the mold scenario was actually a minimum $10,000-$20,000 reconstruction job (i.e., the insides of the walls are all consumed with industrial strength mold--some wall sections are bleached black from mold consumption). We all discuss the idea of selling the house "as is" since selling it not "as is" would require $200,000 to make the entire structure habitable. He agrees. He wants to list it at $749,000 or $739,000, and we get him down to $729,000.

Midway through this episode, we are pleasantly and appropriately interrupted by a knock at the open front door by a service person from the cable company. He shouts from the front door that he needs to pick up payment on the past-due cable bill. Dad says to me, "Greg, you want to give him a check." I say, "He's your vendor." Dad says, "I'll pay you next week," from the upper living room to the service guy still standing outside the front door whom no one can actually see. The cable guy says, "Then I have to pick up your cable box now." Dad says, "Go ahead and take it." The cable guy says, "I'm not allowed to go in the house and take it myself; you have to give it to me." I say to the invisible cable guy, "We're in the middle of a meeting selling the house. Can you come back another time?" The cable guy says, "Okay, but you'll have to bring the cable equipment to our office within one week." Dad says, "Okay..." The never-seen cable guy departs, not knowing or caring that Dad would sooner participate in an octogenarian potato-sack race before setting foot inside any cable office to return anything.

Platypus then proceeds to question Mariana's enthusiasm for the sale. For the record, Mariana and her hubby typically sell about 50 properties a year. I had just met her for the first time, and she seemed like a very nice, honest, straightforward, mild-mannered, but effective, salesperson. Dad says, "You mentioned you've been in the industry for 20 years... well, Mariana, I think you've lost some of your enthusiasm over the years. You haven't said one positive thing about this house since you saw it the other day.... I don't think you like this house...."

The life leaks out of everyone's bodies. It's clear that Mariana has never heard anything approaching this type of indictment in her entire career. Mariana says she's sorry if she gave that impression and that she likes the house fine. Platypus continues to question her enthusiasm, her spirit and her lack of regard for his decrepit castle. Mariana's husband then tells us how he bought his own home from Mariana a few years back and that is how they came to work together and fall deeply into one another's arms. Mariana's husband says what a great person and salesperson Mariana has been over the years, and that after both of their divorces, they felt so lucky to not only have found each other but were also fortunate enough to start a realty company. Later on in the meeting, Mariana mentions that her only daughter, whose 17th birthday is today, has been a mute since she witnessed her cousin being attacked and killed by a shark in Hawaii five years ago. Nice going, Platypus.

After Dad has one of his disgusting coughing attacks, somehow the sales process resumes and the suspect signs the Real Estate Listing agreement. I fill out the seller's property disclosure statement on the suspect's behalf, thereby indicating on paper that the seller is
not aware
that the property is uninhabitable in every regard. Platypus proceeds to regale Mariana and her husband with tales of the house, Mom, Martha's Vineyard, the symbolic and big bloody bull painting above his head, as they both look at the painting, horrified. At this precise moment, a loud crash is heard from the kitchen area. Mariana, her husband, and I all jump at what sounds like an AK-47 gunshot as Platypus turns his head slightly with no reaction whatsoever. The four of us get up from the living room and walk down the five steps into the kitchen, where we discover an eagle with a wingspan of at least five feet sprawled outside the now shattered sliding glass door.

In complete alarm, I gently slide open the glass door to take a closer look at the bird in order to determine if he has indeed taken his own life. In a shocking twist, the eagle's wings began to flutter slowly, and somehow, unbelievably, the bird gets his wits about him and is able to fly away. Dad dismisses the incident with a wave of his hand, the same way he would react to finding out there was going to be a rain delay for today's Mets game.

Mariana regains a modicum of composure as her husband is hugging her and she shakily proceeds to tell the suspect how the sales process is anticipated to proceed; the suspect indicates he'd "like a courtesy call" before any visitors show up. The session winds down and is adjourned thanks to Allah, Jesus, and Satan.

I walked the appalled couple out to their car and thanked them for their time.

I then went back inside 35 Morningside, where Dad had already made his way to the kitchen for some heavy carb-loading and a diet peach Snapple. The suspect mentioned how his fax was not working, and I went to go check on it. He casually mentioned something about the phone company restricting it, which of course meant he hadn't paid his phone bill and they'd disconnected the phone service. I mentioned that paying his phone bill would fix his fax.

I then issued the suspect a loan check for $9,900, repayable to me through the sales proceeds of his castle, kissed the suspect on the upper left side of his face and departed.

If Platypus refuses to shape up, I again would like to suggest the option of Euthanization. Or we can put him down like a horse.

Upon receipt of this e-mail, my sister Sidney was the first to respond:

From:
Sidney Handler

September 17th, 2008 10:20
AM

Sounds like a great afternoon. Good work. On a more pathetic note, I just got a call from Dad--only he has this kind of luck. Apparently a small mouse got into the house on the Vineyard and climbed under the fridge--got into the motor and, well, that led to the mouse's untimely and gory demise. The kitchen stinks to high heaven and the renters are looking for an alternative place to live. After striking out with the usual Vineyard suspects, Dad's next bright idea was to have Jeff [Sidney's husband] drive up there today and take a look at the fridge. Apparently Dad is unaware that Jeff is gainfully employed and doesn't work at the Dairy Queen.... I advised Dad that Jeff wasn't available and his refrigerator repairman's license has never existed. I told him to contact the local fridge supplier pronto and get a replacement and worry about the details and cost later.... This will most likely end with Dad being hung up on, since no one on the island will do business with him. Euthanasia is illegal, and therefore not an option.

I'm thinking about changing my last name to Lately.

Sent via BlackBerry

FROM:
SLOANE HANDLER

SENT:
SEPT
18 11:58:54 2008

SUBJECT: PLATYPUS RULES

SORRY, I'VE BEEN BUSY WITH ONLINE PHOTO SHARING, FORGOT TO TELL YOU ABOUT THE LATEST INSTALLMENT OF UNHAPPY RENTING. DAD BELIEVES THE MOUSE WAS A RESULT OF AROMATIC CURRIES BEING COOKED BY THE RENTERS WHO WERE "UNUSUALLY BLACK" AND, THEREFORE, ATTRACTED TO SPICE.

PLATYPUS JUST LEFT HERE.... HE'S GOT BIG PLANS TO SUE THE HAITIAN RENTERS FOR COOKING FATTY GREASY FOODS THAT SMELLED UP THE HOUSE AND ATTRACTED A RODENT, THEREBY CAUSING THE FOLLOWING WEEK'S RENTERS TO BAIL ONCE THEY GOT A WHIFF.... SO HE LOST THAT WEEK'S INCOME, CLAIMS THEY ALSO RUINED THE DECK WITH "BURN MARKS AND VINEGAR STAINS.... PROBABLY RELATED TO VOODOO AND WITCHCRAFT, ACTING LIKE CANNIBALS... AND USING POOR HYGIENE!!!" SOUNDS LIKE A SUREFIRE WINNER!

FROM:
RAY HANDLER

SENT: SEPT 19 10:01:54 2008

SUBJECT: THE HITS JUST KEEP ON COMING

I NORMALLY SLEEP FROM MIDNIGHT TO 4 AM. LAST NIGHT, I TRIED SOMETHING DIFFERENT.

12:05 AM RECEIVE PHONE CALL
FROM
SLOTIME (SLOANE), WHO INDICATES THAT I NEED TO CALL DAD ASAP.

12:10 CALL PLATYPUS; HE INDICATES HE NEEDS AN ALLENTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA, PICK-UP; SINCE I'M THE ONLY ONE WITHOUT A FAMILY OR A GIRLFRIEND, HE INDICATES THAT IT MAKES THE MOST SENSE FOR ME TO PICK HIM UP.