A Lesson in Assholery
Balter’s Essays of Mostly Acerbic Witticisms
Of course, it's a dog and it's barking; a little thing, it's yipping or yapping really, on a leash exiting The-Unit-Next-to-the-One-That's-Soon-to-be-Ours.
It seems easy-to-startle.
Of course.
It's 8:30 AM, on the day of our closing on our new doorman-building condo - and this doggie forbodes our willingness to see the day half-empty or half-full.
The dog walker offers a weakly muttered 'goodbye' into the next door unit (to the faceless and nameless owner deep inside) and hustles past us avoiding eye contact.
Let me begin with a simple statement: we can be assholes.
Yep, we've worn well tread ground here. We have a knack for deciding what is right and what is wrong. For who is ok and who is not. For what is just and what isn't justified. And when we feel threatened - our intelligence, our ways of working, our ability to get the outcome we want - we straighten up, like a two-headed cobra readying for attack, and it's highly recommended you avoid our venom.
No matter, the dog is past us, but the damage has been done and our assaholism is on high alert as we enter our condo; one of us wonders, "you think there's a baby in the Unit next door?"
It's meant to be a short walk-through, a checklist of things to be checked from the punchlist on the P&S. A light switch jiggles here, a drawer doesn't close there, a shower head drips as if beheld by an unfortunate prostrate. But it's the washing machine that represents the real challenge. On inspection it was noted it wasn't working, and a plumber was coming to sort things that needed to be sorted out. Yet, here we stood, in front of a washing machine that has one hose for the cold water, and precisely none for the hot.
It should be disclosed: asshole meters are on high not because solely of the nextdoor pooch, but because this walk through is a mere two hours before signing closing papers; late because neither side's real estate agent thought to ensure everything was in order, and so we had to make this request, later than it ever should have been.
Our real estate agent is a provider of solutions. Let's figure out the cost to fix, then mark it up 1.5x in case we under-estimated. The Seller's Agent can't reach the Seller who has decided closing day is perfect for a digital detox of sorts. Our asshole antennae are now twitching feverishly and we're foaming at our mouths, muttering "who does this type of thing?" and "this isn't at all what we agreed to," like crusty Octogenarians (note: I'll still be bitching like this at 80).
The washing machine still unsolved, and we're now sitting within as beige a lawyerly office as you can imagine: Paintings of old-time Boston adorn the walls with somewhat gothic fonts exclaiming Boston Common and black lampposts guiding horse-drawn carriages, all as if to say, "we've been here before." The bank's lawyer, Rocky - his real name, birth certificate stamped - shovels papers at us, explaining the same thing he's explained to thousands of almost-new-house-owners before about disclosures, banking regulations, signing-your-life-away type of shit. In a one-two punch that is so melodic it appears scripted, we inform Rocky that until the hoseless washing machine is resolved he's to hold our signatures in escrow, closing be damned.
Note some assaholic math: the washing machine is a mere .0009 of the purchase price. It's irrelevant but...the principal of it...the mere nature of not solving this before we are to close. It's unheard of, it's just plain inappropriate. It's as if they're out to get us. The nerve. The absolute incredulous nature of these Sellers. And where the hell are they on vacation anyway? Why aren't they getting up from poolside and calling the plumber who should have fixed the thing in the first place?
Rocky the Lawyer has seen it all. But two people buying a condo while moody and depressed - as if signing papers to buy a half-eaten 3-day old taco, or a deceased uncle's tire factory - you think he's seen that before? Huh, Rocky, well have you?
Our signatures sit in escrow, and we ride the elevator down with a jubilant young couple; they just closed on their new house, they hold a bottle of nice wine readying to celebrate, they're yammering excitedly with their broker in joyful 'the world is our oyster' tones. They beam like two suns; no matter, we are in the back, dark and gloomy, feeling only our assholishness simmering just below the surface.
The rest of the day is a back and forth with our Attorney about the differences between hold backs and cost credits. It doesn't matter and yet, we need a new set of paperwork. More texts between everyone about this .0009 but we can't stop ourselves; we're a train unhinged, speeding down the track to us ensuring we hold everyone to account. We're spraying asshole-ism into the universe and everyone is catching it.
It's now after 4 PM, and the new paperwork - get this - requires a 'wet signature', and so I trudge begrudgingly back to Rocky's beige-as-if-hell-is-now-shades-of-tan office to hand him our new paperwork His desk is organized with neat stacks of different closing, mostly for clients who are likely much more celebratory. He notes that as we're nearing 5 PM, we missed the registration cutoff and so, well, drat, you missed out, even though now all the paperwork is set, the closing will just have to wait until the next business day. Rocky is all business, but I imagine he's smirking.
Given we were closing at 11 AM, we'd already scheduled ourselves to celebrate in our new house that evening. A first meal, and with zero furniture we'd do it like they do in the movies: We'd pull in two soccer-mom folding chairs and eat Whole Foods salads from plastic clamshells, while toasting glasses of champagne. And so we begin to muscle in on Rocky and the Seller's Agent and all Attorneys to, well, if you please, just let us into the house now - everything is set, right? Official deed or no official deed, money is wired, we all know we're done. Please, pretty please, we say, coyly, looking up innocently as if choir boys, while hiding our asshole-sharp tendencies behind our backs.
Nah, they say. Just nah.
And so we trudge over to our new building, aiming to rescue our Amazon-ordered chairs from the mail room. We're despondent, knowing this all could have been avoided if we'd just trusted people, just took them at their word; if we just let little things be little things, just moved on and let the process be the process. If we could let things flow, a bit like water off a duck's back. Why do we do this? We ask each other.
Why do we need to be assholes?
Chol the doorman welcomes us with graciousness. He notes he has our chairs, and then offers if we want to head up to the unit. We play along, deeds-not-done-be-damned. And as we sit eating our salads in the space that wasn't really yet ours, we get a text. The Seller's Agent informs us that the washing machine heats water itself, and no line for hot is required.
We had nothing to worry about, all long, he chirps, as if allowing us one last moment to remember: It doesn't matter who's doing the wash, sometimes being an asshole just doesn't pay.