LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMPOUT: A Rehoboth Journal -- To be or not to be a %*$#%%*! |
by Fay Jacobs |
Once, when my father had one too many Cloud 9 martinis, he laughed and said, "You and Bonnie are the only ones of my kids or stepkids who have ever borrowed money and actually paid it back. Youre schmucks!" Now technically that cant be, since the yiddish word schmuck refers to a body part neither Bonnie nor I own, but in the vernacular, I guess its true. And lately, weve radiated world class schmuckdom, including giving up our boat two weeks earlier than planned, so the new owners could bond with the vessel before their honeymoon. Would non-schmucks have been so accommodating if they had to scurry for lodging with friends for three summer beach weekends? Meanwhile, back in Maryland, it was schmuckiness central. Scrambling for cash for our impending condo settlement, I juggled bank funds, then resorted to breaking and entering the piggy bank. As I sat in a puddle of coins, stuffing, at best, about two hundred dollars into those irritating paper sleeves, the phone rang. "Hi! Im calling for the Whitman-Walker Clinic. The District has cut our funding and well have to drop clients unless...." "Put me down for $20," I said and went back to rolling nickels. Whats wrong with this picture? Meanwhile, Bonnie had to work all night Monday because she took the day off to donate platelets at Johns Hopkins ("They needed my blood type, I couldnt say no.") Would that be giving blood figuratively and literally? On August 8 we drove to the beach just to see the Dixie Carter concert, which I wouldnt have missed for all the schmucks in the world (now theres a frightening picture). It was our very first Saturday-in-August arrival ever and my God! In the time it took to crawl down Route 1 from Red Mill to Rehoboth, the people in the mini-van next to us could have gestated a baby. Ill bet there are documented cases of families needing an extra crib at check-in. We drove home in the dead of night after the show, fighting narcolepsy all the way, only to find a cat waiting on our doorstep. We dont have a cat. Is there a big sign on our roof saying "Schmucks live here, drop off your unwanted animals?" "Enough," I said. "Dont let him in." "Meooowww" "No!" I said, mostly to myself. So we put water out on the stoop and prayed the cat would be gone by morning. The following night he slept on the bed. The next day, too few of the young, limber softball players on Bonnies team showed up for a double header and she agreed to do home plate knee bends as catcher for both games. By Tuesday, Yogi Berra had to sleep on the sofa because she couldnt lift her legs high enough to do the stairs. I was feeding her anti-inflammatories when the sellers of the soon-to-be- ours condo called. They couldnt possibly settle on August 14 because they wanted another beach weekend. Non-schmucks certainly would have threatened "no deal." I tried. "But were homeless, we have no where to..." "Impossible," said the seller, "Monday the 17th or nothing." Another weekend in purgatory. But the final straw was the six-hour condo settlement. At the walk-through, when we went to check the stove, the sellers behaved as if we were asking them to put their heads in the oven to test it. Later, at settlement, we wished they had. At one point we got up from the table, leaving unflappable settlement attorney Barbara OLeary to deal with the sellers from hell. When the mortgage company faxed us the zillionth copy of the wrong loan papers, the evil sellers threatened to walk out entirely. At that point, Bonnie and I took the brilliant advice of para-legal Linda Savage and fled across the street to Harlows for a drink. Bless her heart, Lupine the bartender dispensed medicinal Absolut and let us rant unfettered. Back at Superior (and they are!) Title Company, attorney OLeary (who should really be brokering the mid-east peace talks) convinced the irrational sellers to go away, leaving their signatures behind. And Linda got blood from the turnips in the Illinois mortgage office, making them re-fax the corrected 72-page mortgage papers. It was looking like we might have a place to sleep. "(%)#@+_@&%!" said Linda. "They spelled Bonnies name wrong again!" If all the mortgage papers were laid end to end the square footage would be ten times the size of the apartment we were trying to buy. "Im glad next week is my vacation," said Linda. "This is our vacation," said the schmucks. By 7:00 p.m. wed handed over our last dimes, got the keys, liberated the dogs from 8 hours of maximum security at a friends house, and staggered to Plumb Loco for sustenance. As we explained our glassy-eyed condition to proprietor George, two gentlemen at an adjacent table couldnt help overhearing our horror story. "Where did you buy?" We told them. "Thats where we are!" they said, asking us which apartment we bought. "Hooray!!! The *%$*#&#* moved out!!!!" Hooray, the schmucks are moving in! As we walked the half block home (I love it!) and settled into the condo for the night, we couldnt believe that those petty sellers had returned to the apartment before we took occupancy to turn off the air conditioning so wed be sure to come home to a stifling apartment. "Can you believe that! If were the schmucks and theyre not, Id rather be us," I said. "Me, too," said Bonnie. So we toasted to the bride and grooms happiness aboard our former boat, set the alarm for 5 a.m. and went to sleep. It was going to be a busy week. Somewhere between work, softball and writing another column, we had to find a home for the cat. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 8, No. 12, August 28, 1998. |