Sep 13 came as any other day in early fall. Toward mid morning, the lead blanket
of clouds furled in a flash to reveal the navy blue behind. The trees, cars, and
streets went bare under the fierce sun. Their brightness failed to cheer up
Bill, however, as there is no scenary in a familar place. He was on his way to
the escrow office in Saratoga, a town in the south bay, to sign off papers. His
house was sold.
It was not ready, Bill had always thought. Rampant crimes plaguing the state,
mass local layoffs, inflation and interest rates climbing in lock-steps to highest
levels in decades, and the condition of his termite-infested bungalow with its
55-year-old roof, boded ill. Then, as if on cue, half a dozen houses in the
neighboring blocks went on the market in August.
The sale felt like a miracle against all odds. An agent was hired early July,
Bill worked the next six weeks dolling the place up and, after listed for one
week, it was gone. Mr. Chen, an old hand in the business, was even able to
persuade the buyers, an Indian couple who were expecting a baby and who made the
only offer, to pay $50k over the asking price, which Bill thought too high to
start with.
His first response to the good news was a tinge of guilt mixed with relief,
feeling sorry for the young couple who, in his mind, had to slave away to pay a
$6000+ monthly mortgage, compared with how lucky he was 15 years ago.
He did not blame himself as much as the system, however, which felt like a Ponzi
scheme where newcomers break their backs to earn the ticket to the American
game. They would then spend the best years of their lives to serve and enrich
the rich and meanwhile, they hold onto a little place to cash in in time. That
was Bill's story in a nutshell and that was how he imagined everyone else's. Yet
America is built on such stories which so far had outbid whatever they could offer
in any other part of the world. "How long would the show last?" he wondered. A
typical hypocrite, Bill only shedded crocodile tears while enjoying the profit.
Whatever his morality, one thing was sure, i.e., he would make a poor real estate
agent.
The last time he rode in Amy's car was 2019 year end and also to sign papers, as
they bought their current house. It would've been unimaginable in his 30s but he
had since been riding the waves of life (until he was laid off, of course) and
handed over to his better half all big decisions. The night Amy was about to
make the offer, he was abroad to run a marathon the next morning. "Go ahead with
whatever you like." he told Amy over the phone: "Just stop bothering me."
Where was his sense of honor and pride? How could he give up control? How could
his marriage come to this? Sometimes he wondered, with zero emotion. Passion had
long gone. Nowadays he worked on keeping from blowing up when she came home and
raised a racket hustling up a late night meal.
Amy's drive was smooth. Bill was in a bad mood from a poor sleep last night,
however. The cheap sentimental pop music, the freezing AC, and the directions
from the phone in a British accent, all annoyed him.
"Turn left in point two miles onto El Camino Real."
"Could we turn this thing off?" Bill was trying to read Dostoevsky.
"No. I use GPS always."
"To become stupid?" Bill quickly lost control.
"Yes!" Anger was smoldering in her voice, but she had better sense.
Taking a breath and turning back to "Notes from the Underground," Bill kept
reading as if nothing had happened. What was the point of losing temper? He
chided himself. Neither said a word the rest of the 20 minutes drive.
"I'm going in." Amy announced after parking in front of the business. They were
40 minutes early.
Glued to his book, Bill didn't move a muscle. He was staring at the word
'tangent' which appeared in the phrase 'went off on a tangent" on the screen.
Next, he looked it up in the American Heritage Dictionary 5th Ed app to verify.
Then he spotted in the caption of the picture illustrating the concept:
"tan θ = ab."
Before noon, Bill came home remembering that he signed a bunch of papers, the
escrow officer griped about her boring job and told them the sale would close in
a week and congratulated them, Dostoyevsky was brilliant, and he needed to look
up 'tangent' in the paper editions of the AHD to see if they all got it wrong.
