The Tramp's Story, Part V: Everything is Fine. Period.

Con’t

I panicked that night and sent Henry an email telling him about the bonuses I usually get from My Lady. I could have called, but it was a Friday, and I didn’t want to let my neuroses snowball for two days. Also, it was like 3:00 a.m. I did this when I got the first mortgage, too, for a completely different reason. Money talk just makes me tense, okay? I plain old didn’t see how they could possibly give me the loan he described based on what I said I made. Not that the couple-thousand-dollar adjustment up to what I really make would matter, but like I said: this time I wanted to tell the truth.

I mean, sure, I lied a little – about how it works and why it happens – but that’s just because the truth is too personal and complicated to explain. So I told Henry it was a “Christmas bonus” and left it at that. That’s not a lie so much as a sparing him of the gory details. He should thank me. And, really, he should not give me the loan.

He wrote back first thing Saturday morning, which surprised me, and here’s the sum total of what he said:

everything is fine

Well, the italics are mine, but the rest of it is his, verbatim. No Dear Erin, no capital letter, no period, no any more sentences at all, and no Love, Henry. I realize that Love might have been a bit too much to expect from him so soon, but he could have at least slipped a capital-E on it and said my name. Plus, I mean, call me superstitious if you want to, but a missed period so early in the relationship is not what this girl would call an auspicious sign. You know?

Johnny kept up a steady stream of soothing chatter in an attempt to talk me off the ledge. The worst that he could happen, he kept repeating, was that we’d be back where we thought we were stuck anyway. We didn’t ask for this twist of fate, we just kind of stumbled on it, and so we shouldn’t fret that it might fall apart. It’s not like last time, where we stood to lose our $12,000 deposit if the loan fell through. This time we’ve got nothing to lose. We already own the house (for what it’s worth), we already live here (damnit), and if we wake up Monday to find ourselves exactly where we were on Thursday after all, so be it. There are plenty of people in the world who would kill for that to be the case.

I tell you, man. That Johnny. What a pain in the ass.

He’s right, though, so I tried to hold my head. And the FedEx package did arrive a few days later. I don’t remember when, exactly, because – since Henry had instructed me not to mail the forms until I got that call in sixty days – I did not so much as tear it open. I just tossed it in my office, where it commenced to being in the way no matter where I put it, as if determined to fall behind a trunk and or something, thereby ensuring I’d be unable to find it come December.

But then just a few days later I came home to a message on the answering machine—

Actually, hold up. What happened first was that I got a call on my cell phone from an 866 number, which pretty well always means automatic-dialed junk. I answered it, but I didn’t say anything (which is what I always do), and when the delayed-human voice came on the line hello-hello-ing, I hung up. Later, when I was writing down the number from the answering machine, I realized: that person I hung up on was That Person from the bank.

Whoops!

It’s possible I’ve decided to drag this story on for as long as it took to go down in real time. Because finances and phone calls are such supreme suspenseful fun. Or maybe I’m just trying not to jinx it because it’s still not over. There might still be every chance that I’ll get sick of it and gallop right up to The End, or every other chance the whole thing will fall through. Also, there might be sex and drugs and leprechauns and intrigue! You never know, is what I’m saying. So stay tuned…

Con’t…