Once upon a Signing. . .
We’ve all been in strange houses where the residents (our beloved signers) have not kept up with their chores. You know what I mean, dirty dishes in the sink, carpets in need of vacuuming, unwashed clothes piled up in a laundry room.
Well, that’s nuthin’!
When I was just a newbie, I picked up a signing not too far from my home/office for what I wrongly assumed was a nice young couple in a kind of family-friendly neighborhood. Little did I know I was headed straight for the gates of hell.
Mr. & Mrs. Hoarder.
I found my way into this lovely gate-guarded community of one-story condominiums where visitor parking was at a premium. Having found an unoccupied slot about two blocks away, I parked, grabbed my briefcase and walked calmly toward this rather unkempt, ruddy condo that did not lack for untrimmed shrubbery or droopy trees and vegetation. Outside the front door was a phalange of macramé ornaments that resembled the hands of a wicked witch. The wooden entry door was badly weathered and scarred from too many years of neglect and aggravated slamming, I presumed. When I knocked on it, it was already open and it creaked eerily as it swung open to reveal the darkened hallway beyond.
The voice of an elderly woman beckoned me to step inside and I did so with great trepidation. I couldn’t see a thing! The floor crackled beneath my feet as though I was stepping on corn flakes (which, perhaps, I was!). To my right was an unlit living room where I could make out an untold number of boxes, misshapenly stacked in a way that blocked the windows. It would be impossible to enter that room without a flashlight and a 5-iron.
To my front left was the beaming light from what I will generously call the “kitchen”, where we would eventually do the signing. The woman who called me into this pit was so thin and wiry, she would have to run around in the shower to get wet. When she stood sideways and spoke, she resembled a human zipper. With her boney finger she pointed to the signing table where her husband was awaiting my arrival.
He was dressed in a pair of shorts far too small for his girth and modesty. His tee-shirt was on it’s fifth day undoubtedly and his slippers. . . well. . . I’ll say that they were “well-worn” and bore the scent of. . . Oh , never mind. No sense in all of us being sick.
Each eye was pointed in different directions and his welcoming smile revealed all three of his teeth. Why even bother combing his hair. . . after all, it’s just the notary.
The signing table was about 3 feet across and fully laden with anything and everything that they had purchased, consumed and not yet thrown away for weeks on end, stacked at least two feet high. As Mrs. unfolded a brownish-gray metal chair for me to sit in at the table, I was shocked to look at the counter where the fire had been and the scalded cooktop that was encrusted with blackened metal that had not been chipped away for cleansing.
Food was everywhere. In every stage of its life: boxed/canned/bagged; ready for cooking; some in the process of being cooked; some having been cooked for days (or longer); some partially consumed, some ready to be stored for future consumption; and, some in a condition so undiscernible as to defy the imagination. I thank the Lord that I wasn’t offered any. I also turned down the grey water I was offered. For some reason, I wasn’t thirsty.
This was the first time I ever opened my briefcase and left it on my lap whilst we did the signing. By the way, the signing was done on a 10" X 10" space on the disgustingly stained and food-embedded table in the nook area where we were seated. Mr. had suffered an injured hand moving some boxes around the house as I was told, and he would have difficulty signing the refi documents. When we got to the appraisal acknowledgement, I noticed the appraiser’s notes said “Good with me” about the condition of the house. Who am I to judge?
We spent the next hour in the signing with Mrs. continually asking me if I’d like some water. I think my choking was the tip-off. I politely declined and hurried the signing along as best I could. When we concluded, I handed over their copies of the documents which were quickly dispatched to the food counter where they immediately began absorbing some sort of alien fluid that had coagulated there for the past several days.
I arose and thanked Mr. and Mrs. for their cooperation and told them I have to hurry along and post their completed documents with FedEx. At which point, Mr. laughed and told me he takes FedEx for constipation. I rambled to the door and off to my car which thankfully, was still there, and off I went. The 40 minute shower I took when I returned home was wonderful. I was even able to eat a meal again that weekend.
And, to think I bid this job for $75 as a newbie.
life grand?
you’re hilarious!!! You serious need to gather our stories and write a book, The Adventures of a CSA.
