“Oh, right. Great. So what is your plan, Ms. Kersey?”
“Well. I think I can get some work done on the house and sell it pretty quickly. I just need a bit more time. But, the bank would be paid in full instead of having to take a loss by foreclosing. As for me, it would save my credit rating.”
“Oh. Well,” he said.
“You see, Mr. Kersey, I previously had thought I wouldn’t be able to get any of the work done that the house needed, but that has changed.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Uh-huh.”
Maybe he wasn’t impressed with my resourceful plan?
“Will this work for the bank? I mean, isn’t it better than foreclosing?” I asked.
“Ms. Kersey,” he started, “I will take the proposal to my manager and see what she says.”
“Really? Oh, that would be great—”
“Ms. Kersey,” he interrupted, “I said I would ask. What I was going to add was that the bank is not usually amenable to arrangements that come in at the eleventh hour. But we can always ask.”
“Why wouldn’t the bank want to do it this way?” I asked. “That’s ridiculous. You’ve got to work with me on this. It’s a better outcome for everyone involved.”
“I can see that. I’ll do my best to convey your proposal.”
“Well, Mr. Fraser, I really want to stress that—.”
“I said I would inquire,” he interrupted.
Now, I was starting to get pissed. My voice rose. There was just no stopping it.
“Look, stop being an asshole and work with me here—”
“Ms. Kersey, we don’t tolerate abusive language like that. Good day,” he said and hung up in my ear.
I hated banks.
Shelle had finished with all her dogs for the day and had agreed to meet me for a drink after work. She glided into the place looking like a million bucks. No one ever would have known that barely an hour ago, she’d been picking up dog shit in little plastic baggies.
“Hiiiiii!” she screeched, running toward me.
Oh my god. Her hair.
“What did you do to your bangs?” I asked.
Her hand flew to her head, where she started smoothing her bangs into place.
“Why? Is something wrong with them?” she asked, stiffly.
Shit. Why did I open my big mouth?
“No, not at all,” I said, hoping I could backtrack.
“Well,” she replied, sniffing. “I trimmed them myself. I didn’t have time to go to the hairdresser. I’ve been way too busy with my business. “
She wouldn’t look at me. Note to self—don’t ever comment on Shelle’s bangs again.
I waved the bartender over and ordered two beers. When he delivered them, she perked back up.
“Anyway,” she said, having forgotten about my earlier insult. “What’s up with your house? And all your boys?”