There’s always something to howl about.

Hurry up and wait

Wake up at 11:00AM. Drink a pot of coffee. Smoke a half pack of cigs. Do nothing for the rest of the day. This is my Will.

My Reality, per contra, dictates otherwise. Wake up at 5:55AM to the clanging of the Metra train bells across the street. (I don’t know how but at least 20 people a year find a way to get run over by a commuter train in this city, thus…the clanging bells at every turn and at all hours of the sleep cycle.) One medium cup of half decaf because my doctor is a cruel and unusual man. Smoke nothing because I kicked the actual habit years ago (although mentally, I’m still a two pack a day guy). Do nothing for the rest of the day.

And by doing nothing I mean waiting around in my real estate uniform, ‘tapping my last season’s Pradas’ (Legally Blonde), waiting for all my short sale deals to get final bank approval and inch along to the next stage of amortized gestation. Actually, I only have two of these nightmares recurring right now but they are so big and the characters involved so vivid, it feels like I have ten. Both deals are mid-seven figure offers and either can come unglued with the first hint of a strong Lake Michigan squall. I keep reaching for a smoke but like I said…

I consider the sellers in these scenarios, both developers. I ponder how, not so long ago, they were prospering in the ponzi schemes of their countless construction draws only to find themselves now languishing under a landfill of recycled paper debt, cheering my clients (the buyers) along from beneath, handcuffed and shackled to whatever is left of their decomposing credit ratings. I make a mental note to inform both of my parties that the traditional Builders Warranty probably isn’t worth the bad paper its written on. They will probably both want to lower their offers. Again. He who cares least wins. Hey, ‘leave the gun, take the cannoli.’ (G-father)

I go to bed early as there is nothing left to do but wait. Wait for the clanging. It reminds me of the closing bell on Wall Street only not as duplicitous and with much less at stake. I get pinged. Bank number one is supposed to sign final papers tomorrow. My phone is charged and my tank full, ready for my rabbit runs. Over the weekend, bank number two got eaten by a bigger fish in the silver sea and my contact person was thrown overboard with a deflated life vest and last weeks chum. ‘Wilson!’ (Castaway)

I refuse to mentally count the money.