Rainy day in Seattle. Lou at work. Cats are fed and sleeping . . . silence . . . a good cup of coffee in easy reach. Four realtors came through this weekend, each at different times, with their prospective buyers. No visible signs of interest yet . . . people just looking, until something feels right, or is as good as it gets. We will lose money on the deal, having bought on the upswing, some stock as well. We went soaring then came crashing down like Icarus . . . totally clueless—as so many of us were! Sixty thousand dollars disappeared, almost overnight. Where the hell did it go? Someone must have it. Who has it? The brokers made money. They get you on your way up and again on way down, commission, buy or sell. Are they the middle class? So many of us would describe ourselves a middle class. My father thought he was middle class. He was welding foreman at a Shell Oil refinery!
If you have to get up early in the morning and not be late for work. If you get a paycheck. If you need this job. If you commute to get to it . . . You are the working class . . . the vast majority of people on this planet, been that way since time began. Only the scenery changes . . . the acts remain the same.
I’ve had a feeling the house would sell on the 3rd week. This week is our third week coming up. It will be interesting to see. We must leave the house when people come, but realtors are only asking thirty minutes for people to look around. It’s easy to lose that much time, diversions and errands. Shopping, filling station, cleaners. We went to see Lincoln this weekend. One of the most boring movies I have ever sat through. Lou loved it—thought it was wonderful. Being Swedish helped I think, a much less familiar story for her.
The cats continue to locked away in the small bedroom during our frequent absents. Bucks hates the confinement, Amber likes her place on the tree we’ve stashed by the window. She loves heat . . . to lay in the sun. Her fur is soft and deep and warm. I pet her a just a few strokes, if I risk more she will get up. I want her where she is, on her back, slightly curved, feet in the air, basking in a shaft of sunlight. What a beautiful thing.
Maybe it’s her utter state of peace that so attracts me. I want days when there is nothing to be done. To be at home, a normal life again . . . no stress and no not knowing. Home at last, home at last, Thank God I’m home at last! Maybe in never really gets that good, but our next moves will be made in search of temporary pleasures out of choice and not require new houses. It will be another year at least before I reach that state. Faster for Lou I think. She will be, ‘home at last’ after fourteen years. A major change for her, as was her coming here . . . except she spoke the language long before arrival.
Bucks hates the small room. Sits on the other side of the door and pounces like a Dallas linesman when it’s opened, attempting to bolt between the legs of an unwary realtor. He’s made it once, and will again I’m sure. It must be getting like a game to him, the different people looking in—sort of a reverse Jack in the Box. He waits . . .What do his cat-like instincts tell him of this human . . . or that one? What kind of trick will work? The women faun on him, ‘Oh he’s so cute,’ which makes it a problem. They get in the way. Men realtors are more stand-offish and offer a better chance of escape.
So far the score is: Realtors 6 – Bucky 1.