Joab Johnson and Minnie McHugh Johnson were a young couple, newly graduated from college, who planned to be married in September and had a third addition, Little Jiminy Johnson, due in two months, just after the wedding. They were living together in their first starter home, a little two bed one bath located in the northwest part of town. It was small, quaint really, with off-green closer to blue siding and a well kept walkway free of weeds and erosion that led to their little stoop where they rocked in their wicker love swing drinking wine in the evenings. Having so recently graduated, with degrees in Nothing In Particular, they were still undecided as to their career choice (as though it must be absolute) and continued to work the same jobs they had in college, already in debt with over $90,000 in combined student loans. Fortunately, they had purchased their little abode, the “Chateau” as Joab like to call it, at an excellent, unprecedented, historically low sub-prime interest rate of 3%, adjustable after four years, after which the interest rate would adjust to prime. Well, the plan was, at least what Joe Crocker at the bank told them, was that in four years when they would most likely want to sell the house, and it would be worth thirty five percent more what they paid for it. But the times are different now, for the Johnsons and for the rest of America. Real estate values have dropped, it’s a buyer’s market and people are unable to sell their homes and pay their mortgage payments, which, for the Johnson’s, has gone up to 8%. They are unable to pay their mortgage payments of $800 a month on a $400 a month salary working for wages. So one fine Wednesday evening, when Joab and Minnie had gotten home from their respective jobs as a pizza maker and a barista, a knock came at the door (and not so unexpectedly). They opened it to see Joe Crocker, the short little bald man with circular glasses, standing on his custom orthodics near, but not on the welcome mat. And he was clearly not welcome here, at the Chateau, a home built with youthful exuberance and hopefulness, with the NOTICE OF FORECLOSURE in his hand. The thin veil of happiness covering them like a bubble had burst with the rest of American real estate.
Displaced from their homes, they were forced to move in with their closest relatives, Minnie’s brother, Len McHugh. Len was an aspiring Hollywood producer, living well beyond his means in the hills west of Beverly Hills in an exclusive subdivision known as “The Woods”. Joab and Minnie found their lives in The Woods quite lavish and full of wonder. Len was living in the nicest house either Joab or Minnie had ever been in, opulent really, but portraying all the characteristics of the “More-money-than-taste” disease . But Len’s wealth hypothetical—he was living off of borrowed hypothetical dollars, future potential earnings, and driving a BMW sports car off of them too. He took out a loan of $800,000 dollars on a $1,000,000 house; however, he did not have the $200,000 to put down on the house (which is to say he was flat broke, with no money) so he made a deal with Joe Crocker at the bank and Joe worked out an 80/20 loan—which is to say Len was charged 6% interest on the $800,000 dollars and %15 on the $200,000 loan. The home, of course, was expected to nearly double in value by the time it needed to be paid. And that little bald man of a banker, Joe Crocker, stood at Len’s doorstep, huffing and puffing after climbing the flight of marble stairs that led up to it, with a NOTICE OF FORCLOSURE in his hand. And on the front lawn, just beyond a fountain of three little angles peeing into the water was a NOTICE OF PUBLIC AUCTION SIGN. Len had purchased a bad mortgage with outrageously high and unfair interest rates from the bank, a mortgage he would never be able to make good on as an “aspiring actor”. The bank, Joe Crocker, had in turn sold it to the larger firm of Lehman Brothers who filed for bankruptcy because they could not collect the full value of the home because it’s value and depreciated instead of appreciated. This, of course, was happening all over America, and the Federal Government (who had appointed the people who approve these bad loans) is now using your tax dollars to bail these companies out who invested their money in loans approved by Joe Crocker!
And there they were, two college graduates and a pseudo-Hollywood executive, bums on the streets of Southern California, displaced from their own fairy tale lives. Together, the three of them went to Saul Goldstein’s house to stay in Mendocino County, California. Saul was a nervous, freckly-faced audio-visual expert in high school whom Len had somehow, by what was mishap and now seemed like a good stop on Fortuna’s wheel, a lucky deal of kismet, kept in touch with Saul over the years to make sure, if at the very least, he was not found as a windsock in a windless barn. Len had, when Saul opened the front door of his perfectly charming, viable and seemingly self-sustaining brick home to greet his houseguests, expected to see the too frail, too blemished, too self-destructive Saul he had remembered from high school. But Saul seemed to be doing just fine from what Len noticed at a welcoming glance. Saul had ameliorated his unsightliness (which had had him arrested a time or two on the streets for indecent exposure) to a degree of average, but what struck Len, especially amidst the social turmoil that had brought the trio of vagrants to his doorstep, was how well rested and calm Saul was. There were no Asian accents decorating his home, which would have led Len to believe Saul’s apparent wealth of inner peace had been a result of Eastern practices; in fact, Saul’s house reeked of simplicity, even parsimony, to Len. They drank tea together upon settling down, though, but it was not a potent blend of Oriental anything that might induce one into a deeper sense of self-awareness, just Lipton. The three little vagabonds each had a cup, but Saul had three or four, or five or seven, with each pour from the kettle in the kitchen reusing the tea bag. Minnie and Joab had noticed this and commented on this Saul’s slight idiosyncrasy, wondering if the tea loses its flavor.
“Waste not, want not, “ said Saul, tipping his chin up long before the teacup reached his lips.
“That’s an interesting saying,” Len said, with semi-childlike interest, “Do you have any others?”
“Nothing I’m sure you haven’t already learned,” Saul said, staring into the depths of his pale brown tea, dissolving into it another sugar cube.
“What is it that you do,” asked Minnie, leaning into the conversation.
“I’m retired.”
“Retired!” punctuated Len, “You’re my age, give or take, it’s only been twelve years, give or take, since we graduated together. You must have made a killing somewhere, was it the market? You must have an astounding portfolio, though if that’s the case your abode might look into the finer things, like a flat screen, a Porsche, and fine cigars!”
“No, no, wasn’t the market or anything that would encourage the cultivation of other such practices you mentioned,” Saul said, re-engaging himself into the conversation. “I made a modest earning buying and selling audio visual equipment. You make your money when you buy things, buy your straw hats in the winter, and you never make money working for wages, as my father always said. Anyways,” Saul carried on making eye contact with his three listeners, “I saved what I earned rather than spending it on expensive cigars and cheap women, lived beneath my means, not spending more than I earned, and paying with cash instead of credit. I’ve managed to stay out of debt by living simply, as though I were in The Woods. It may not be much, but everything I own I own free and clear, everything I’ve borrowed I’ve been able to pay back, and the investments I’ve made have been smart and intuitive ones, though my accountant and broker usually disagree.”
“I see,” said Len, trying to appear enlightened, “so what you’re saying is that, in life, the bulls make money, the bears make money, and the hogs get slaughtered!”
Displaced from their homes, they were forced to move in with their closest relatives, Minnie’s brother, Len McHugh. Len was an aspiring Hollywood producer, living well beyond his means in the hills west of Beverly Hills in an exclusive subdivision known as “The Woods”. Joab and Minnie found their lives in The Woods quite lavish and full of wonder. Len was living in the nicest house either Joab or Minnie had ever been in, opulent really, but portraying all the characteristics of the “More-money-than-taste” disease . But Len’s wealth hypothetical—he was living off of borrowed hypothetical dollars, future potential earnings, and driving a BMW sports car off of them too. He took out a loan of $800,000 dollars on a $1,000,000 house; however, he did not have the $200,000 to put down on the house (which is to say he was flat broke, with no money) so he made a deal with Joe Crocker at the bank and Joe worked out an 80/20 loan—which is to say Len was charged 6% interest on the $800,000 dollars and %15 on the $200,000 loan. The home, of course, was expected to nearly double in value by the time it needed to be paid. And that little bald man of a banker, Joe Crocker, stood at Len’s doorstep, huffing and puffing after climbing the flight of marble stairs that led up to it, with a NOTICE OF FORCLOSURE in his hand. And on the front lawn, just beyond a fountain of three little angles peeing into the water was a NOTICE OF PUBLIC AUCTION SIGN. Len had purchased a bad mortgage with outrageously high and unfair interest rates from the bank, a mortgage he would never be able to make good on as an “aspiring actor”. The bank, Joe Crocker, had in turn sold it to the larger firm of Lehman Brothers who filed for bankruptcy because they could not collect the full value of the home because it’s value and depreciated instead of appreciated. This, of course, was happening all over America, and the Federal Government (who had appointed the people who approve these bad loans) is now using your tax dollars to bail these companies out who invested their money in loans approved by Joe Crocker!
And there they were, two college graduates and a pseudo-Hollywood executive, bums on the streets of Southern California, displaced from their own fairy tale lives. Together, the three of them went to Saul Goldstein’s house to stay in Mendocino County, California. Saul was a nervous, freckly-faced audio-visual expert in high school whom Len had somehow, by what was mishap and now seemed like a good stop on Fortuna’s wheel, a lucky deal of kismet, kept in touch with Saul over the years to make sure, if at the very least, he was not found as a windsock in a windless barn. Len had, when Saul opened the front door of his perfectly charming, viable and seemingly self-sustaining brick home to greet his houseguests, expected to see the too frail, too blemished, too self-destructive Saul he had remembered from high school. But Saul seemed to be doing just fine from what Len noticed at a welcoming glance. Saul had ameliorated his unsightliness (which had had him arrested a time or two on the streets for indecent exposure) to a degree of average, but what struck Len, especially amidst the social turmoil that had brought the trio of vagrants to his doorstep, was how well rested and calm Saul was. There were no Asian accents decorating his home, which would have led Len to believe Saul’s apparent wealth of inner peace had been a result of Eastern practices; in fact, Saul’s house reeked of simplicity, even parsimony, to Len. They drank tea together upon settling down, though, but it was not a potent blend of Oriental anything that might induce one into a deeper sense of self-awareness, just Lipton. The three little vagabonds each had a cup, but Saul had three or four, or five or seven, with each pour from the kettle in the kitchen reusing the tea bag. Minnie and Joab had noticed this and commented on this Saul’s slight idiosyncrasy, wondering if the tea loses its flavor.
“Waste not, want not, “ said Saul, tipping his chin up long before the teacup reached his lips.
“That’s an interesting saying,” Len said, with semi-childlike interest, “Do you have any others?”
“Nothing I’m sure you haven’t already learned,” Saul said, staring into the depths of his pale brown tea, dissolving into it another sugar cube.
“What is it that you do,” asked Minnie, leaning into the conversation.
“I’m retired.”
“Retired!” punctuated Len, “You’re my age, give or take, it’s only been twelve years, give or take, since we graduated together. You must have made a killing somewhere, was it the market? You must have an astounding portfolio, though if that’s the case your abode might look into the finer things, like a flat screen, a Porsche, and fine cigars!”
“No, no, wasn’t the market or anything that would encourage the cultivation of other such practices you mentioned,” Saul said, re-engaging himself into the conversation. “I made a modest earning buying and selling audio visual equipment. You make your money when you buy things, buy your straw hats in the winter, and you never make money working for wages, as my father always said. Anyways,” Saul carried on making eye contact with his three listeners, “I saved what I earned rather than spending it on expensive cigars and cheap women, lived beneath my means, not spending more than I earned, and paying with cash instead of credit. I’ve managed to stay out of debt by living simply, as though I were in The Woods. It may not be much, but everything I own I own free and clear, everything I’ve borrowed I’ve been able to pay back, and the investments I’ve made have been smart and intuitive ones, though my accountant and broker usually disagree.”
“I see,” said Len, trying to appear enlightened, “so what you’re saying is that, in life, the bulls make money, the bears make money, and the hogs get slaughtered!”
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