Chapter Nine
The Suspect
A week after my father reimbursed only one of the hundreds of dissatisfied renters he’s had, my brother Greg sat him down for a grave intervention. Once Melvin realized that we were all serious about not providing him with any more financial dispensation, he became amenable to selling his main residence in Livingston, New Jersey. Greg took it upon himself to spearhead this debacle, mostly I believe because he has three small children and was looking to get out of his house. After his visit he sent a detailed account of the day to my brothers, sisters, and me.
September 17, 2008
4:30–6:45 P.M.
35 Morningside Drive
Dad—the suspect–is sitting out front on the porch basking in the warmth of a sunny and beautiful September afternoon.
Mariana Wallingford, a 46-year-old woman who hails from Livingston and claims she smoked pot in high school with Ray, saunters up Dad’s decrepit driveway with her sidekick Realtor husband.
These two had also stopped by several days earlier to tour and assess the house and its ethereal state of utter disrepair. I left work early that day and ordered Dad off the premises in the hopes of giving our new Realtors as little contact with the suspect as possible. The showcase items Dad left behind in order to ensure a lofty appraisal were as follows: Three cabinet doors missing along with a can of soup on the kitchen island from the year 1995. A shutter on the second floor window missing and another shutter on the first floor in front of the living room resting gently on the bushes underneath it. The back room with the fireplace, which Platypus refers to as the “Blue Room” (despite there being no blue in the room), was covered in black mold. The upstairs linen closet had a hornet’s nest, which was mildly surprising considering the landscaping bees are drawn to, and being that there are no living plants at 35 Morningside Drive.
I prepared both Realtors for their impending sit-down with Dad, and made them fully aware that they would be dealing with a very delusional, irrational, but nonviolent, common-day lunatic. I assured them I would be there to supervise the meeting and hopefully prevent Dad from demolishing a hot pastrami on rye in their presence.
On the day of the meeting, Dad answers the front door in a pair of sweatpants and a sweater Mom knit for him from the earlier part of the previous century. The four of us move inside and up in the living room, where everyone sits down so they can make their gay and pointless real estate presentation.
We get down to the only relevant point and they indicate that the most favorable listing price to create potential multiple bids is $699,000. This is the same number Ray’s Realtor came up with one or two months ago and shared with the suspect. (Dad leisurely answers two calls on his cell phone during the middle of the meeting. He takes his time on the phone while everyone else waits around like a jackass.) I indicate to the suspect that I agree with the Realtors and fully and articulately explain to the suspect that the listing price is only the “listing price” and you generally wind up receiving bids above that number; I am careful to re-explain that the listing price is not the “selling price”—it’s merely a widely practiced marketing ploy to produce a higher selling price; this well-accepted practice was then illustrated with actual sales examples of many nearby properties that actually sold for well above their listing prices.
Dad indicates his disagreement with the $699,000 number and proceeds to compare his property to other properties that are actually inhabitable and that sold for much more money. He mentions how he cleaned the mold in the “Blue Room” with some soap and it comes right off, so that problem is solved; I mentioned that remediating the mold scenario was actually a minimum $10,000–$20,000 reconstruction job (i.e., the insides of the walls are all consumed with industrial strength mold—some wall sections are bleached black from mold consumption). We all discuss the idea of selling the house “as is” since selling it not “as is” would require $200,000 to make the entire structure habitable. He agrees. He wants to list it at $749,000 or $739,000, and we get him down to $729,000.
Midway through this episode, we are pleasantly and appropriately interrupted by a knock at the open front door by a service person from the cable company. He shouts from the front door that he needs to pick up payment on the past-due cable bill. Dad says to me, “Greg, you want to give him a check.” I say, “He’s your vendor.” Dad says, “I’ll pay you next week,” from the upper living room to the service guy still standing outside the front door whom no one can actually see. The cable guy says, “Then I have to pick up your cable box now.” Dad says, “Go ahead and take it.” The cable guy says, “I’m not allowed to go in the house and take it myself; you have to give it to me.” I say to the invisible cable guy, “We’re in the middle of a meeting selling the house. Can you come back another time?” The cable guy says, “Okay, but you’ll have to bring the cable equipment to our office within one week.” Dad says, “Okay…” The never-seen cable guy departs, not knowing or caring that Dad would sooner participate in an octogenarian potato-sack race before setting foot inside any cable office to return anything.
Platypus then proceeds to question Mariana’s enthusiasm for the sale. For the record, Mariana and her hubby typically sell about 50 properties a year. I had just met her for the first time, and she seemed like a very nice, honest, straightforward, mild-mannered, but effective, salesperson. Dad says, “You mentioned you’ve been in the industry for 20 years… well, Mariana, I think you’ve lost some of your enthusiasm over the years. You haven’t said one positive thing about this house since you saw it the other day…. I don’t think you like this house….”
The life leaks out of everyone’s bodies. It’s clear that Mariana has never heard anything approaching this type of indictment in her entire career. Mariana says she’s sorry if she gave that impression and that she likes the house fine. Platypus continues to question her enthusiasm, her spirit and her lack of regard for his decrepit castle. Mariana’s husband then tells us how he bought his own home from Mariana a few years back and that is how they came to work together and fall deeply into one another’s arms. Mariana’s husband says what a great person and salesperson Mariana has been over the years, and that after both of their divorces, they felt so lucky to not only have found each other but were also fortunate enough to start a realty company. Later on in the meeting, Mariana mentions that her only daughter, whose 17th birthday is today, has been a mute since she witnessed her cousin being attacked and killed by a shark in Hawaii five years ago. Nice going, Platypus.
After Dad has one of his disgusting coughing attacks, somehow the sales process resumes and the suspect signs the Real Estate Listing agreement. I fill out the seller’s property disclosure statement on the suspect’s behalf, thereby indicating on paper that the seller is not aware that the property is uninhabitable in every regard. Platypus proceeds to regale Mariana and her husband with tales of the house, Mom, Martha’s Vineyard, the symbolic and big bloody bull painting above his head, as they both look at the painting, horrified. At this precise moment, a loud crash is heard from the kitchen area. Mariana, her husband, and I all jump at what sounds like an AK-47 gunshot as Platypus turns his head slightly with no reaction whatsoever. The four of us get up from the living room and walk down the five steps into the kitchen, where we discover an eagle with a wingspan of at least five feet sprawled outside the now shattered sliding glass door.
In complete alarm, I gently slide open the glass door to take a closer look at the bird in order to determine if he has indeed taken his own life. In a shocking twist, the eagle’s wings began to flutter slowly, and somehow, unbelievably, the bird gets his wits about him and is able to fly away. Dad dismisses the incident with a wave of his hand, the same way he would react to finding out there was going to be a rain delay for today’s Mets game.
Mariana regains a modicum of composure as her husband is hugging her and she shakily proceeds to tell the suspect how the sales process is anticipated to proceed; the suspect indicates he’d “like a courtesy call” before any visitors show up. The session winds down and is adjourned thanks to Allah, Jesus, and Satan.
I walked the appalled couple out to their car and thanked them for their time.
I then went back inside 35 Morningside, where Dad had already made his way to the kitchen for some heavy carb-loading and a diet peach Snapple. The suspect mentioned how his fax was not working, and I went to go check on it. He casually mentioned something about the phone company restricting it, which of course meant he hadn’t paid his phone bill and they’d disconnected the phone service. I mentioned that paying his phone bill would fix his fax.
I then issued the suspect a loan check for $9,900, repayable to me through the sales proceeds of his castle, kissed the suspect on the upper left side of his face and departed.
If Platypus refuses to shape up, I again would like to suggest the option of Euthanization. Or we can put him down like a horse.
Upon receipt of this e-mail, my sister Sidney was the first to respond:
From: Sidney Handler
September 17th, 2008 10:20 AM
Sounds like a great afternoon. Good work. On a more pathetic note, I just got a call from Dad—only he has this kind of luck. Apparently a small mouse got into the house on the Vineyard and climbed under the fridge—got into the motor and, well, that led to the mouse’s untimely and gory demise. The kitchen stinks to high heaven and the renters are looking for an alternative place to live. After striking out with the usual Vineyard suspects, Dad’s next bright idea was to have Jeff [Sidney’s husband] drive up there today and take a look at the fridge. Apparently Dad is unaware that Jeff is gainfully employed and doesn’t work at the Dairy Queen…. I advised Dad that Jeff wasn’t available and his refrigerator repairman’s license has never existed. I told him to contact the local fridge supplier pronto and get a replacement and worry about the details and cost later…. This will most likely end with Dad being hung up on, since no one on the island will do business with him. Euthanasia is illegal, and therefore not an option.
I’m thinking about changing my last name to Lately.
Sent via BlackBerry
FROM: SLOANE HANDLER
SENT: SEPT 18 11:58:54 2008
SUBJECT: PLATYPUS RULES
SORRY, I’VE BEEN BUSY WITH ONLINE PHOTO SHARING, FORGOT TO TELL YOU ABOUT THE LATEST INSTALLMENT OF UNHAPPY RENTING. DAD BELIEVES THE MOUSE WAS A RESULT OF AROMATIC CURRIES BEING COOKED BY THE RENTERS WHO WERE “UNUSUALLY BLACK” AND, THEREFORE, ATTRACTED TO SPICE.
PLATYPUS JUST LEFT HERE…. HE’S GOT BIG PLANS TO SUE THE HAITIAN RENTERS FOR COOKING FATTY GREASY FOODS THAT SMELLED UP THE HOUSE AND ATTRACTED A RODENT, THEREBY CAUSING THE FOLLOWING WEEK’S RENTERS TO BAIL ONCE THEY GOT A WHIFF…. SO HE LOST THAT WEEK’S INCOME, CLAIMS THEY ALSO RUINED THE DECK WITH “BURN MARKS AND VINEGAR STAINS…. PROBABLY RELATED TO VOODOO AND WITCHCRAFT, ACTING LIKE CANNIBALS… AND USING POOR HYGIENE!!!” SOUNDS LIKE A SUREFIRE WINNER!
FROM: RAY HANDLER
SENT: SEPT 19 10:01:54 2008
SUBJECT: THE HITS JUST KEEP ON COMING
I NORMALLY SLEEP FROM MIDNIGHT TO 4 AM. LAST NIGHT, I TRIED SOMETHING DIFFERENT.
12:05 AM RECEIVE PHONE CALL FROM SLOTIME (SLOANE), WHO INDICATES THAT I NEED TO CALL DAD ASAP.
12:10 CALL PLATYPUS; HE INDICATES HE NEEDS AN ALLENTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA, PICK-UP; SINCE I’M THE ONLY ONE WITHOUT A FAMILY OR A GIRLFRIEND, HE INDICATES THAT IT MAKES THE MOST SENSE FOR ME TO PICK HIM UP.
12:15 DEPART WEST CALDWELL, NJ.
1:30 ARRIVE AT SUNOCO STATION, WHERE MOM’S VAN HAS BEEN TOWED TO IN ALLENTOWN, PA; THE VEHICLE HAD OVERHEATED AND THE ENGINE WAS SHOT.
1:35 PAY $123 FOR HIS TOW CHARGE BECAUSE HE HAS NO CASH AND DOESN’T UNDERSTAND WHY HIS SUNOCO GAS CARD DOESN’T ALSO ALLOW HIM TO WITHDRAW CASH.
1:40 DEPART ALLENTOWN WITH MELVIN AND HIS 22-YEAR-OLD BLACK MAID AND HER SIMILARLY AGED AND PIGMENTED GIRLFRIEND.
1:45 SMALL TALK FROM DAD ABOUT HOW HE HAD TAKEN THE TWO GIRLS TO NEARBY DORNEY PARK (ROLLER COASTERS, WATER SLIDES AND OTHER FUN THINGS FOR 75-YEAR-OLD MEN) FOR THE DAY BECAUSE HE HAD PROMISED TO DRIVE THEM THERE.
2:00 AFTER MELVIN WONDERS ALOUD WHY YOU NEED A SEPARATE ATM CARD AND WHAT EXACTLY A PIN IS, I TELL HIM WHY A PIN IS REQUIRED FOR AN ATM CARD, AND THAT SUNOCO GAS CARDS ARE CREDIT CARDS FOR THE SUNOCO GAS STATION ONLY, NOT CASH CARDS. THIS IS NEW AND SHOCKING INFORMATION FOR MELVIN.
2:10 MELVIN COMMENTS ON THE “SMOOTH RIDE” OF THE MERCEDES E320.
2:50 MELVIN GIVES ME DRIVING INSTRUCTIONS TO THE GIRLS’ EAST ORANGE NEIGHBORHOOD THAT ARE COMPLETELY OUT OF THE WAY, INEFFICIENT AND DANGEROUS, SINCE THEY GO THROUGH SOME OF THE WORST INNER-GHETTO SIDE STREETS OF NEWARK. THE GIRLS START SNAPPING AT HIM THAT HE’S GOING COMPLETELY OUT OF THE WAY AND THE WRONG WAY. MELVIN TELLS ONE OF THE GIRLS TO “SAVE IT.”
3:05 PROCEED THROUGH SOME OF THE SCARIEST STREETS I HAVE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE. OCCASIONAL DERELICTS WALK AIMLESSLY AND MENACINGLY THROUGH THE STREETS. I WONDER HOW I’M GOING TO ARTICULATE MY LIKELY IMMINENT BODILY INJURIES/STOLEN CAR/AND OR DEATH TO THE FAMILY AND GIRLFRIEND I DON’T HAVE.
3:10 SOMEHOW, WE MAKE IT TO THEIR EAST ORANGE NEIGHBORHOOD AND THE GIRLS ARE INCREASINGLY HURLING BITTER AND ANGRY INSULTS AT DAD FOR SOME REAL OR IMAGINED TRANSGRESSIONS. THEY GO FOR THE FULL MELTDOWN AND DEMAND TO GET OUT OF THE CAR IMMEDIATELY. I STOP, THEY EXIT THE VEHICLE IN A HUFF, AND WE PROCEED AWAY AS A DARKENED POLICE CAR LURKS DOWN THE BLOCK.
3:11 THE EAST ORANGE POLICE AND A BACK-UP PULL US OVER AND ASK ME FOR MY PAPERWORK. THEN THEY ASK US WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON. I SAY I WAS PERFORMING LIVERY SERVICES FOR POPSICLE AND HIS MAID/FRIEND. HE ASKS ME TO STEP TO THE REAR OF THE VEHICLE AND THEN TELLS ME PRIVATELY THAT THE TWO INDIVIDUALS WE JUST DROPPED OFF ARE WELL-KNOWN LADIES OF THE NIGHT AND OUR BEHAVIOR LOOKS PRETTY SUSPICIOUS, TO PUT IT MILDLY. HE ADVISES ME TO STAY OUT OF EAST ORANGE.
3:30 POPSICLE MENTIONS THAT WHEN YOU HANG AROUND WITH GARBAGE PEOPLE, THE END RESULT WILL BE GARBAGE.
3:40 DROP POPSICLE AT 35 MORNINGSIDE DRIVE. HE POINTS TO ONE OF THE DECREPIT JALOPIES IN HIS DRIVEWAY AND PROUDLY PROCLAIMS, “THERE’S MY NEW VEHICLE.”
4:00 AM ARRIVE IN WEST CALDWELL.
9:04 AM SHOW UP BRIGHT-EYED AND BUSHY-TAILED TO MY JOB. HOW MUCH IS EUTHANASIA? AND WHAT IS EUTHANASIA?
FROM: CHELSEA HANDLER
RE: THE HITS JUST KEEP ON COMING
TIME: SEPT 19, 11:10:43
PLEASE TELL ME THIS DID NOT REALLY HAPPEN. IF THIS IS A TRUE STORY, I THINK WE SHOULD HAVE HIM COMMITTED. SIDNEY?
From: Sidney Handler
Re: The Hits Just Keep on Coming
Time: Sept 18, 2008 12:10:34
We can’t commit him to an institution because he knows the date, time, and the president of the United States. I have looked into this, and even though he’s completely out of step with modern-day society, he still has all his faculties. Poor Mom, she’s probably rolling over in her grave that he didn’t even pay for.
Sent via BlackBerry
FROM: SLOANE HANDLER
TIME: SEPT 18, 12:38:34
SUBJECT: THE HITS JUST KEEP ON COMING
OBJECTION!!! HE DOES NOT HAVE ALL HIS FACULTIES. HE DEFINITELY PEED ON MY SOFA THE OTHER DAY. I HAVE TO PUT NEWSPAPER DOWN WHEN HE COMES OVER! ISN’T THAT ALL THE PROOF WE NEED? HE THINKS HE’S COMING WITH US TO PUERTO RICO FOR CHRISTMAS, BUT I THINK WE SHOULD TELL HIM CHRISTMAS IS ON A DIFFERENT DAY THIS YEAR, BECAUSE HE WILL ONLY EMBARRASS US, AND I’M WORRIED ABOUT CHELSEA’S AND MY PROFILE. HER CAREER HAS HAD AN ASTONISHINGLY POSITIVE EFFECT ON MY SOCIAL LIFE, AND I’VE BEEN CONTACTED VIA FACEBOOK BY ALMOST EVERY PERSON IN HIGH SCHOOL THAT WAS MEAN TO ME. I’M NOT PREPARED TO TAKE TWO STEPS BACK AT THIS JUNCTURE. AND WHY DOES HE NEED A HOOKER IF HE HAS A GIRFLRIEND?
FROM: CHELSEA HANDLER
TIME: SEPT 18 12:45:55
SUBJECT: THE HITS JUST KEEP ON COMING
SLOANE, ARE YOU STUPID? OBVIOUSLY, HIS GIRLFRIEND IS A HOOKER.
MOM IS NOT ROLLING OVER IN HER GRAVE, SHE IS LAUGHING HER ASS OFF. SHE WARNED US ALL THAT HE IS A BIG ASSHOLE, AND THAT ONCE SHE WAS GONE, THERE WOULD BE NO ONE TO KEEP HIS BEHAVIOR IN CHECK. I’M NOT ENTIRELY SURE THAT EUTHANIZATION IS STILL ILLEGAL. WHAT DOES THAT REQUIRE?
From: Greg Handler
Time: Sept 18 12:59:01 P.M.
Subject: The Hits Just Keep on Coming
Chelsea, Google Dr. Jack Kevorkian, and you can educate yourself on euthanizing someone. I believe Mario, Dad’s new mozzarella-stick friend, has some low-level Mafia ties. With The Sopranos off the air, there’s also plenty of the cast members who are no longer employed, and I’m sure one or more would be open to making a cool three hundred and fifty dollars. A different approach, but effective nonetheless.
Girls, cool it with the all caps. Ray invented capitalizing all words and proper misspelling.
FROM: CHELSEA HANDLER
TIME: SEPT 18 1:05:18 P.M.
SUBJECT: THE HITS JUST KEEP ON COMING
ANOTHER OPTION WOULD BE FOR EACH OF US TO KILL OURSELVES. WHO’S WITH ME?
From: SIDNEY HANDLER
Time: SEPT 18 1:25:19 P.M.
Subject: PLATYPUS RULES
If you killed yourself, Ted would kill himself, and we shouldn’t be involving any other families. Let’s please try and keep the hooker tale between each other and not tell spouses and/or boyfriends. This isn’t something I want people knowing about.
As an attorney, I am advising all of you to stop sending emails regarding “a hit” and/or euthanasia at this time. Please call me immediately.
Sent via BlackBerry
The next week my father got a bid on his house to the tune of $600,000 and then threatened to sue the Asian family for making such a low offer. Shortly after, my brother showed him his latest legal bill, which was in the amount of $23,000 and was from a law firm that he tried to sue for malpractice after they lost my father’s case to make our neighbors cut down their trees in their own yard. His issue: They were pine trees and, being a Jew, my father does not appreciate Christmas trees being shoved in his face. He believed they were anti-Semitic trees and that the people living behind those trees were clearly Nazi sympathizers. Shortly after that, Greg showed him Exhibit B: a judgment from the Martha’s Vineyard court against my father in the amount of $17,000, for a case he lost when he tried to represent himself pro se against our other neighbors, who no longer wanted to share their path to the beach with my father, because he usually walks down naked.
After a little negotiating with the nice Asian family, they were finally able to come up to $625,000. This proved to be perfect timing for the last thing Greg was holding in his arsenal. It was Platypus’s bank statement, which said –$42.67.
This was the day my father sold his home, and after all the bills and payments he needed to pay to clear his name (that we know about), he was left with a little over $400,000.
He agreed for Greg to be a cosigner on his account, which gave Greg access to monitor our father’s account, as well as the right to deny Platypus money if the amount of any charge exceeds $1,000. Like a child. A very bad child who urinates on other people’s furniture.
By February my brother had sent us a litany of charges on my father’s latest monthly debit-card breakdown, which showed a total of $201,000. Most were large but not inordinate amounts at the local McDonald’s, which he seemed to frequent three times a day. Others were payments to nightclubs in Newark, and one big charge was a Delta Air Lines flight for $754, which was dubious since my father doesn’t fly. There were four separate charges for Sean John tracksuits, and a few basketball jerseys, plus a Bluetooth.
I called Greg and asked him how it was possible to blow $200,000 in five months.
“Well, Chelsea, he’s either buying a hundred Angus burgers a day or flying to different parts of the country to visit other McDonald’s.”
“What?”
“That’s right. There’s two of them. He and his twenty-year-old cleaning hooker are seeing the Grand Ol’ U.S. of A.! They’re on their way to the Grand Canyon right now.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“No, Chelsea. He’s in great spirits and mailed me a poem he sent Mom thirty years ago that he wants you to put in your new book. He said he has a feeling he isn’t going to be shown in the best light, because ‘Chelsea has a tendency to confuse the details,’ and he doesn’t want to disappoint his fans. He wants to offer you the poem for a cool $25,000.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him that I’m thinking of a phrase that begins with an ‘F’ and ends with an ‘F.’ Would he like to buy a vowel?”
“And?”
“He did not want to purchase a vowel.”
SONNET TO SYLVIA III
(The poem my father wanted $25,000 dollars for, but never got.)
I would send roses, stars to my beloved,
bouquets sweet
and bar no lilies from her feet.
Oh, I would send thrushes and martins skyward.
Hers alone would I be: how sure of love
we, who see only one another;
such blindness like a wind-swept sea, becalmed
becomes a kindness soon.
The ships sail homeward seeking port.
Love, unskilled but true, moves onward,
lost in the wake of arms and kisses,
then awakening at last, sees itself.
Storms and seas and kisses run aground
only love that’s lost is ever found.