Civilisation ends at Cicero

[muckefuck]

So monshu and I just refinanced. It may seem a little silly to do so less than six months after the original purchase, but we cut our rate by more than a full point, so the savings will exceed the fees before the year is out. We used the same mortgage broker as last time--he called us, in fact. This is the guy, some of you may remember, who hired a limousine to take us to our closing out in the far burbs. I'd walk through water for him. It didn't go perfectly smoothly--these things never do. Last week, monshu e-mailed to confirm that the brokerage had all the necessary documents and was told they did. Of course, two days ago the processor e-mails us with a list of financial statements without which you will not be able to close on Friday. After I saw it, I confessed to the Old Man that I'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop. We got them together with a minimum of scrabbling and considered ourselves fortunate.

Tonight, I made a successful (if salty) frittata and we sat back to await the closer's arrival. Seven p.m. rolled around and there was no sign of the her. Fifteen minutes later, still nothing. I didn't have her direct number, so I looked up the title company and phoned. No answer. What kind of professional company doesn't have an answering machine? So I went hunting for our broker's number. I couldn't find it on my cellphone, but what I did find were three missed calls from a number I didn't recognise. I gave monshu a significant look and dialed it.

It was her alright, calling from Cicero and Devon--over four miles away. Nothing in terms of highway driving, but straight across Little India--a neighbourhood savvy Chicagoans will take pains to avoid driving through. She explained, "I was taking my time, because I hadn't heard from you and I wasn't sure if you two were back home yet". Now, there is a time for casual honesty, and there is a time for abject apology, and this was one clueless wonder who couldn't tell one from the other. But I held it in, confirmed her directions ("left onto Greenview, right?"), and informed monshu not to expect her for another quarter of an hour.

A few minutes later she called back, wondering if she had missed the turn. "I'm at Kildare...Did I go past it?" I was baffled; Kildare is only ten blocks east of Cicero. I thought I must've misheard her. "Did you pass Clark Street?" I asked; she said she had. Wait, how is that possible? Which way was she driving? "You're way west," I said. I pulled up the location on MapQuest and saw that she wasn't even in the City of Chicago. Finally, she confessed to me, "I don't really know the area, I'm from Oakbrook." At this point, I exploded. "Well, then, could you LOOK at a MAP? I'm sorry for being sharp with you, but do you have a map with you? Could you maybe pull over and STUDY it?"

monshu can confirm that at this point I was fairly livid. I went ahead and called our broker and every-so-politely sicced him on her. Hero that he is, he said, "I'm farther away than she is right now, but if you want I could come over and explain things to you." I told him to hold off until we knew whether she had her head out her ass yet or not. I heard from her a little while later and called him back to relay that she was at Clark and Devon. "Well, hopefully she can make the right turns and make it the few blocks to your place from there....Call me when she gets there."

She showed up fifty minutes late without so much as saying sorry, but with the chastened demeanour of someone who'd been chewed out. At that point, monshu had urged a cup of "Relaxing Tea" on me--spiked with maraschino--so I was able to be formally civil. Fortunately, a closing is a fairly straightforward and tedious endeavour and we could get by with listening stony-faced as she clumsily explained the documents held out for our signature. After forty-five minutes of this, we finally did get a half-assed general apology. Five minutes after that, the clueless idiot who's lucky to have a job was out the door and we had our house back.

Fuck, I need to do something about my anger management. Nothing about this evening was worth getting that worked up about.

Comments

[innerdoggie.livejournal.com]

Some people are really map-illiterate plus having no sense of direction. In their daily life they navigate by landmarks, but if they are going someplace new, they rely on recipe directions to get anywhere and have to follow them literally. Any mistake they make will not be corrected by common sense (like finding that they are driving in the wrong direction).

I can understand your irritation. A person in real estate should be a good map and geography person because THAT'S THEIR JOB! Otherwise, they should stick with a different profession where landmark navigation is sufficient.

[muckefuck.livejournal.com]

And if you know both that you're map-illiterate and you're going someplace you've never been before, give yourself some extra time. Better you have to cool your heels for a while than have clients wondering where the hell you are! (Not to mention the fact that you really don't know what the parking situation is in a given Chicago neighbourhood until you've been there--but, then again, this is one thing I suspect parking-spoiled suburbanites never think of.)

[bunj.livejournal.com]

It's still a big purchase (though they're coming down in price), but a GPS for your car isn't that expensive. Since it's for her job, she may even be able to get her office to spring for the one that talks.