Brokedown Palace

After a fucking year on the market, Brokedown Palace is sold. I signed the paperwork yesterday and, what once was a proud abode overlooking the Mississippi River is now in the hands of, I think, the ex-wife of the dude that used to trim the English Walnut tree that was just outside of the dining room. The same dude that gave the ex a ride on his Harley after I moved out.
I made enough money to cover the mortgage and cover the expenses that I threw at it over the years. In short: I broke even. Understand, the town in which it was built is not the most frequented of spots. In fact, the town (and area) has shown a dramatic decline of the population thanks to people who move on to opportunities outside of the area. And let me explain, there are no opportunities within my former hometown. Unless you happen to have a meth lab in your basement.
Nonetheless, there is some scenery there and some history. But scenery and history only go so far, and so I relied on a couple of acquaintances to help me unload the property.
The first was a my divorce lawyer, a guy that happened to be the older brother of a friend of mine. The lawyer also lived a block away from the house, so when it came time to sock it to the ex because she didn't hold up her end of the bargain on the divorce, he seemed like a logical choice to help me deal with the legal bullshit surrounding the sale of the house. Apparently, timeliness and communication weren't part of his expertise; countless unanswered phone calls ensued as did a lack of urgency when it came time to get some paperwork filed before the closing of the house. I went boating with the guy on one occassion and learned that he was a Jimmy Buffett fan. The fact that he was a "Parrothead" should have clued me in, but since I'm a cheap prick, I opted to overlook this for the possibility of getting some friendly prices for his services.

The realtor who listed the house was actually the chick I took to the senior prom, many years ago. She was dating an older guy who ran the local stereo store and I was dating someone who's parents wouldn't let her stay out all night. For a couple of kids who viewed senior prom as an allnighter, it became clear that we needed to leave the romantic halves at home and go to the prom with each other.
The "theme" was "Can't Fight This Feeling" by R.E.O. Speedwagon, which was a step down from the prior year's "Just Between You And Me" by April Wine. Seriously, what feeling were they trying to fight? What the fuck does that have to do with prom? Anyway, the senior class had spoken and chose the theme, so I shouldn't be pissed that my (joke) vote for Kiss' "Heaven's On Fire" didn't win. Me and a few other people thought that would be a great choice, mainly because of the completely indulgent Paul Stanley opener on the song.
Understand, my decision to go with the pre-realtor chick was a completely superficial one: we were there to party. There was no chance/desire for hanky-panky. No drama for making sure everything went perfectly. The only drama was getting someone to buy us kegs of beer and then loading them up to a room at the Super 8 (life's great there!) without an adult noticing and calling the cops.
After the room, the beer, and the corsages were secured, we met up with some friends at a parent's house for dinner. It was one of those "Let us make you a fancy dinner so that we can take pictures of how cute you all look" type of events. If I recall, a bird pooped on the shoulder of one of my friend's tuxedoes while we were on the deck for obligatory snapshots. Now there's a Kodak moment!
When we were all set to leave, me and the chick decided to play Reeses Penut Butter Cups with our drugs (You've got cocaine in my weed! You've got weed in my cocaine! Shit, let's open up some Jack Daniels and make it three great tastes that taste great together!). Little did I know, my parents decided it would be a good idea to show up at the formal, right around the same time the cocaine paranoia hit me. That wasn't me smiling on those prom pictures Mom; that was me grinding me teeth.
The band playing at formal was unable to accomodate our requests for Black Flag and Dead Kennedy's songs. Christ, they couldn't even play "Heaven's On Fire." After a few quick slow dances and a few more pictures, we decided to head to the Super 8 where the beer should have been nice and cold.
We had reserved at least four rooms and it became a situation of musical parties at the Super 8, much to the chagrin of the other guests. About two in the morning, I went outside and passed out in a convertable Ford LTD. At three in the morning, the car began to move as we were suddenly transported to the local nightclub who had reserved the place for the benefit of the prom. I should point out that, by this time, I had no idea where my prom date was.
By six in the morning, we had retired back to the hotel in a futile attempt to get a few hours of sleep. When I say "futile" I mean that, by that time, a few of the hotel patron that had to endure the drunken tomfoolery of teenagers, now started to retaliate us by banging on the doors of our rooms. "Who the fuck is that?" I yelled, trying to get a few hours of sleep to help kill the oncoming hangover. I noticed that I was passed out in between a couple and wondered if I had drunkenly missed my only threeway. My friend went to the door and was immediately met by a very angry person who proceeded to chastise him/us for keeping her up all night. When I again asked who was at the door, without pause he turned to me and said "It's a lizard" before sticking out his tounge, mimicking the reptilian woman who continued to bark at him.
My lengthy point is this: me and the realtor lady had a history together. So I was hoping that this history would be more of a motivator to actually sell my home, despite the fact that a nice commission should be motivating enough. But no, I get all sorts of inept requests ("Maybe we should lower the listing price.") and examples of shitty work ethic.
But fuck it. It's sold. It's over. Now I can return to the community for the occasional visit as a former homeowner there, with more than a few stories to share.
Like this one: the 'Cocaine Senior Prom kegger at the Super 8 staring the Lizard Lady with music by R.E.O. Speedwagon' story.