The House of Life Foreclosure Terms

Chewing on a soggy cigar and swearing under his breath, Charles Vignor III sat in a barstool in the corner of the sparsely lit Nomad’s Cove, right next to the artificial neon lights of a tabletop gambling machine. Although not playing, he stared at the machine through his orange tinted glasses and squeezed his hands into tight fists. Bernelda, his wife, stood behind him with the stern look of a real fire and brimstone priest, staring directly at his greasy, curly hair screaming out the underside of his US Navy hat.

Bernelda thought about all of the god awful things she wanted to say, but bit her tongue. After a twenty minute pause she was able to squeeze out a few words, “Charles, I wonder why I keep standing here every weekend. I wonder why you’re a good for nothing selfish man. I wonder what you’re thinking, but I don’t care to hear.” Charles pretended to be involved with the video machine, but he knew he was running short of excuses on many levels.

While never turning to actually face what he called the ugly truth, Charles replied, “Bernelda, I told you last week, and I’ll tell you again, I thought I was doing what was best for us. Can you imagine what it would be like if it was a legitimate deal? Can you imagine that?” He swung his chair around, and it truly was painful for him to do that. He was face to face with what he felt like could have been his doom. A short jab, a back-handed knuckle slap, both possibilities at this point, but god forbid she would attempt the face blasting “bowling ball” which involved the thumb in the mouth and two fingers in the eyes.

Upon eye contact, Bernelda stared and stared some more, but said and did nothing. “I’ll tell you what you need to do. It’s simple even for a man of your talent. You go reverse that goddamned deal. You go tell him that you want to take it back!” Her voice increased considerably in volume by the end of the order, so much so that Klint Harlequinn, the bar manager, perked his head up while scrubbing glasses and stopped all movement. He turned up the music on the jukebox.

Charles slid his feet off the barstool onto the stained and flattened brown carpet and began the death march to the door. He gave Klint a head nod and bit down hard on his cigar, no longer fit for smoking or chewing.
“Sixteen bananas for the price of one.” Shouted Merton. “Sixteen for one.” He stood at the back of his fruit stand van and held up a ripe set of bananas. Charles approached and interrupted the sales pitch.”
“Listen Merton, I’m going to need my money back.
“Oh, sir, a deal’s a deal you see. I have six children to feed. How would that help me?”
“How about you give me say, 40 more bananas then? I’ll give you five more dollars and these double A batteries. They’re fresh.” Charles pleaded.
“I have to make sales. If you’re not going to buy more, then step off to the side.” Merton replied as he peered down the street searching for potential customers.
“Listen pal, my wife, you know, Bernelda? She’s going to hang me up to dry like the piece of jerky that I am if I don’t get this straightened out. We need that cash”
“You mean to tell me that sixteen bananas for the price of one is not a good deal? Holy Christ. What do you want me to do, cry or something?” Merton spit on the sidewalk and rubbed it away with his shoe.
“Well, Bernelda, I know for a fact she won’t cry, but she will come out here and stomp the both of us. She knows that sixteen bananas for ten dollars is a horseshit deal. I’m a poor sucker you see, and I’ll buy melons, peanuts, flowers, bird food, candy bars, lottery tickets or whatever if the sales pitch is thrown at me. Why wouldn’t a single banana be twenty dollars? I haven’t shopped for my own food in years, and last week I fell for the same thing. Do you know what it feels like to be in a place you don’t want to be? You can’t really explain it in total, and there may not be a good reason for it, but you feel it. Well, this time it’s not like that, I know damn well I don’t want to go back into that dive over there and face whatever horror music is playing on that jukebox. She’ll rip out my heart and use it for an alarm clock.” Merton stared at the foolish Charles. He smiled. “Sorry man, like I said, a deal’s a deal.”

He turned to pick up another bunch of bananas to pitch. Dropping the other bunch, he leaned over to snatch them up. Like a flash out of the left corner of Charles’ eye, the next deal was already done. Bernelda ran full speed like a panic stricken long-horn sheep and directed her shoulder into Merton’s neck. He flew forward with awesome speed headfirst into the van bumper. Two bananas were probably responsible for saving his life as they were pureed at the forehead level. Another fell just beneath his chin, unfortunately not able to save his teeth. Charles was proud of his Mack truck wife for a moment, and that feeling was actually projected through his fear.

Bernelda filled up two torn plastic bags with all the bananas they could hold, took back her twenty dollars and they walked away slowly. They ate banana cream pie for three months and Charles enjoyed it thoroughly, although Bernelda did bottle up some resentment towards bananas that she will likely take to the grave.