Word to the wise, don’t buy a house unless you like sleepless nights, gambling your money or train to become a masochist. During the whole buying process I felt like James Bond. Not the ‘double oh seven’ scene where he’s having a shootout with bad guys while drinking a martini. Shaken, not stirred of course. No, this was Daniel Craig’s “James Bond”, where the bad guy ties him up in a bottomless chair and repeatedly strike his balls with a knotted rope.
The last paperwork that was required to get the house of our dreams was a statement from my cable provider that said I was paying my bills on time. After many failed attempts on having a phone conversation with the peons of the Company-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named, I was stonewalled by endless hours of muzak. By sheer frustration, I started to make up lyrics to the tune of wanting to collect all the dog feces from my neighborhood and deliver it to the company’s doorstep. I hanged up in frustration and decide to attack the dark castle at first light.
The castle was unceremoniously small which stink of bureaucracy. My lovely wife came along in not the best of moods. Although I wanted this house, she dreamt about it nightly and picked every single detail that went into our future domain. She was so furious about this last obstacle that she didn’t even bother to get dressed. She came in a nightgown wrapped by a jacket and pink house shoes.
Looking at my significant other, with her bright alabaster skin and blonde hair the first impression that many people make is that she is just a mousy Caucasian woman. No one suspects her Cuban lineage. I’ve realized in the many years I’ve been with her, that within her facade lies a beast, that when unleashed, darkness falls. I call this creature “The Werecuban”.
Seeing the long line inside the building I heard the critter inside my fiancé growl and I watch her argue with the woman behind the counter. She whirls around with a feral look and stares down the line of people and shouts, “Alright everybody, I want your attention!”
And in an instant I was in a bank robbery and I’m the getaway driver. I felt the tension down the line and even saw someone flinched. And I myself stepped back and flashed back to the movie ” Dog Day Afternoon” staring Al Pacino.
Pointing furiously at the counter The Werecuban snarled, “These people have been giving me the runaround all week and I can’t close my house today without documents from them! Is it okay if I cut in line?”
The crowd nodded their heads and sheepishly say in unison, “okay.”
Grabbing the printed out documents from the grunt like a stack of bills, we jumped into the getaway car. As we drove away from the crime scene, I turned to her and said, “Baby, I’m glad I’m on your side .”