I promise I’ll get to the electrician story soon. But Indy and Willie visited Indy’s property in Maryland last week and, well, you should know the story.
Back in his Marine Corps days, Indy was stationed in Quantico. Sometimes North Carolina. At one point, his parents moved from Delaware County to Rock Hall, Maryland. I’m not sure if the Rock Hall house or the weekend commutes between his base and Philadelphia led him to Chester Harbor, also in Maryland. But something did, and he bought some land there.
Indy also, by the way, bought land in El Paso, Texas. And Las Vegas. He’s not so much a Rockefeller as he is a slumlord. The Las Vegas property was seized by eminent domain. I don’t think he’s been to the El Paso land in my lifetime.
And before last week, Willie and Indy hadn’t visited the Maryland property in fifteen years. But they’re trying to sell it, a kind attempt to minimize the work I, as executor of their estate, will inexorably carry out one day.
Nobody asked me. But I’d rather deal with selling land later than deal with, say, a four-hour wait at Quest Labs. A chaotic move to a new apartment. A story about my conception I should never, ever know.
But like I said. No one asked me.
I asked Willie to send me pictures of the property. I was curious. What does a property, neglected for fifteen years, no caretaker, no one willing to buy it, look like?
You know those news stories about neighborhoods with empty tracts of land, neglected by the owners, abhorred by local residents?
I think the Maryland property could maybe be one of those stories.
Willie, unusually dutiful, sent me the requested pictures. The first was a snapshot of my brother’s car floor.
That’s how things roll with Willie. Mick Jagger often assures me I may not always get what I want, but I just might find I get what I need. If Willie is involved I’ll get neither.
For Christmas one year, I asked for a creamer set to match my Pfaltzgraff dishes. Instead I received the appetizer set because Willie said she remembered I already had the creamer set.
I didn’t.
The next year, I asked for the serving bowls, having bought the creamer set myself.
Yep. I now have two creamer sets.
Another time, Willie asked for gift recommendations for Don. Don is not greedy like me. He wants nothing but to be left alone. Ridiculous, Willie said. She wanted gift suggestions. And no. Gift cards didn’t count.
Don had just returned from El Paso. He was pretty heavily into Toby Keith. He had a few of his CDs. I told Willie which CDs Don already owned; anything besides those would be good.
We have duplicate Toby Keith CDs.
Also, we can talk about Don’s man-crush on Toby Keith another day.
Last weekend, Willie and Indy showed up for my niece’s drive-by birthday. Their car had been plastered with 8-1/2 by 11-inch sheets of paper, each with an individual letter. Together, the sheets were supposed to read “Happy Birthday”. Instead, they read something more like “Hp irdy”.
Some of the letters had fallen off en route to my sister’s house.
“Willie and Indy are always a hot mess,” I said, rolling my eyes at Don.
“Since the day I met them,” Don concurred.
So I was in no way surprised by the picture of my brother’s car.
The next picture showed some kind of squat metal pole backed by a very scraggly tree.
The third picture showed more scraggly trees, a desolate patch of dirt in front of them.
I groaned, showing Don the pictures. Don asked if anyone lived nearby.
Willie’s pictures didn’t show any immediate neighbors. But then my brother texted me a few pictures.
More denuded trees and landscape. And then…..yes. Houses.
Indy’s property is square in the middle of a neighborhood.
“You know those neighbors hate your parents,” Don said. Before I could agree, he asked me for the address.
“Why?” I asked.
Don has an app for hunters. It shows property boundaries. It helps hunters to hunt in the right place. Don wanted the Maryland address to plug into his hunting app.
I mean, naturally.
As I scrolled through the pictures, Willie and Indy being Willie and Indy on one side of me – metaphorically – and Don being Don on the other side of me – literally, I sat in the middle, wondering if anyone around me could just not be so them for, like, an afternoon. Give me a password when I ask for it. Cut a sandwich like a human being.
Don’t worry, guys. It gets worse.
My brother’s last picture was of a cat.
So Indy owns a property, neglected since the 1950s, swaths of dead land and trees dotting its landscape, and – the coup de grace – feral cats.
I’m glad my brother drove my parents to Maryland. I’d rather irate neighbors know his license plate number than mine.
My brother reassured me it was just one cat, which appeared to be owned by a neighbor. I felt better. In my imaginary war with the neighbors I supposed to hate my dad, I fancied Indy the less culpable combatant. Are dead trees worse than letting a cat roam outdoors?
If Willie owned the property, I’d say the dead trees are worse. But Indy owns it. So the cat is worse.
After the trip, Willie called me. She was convinced my brother had taken them to the wrong spot. Even though her Realtor confirmed my brother’s cartographical prowess.
Later, my brother texted me. He was incredulous it took him fifteen minutes to convince Willie they were in the right place.
As usual, it was up to me to break the bad news. I was forced to tell him she still thought he took them to the wrong place.
So what happens now? Willie and Indy continue in their effort to unload the Maryland property – dead trees and all. I’m sure the El Paso place is next. I don’t want to see it. If Indy can’t maintain foliage in a watershed, there’s no way he’s maintained it in a desert.
Willie called this morning, asking if her TV has brackets on the back. It’s part of the electrician story I owe you.
If you have advice – any advice at all – on how I can get the land barons of Hatboro to drop their bid to unburden themselves of barren properties and instead focus on whether their own TV has brackets, I’m happy to listen.
And if you’re headed to western Texas, call me. I have some land I’d like you to visit.