So let’s recap.
Willie wanted to open a joint bank account with me, and Indy bought unusable land in Texas back in the 1960s.
On my second attempt to help Willie open a bank account at the Temple of Doom, I discovered Willie had misplaced her driver’s license.
We had to replace the driver’s license so we could open the bank account. I sat down at Willie’s computer and logged onto the PennDOT website.
Willie and Indy went about their business. That’s the nice thing about having a personal assistant. You can tend to your day while your peon handles the scut work.
Now, we need to talk about Willie’s desk a minute.
Willie’s desk is chaotic. The phone is there, and the base has been flashing “95” – as in, there are ninety-five voicemails on the answering machine – for months. There’s also a coaster that appears to be permanently sealed to the desk.
I’m not sure what is sealing it to the desk. But you can’t open the paper tray for the printer because the perma-coaster is in the way.
Speaking of paper.
Willie loves stacks of papers. They dot every surface in the Temple of Doom.
Including the desk. Especially the desk.
So when I sit down to conduct Willie’s business at Willie’s computer, my Obsessiveness short circuits. The Towers of Terror paper stacks and sticky coaster and blinking numbers crawl up my spine like the tarantulas in Raiders of the Lost Ark.
Navigating the PennDOT website with my Obsessiveness screaming for me to get out like it’s the demon in The Amityville Horror was about as fun as an encounter with an actual demon.
When I arrived at the portal to pay for Willie’s new license, I asked Willie to bring me her credit card.
“WHAT DOES SHE NEED?!” Willie yelled at Indy.
“SHE NEEDS A CREDIT CARD!” Indy yelled back.
“SHE’S RIDICULOUS!” Willie yelled at Indy. “THERE’S A CREDIT CARD RIGHT ON THE DESK!”
The Temple of Doom is only about 600 square feet. I’m not sure why Willie and Indy A) were yelling and B) didn’t know I heard them call me “ridiculous.”
There was, indeed, a credit card on the desk. How I was supposed to know it was acceptable for me to use this credit card, I don’t know.
Once I was done impersonating a DMV employee, I sat Willie and Indy down to update them on Indy’s two properties. I’ve been in the process of selling them for about nine months.
The Maryland property is going swimmingly. All I had to do was hire a real estate agent, talk to Queen Anne’s County, fill out two forms, talk to Queen Anne’s County again, hire an engineer, shell out $2800, talk to Queen’s Anne County a third time, go to FedEx, and wish the real estate agent a happy Thanksgiving when he texted me on the last Thursday in November.
Easy-peasy.
Texas is just a straight-up problem.
If I trust Google Earth and OnX, Indy’s Texas property is flat-out desert. No utilities service the land, and no real estate agent sells it.
I investigated my options for unsellable land.
I have none.
I could refuse to pay taxes, to have the county or state or Area 51 repossess the property. But the taxes are so minuscule – my kids could pay the bill with their allowance – it would take generations for the debt to become great enough for El Paso to care.
The lack of utilities also makes donating the land a no-go.
The only thing I can do is pass the property down, generation to generation, until we’re in The Jetsons and desert becomes livable space.
Don suggested I change Willie and Indy’s will to leave the land to a relative I don’t like.
I suggested this to Indy and Willie, too.
“Well,” Willie said, “why don’t we just transfer the ownership of the property to you?”
So now I’m not just ridiculous. Nobody likes me either.
I pointed out that Willie and Indy do, in fact, have other kids. Maybe we should talk to them? See if they want the land?
“No. We’ll transfer ownership to you,” Willie said.
“No,” Indy said.
“No?” I asked.
“No,” Indy said. “You have all those refugees coming in from Afghanistan and Haiti. Give it to them.”
I’m not sure how I was supposed to tell thousands of refugees from two countries they could share a spot of land in west Texas just big enough to build a house upon. I also wasn’t sure how to tell them their new digs lack water, electricity, cable, neighbors, a functioning police department, streets, schools, supermarkets, traffic lights, a roof, and walls.
“Um, sure,” I said, because I have a tough time telling Indy he’s the one being ridiculous.
“Or,” Indy continued.
“Or?” I asked.
“Or, you can give it to Alec Baldwin. He probably can’t film his movie anymore. Let him film it there.”
“Uh, OK,” I said.
Then I left. I just left. I’m not sure how I got from opening a bank account to international relations to Alec Baldwin. But I did and I needed to leave because I didn’t want it to get worse.
I also had a lot to do, what with needing to contact the State Department, Alec Baldwin, Immigration, and maybe the president.
And, of course, I still hadn’t opened the bank account with Willie.
That came the following week. Willie was present and accounted for when Wednesday morning rolled around. So was her driver’s license.
So we trekked to the Garden Level of the Temple of Doom, where the bank pops up every Wednesday morning from nine to twelve. We were early, so Willie chatted with a fellow Temple of Doom resident who was also waiting for the bank to open.
Willie introduced us, explaining that she and her friend were in the Temple of Doom’s drama club together.
Yes. The Temple of Doom has a drama club. The Temple of Doom also IS a drama club.
Willie and this friend exchanged gossip. Apparently, a fellow member of the drama club had done a one-man performance in which she said “goddamn.” Willie and her friend thought this was offensive.
And said so.
To this poor lady’s face.
In front of everyone in the Temple of Doom.
That is just goddamn ridiculous right there.
After we opened the bank account – success! – I mentioned this drama club friend we had been chatting with to Willie.
“That woman is not my friend,’ Willie hissed.
“Why?” I asked. I mean, I’m only human. The gossip around the Temple of Doom can be quite lurid. I was hoping for a juicy story.
“Because. She was sitting at the bar at happy hour last week and she didn’t save me a seat.”
Like I said. Drama-goddamn-club.
“Maybe you should leave the Texas property to her,” I suggested.
But Willie was still bent on giving it to me. In the hierarchy of people Willie likes, I fall below the lady who refuses to save Willie a seat.
Days later, Willie would tell me that she, Willie, is doing a skit about being flat-chested.
“That’s less offensive than saying ‘goddamn’?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” Willie said.
“Is there a part for Alec Baldwin?” I asked.
Willie didn’t think I was funny. So I’m really getting that Texas property now.
Maybe I’ll open a bar. A bar where Willie always has a seat. A bar where little old ladies can say “goddamn” and stacks of paper are banned.
Or maybe I’m just being ridiculous.