A Thousand Times No

This month has been a marathon. It began not with a bang, not even with a whimper, but the quiet rustle of me standing up from my chair.

The Philadelphia Sheriff’s Office put the house I was hoping buy on the block in early June. The winning bidder in a Philly mortgage foreclosure auction must pay 10% of the winning bid on the spot as a deposit fee — in cash, or a cash equivalent like a bank check or a money order. That’s where it gets interesting.

If you’re trying to bid on a single property, a cashier’s check is not a viable option. You have no idea what your winning bid might be, and you’re left with no out if your bid is unsuccessful. (Trying to redeposit funds from an unused cashier’s check after it has already been made out to someone else? You’d probably have an easier time putting a newborn baby back where it came from.)

Walking through the city with a five-figure sum of cash tucked in my pocket? Terrifying and ridiculous on too many levels to contemplate.

This leaves money orders, which you can obtain at your neighborhood post office for an economical price. After spending a good long time in line, with about 60 minutes left before the onset of the auction, I was in for a surprise from our friends at USPS. If you want to obtain more than $2,999.99 in money orders, you need to fill out a form that lists your date of birth and your Social Security number. “Can’t you do this without my SSN? You’re not checking it against anything,” I said. No, they told me, I’d have to complete the walking identity-theft worksheet or stop just shy of $3K.

At this point, one of my contact lenses was causing my eye to water uncontrollably. I’ve never had that type of problem before or since, but I’m sure I was the picture of credibility as my hand continuously fiddled with my left eye.

With the clock ticking down, I returned to my own bank. Of course, they would issue me money orders — for over three times the price charged by the Post Office. And they would do it slowly. Really slowly. After they filled forms. Lots of forms. A thousand dollars at a time. Tick, tick, tick.

And no, throughout the entire branch, there was not a single box of Kleenex for my eye, which at this point was going haywire. A teller brought me a giant wad of toilet paper to daub my eye while I waited for the money orders to be drafted. Of course, I worked my way through the TP long before the bank worked its way through the MOs.

I eventually got out of the bank branch with money orders in hand, walking several blocks to the site of the auction. By the time I arrived, the auction had started, but they still needed to move through dozens of other lots before reaching mine. It was a strangely muted affair that day, with an unusually high number of properties being pulled off the block before bidding began. There was also relatively light bidding over the properties that did go up for sale.

Shortly before the auctioneer reached the property I was waiting for, a 10-minute recess was called. By then, my left eye had morphed into a natural spring. I walked into the bathroom, pulled out both disposable contact lenses, and tossed them into the trash. I had neglected to bring along a pair of glasses as backup, so I wandered back to the auction room in a nervous, myopic haze.

The auction itself passed in a blur, but not because of my eyes. When the writ number for my desired property was called, I stood up, as all bidders are expected to do. Moments after I rose, over a half-dozen other people stood up from their chairs as well. Developers all, circllng like sharks. Within mere seconds, the bidding had blown past the maximum amount I was prepared to pay — and kept going strong until it was a full 70% beyond the absolute limit I had set for myself, posting one of the highest prices of the day.

To summarize: No USPS money orders, no Kleenex, no contact lenses, no house.

There are also no words for the relief I felt once the whole business was over. Having a month’s cool-off time since I originally prepared to bid on the house made me realize just how much I enjoy living right where I am. Kansas it ain’t, but so what? There’s no place like…