Saving Quarters

Sometimes you never grow up.  You visit your family on vacation and before long you end up re-enacting scenes from your rebellious High school days.  Your family sounds so nice over the phone.  You want to see them.  They want to see you.  You hope this time things will be okay.

The problem with my family, or with my Dad specifically, is that he loves to give advice.  Even if he has no idea what you’re talking about, he’s pretty sure he has a better way of doing things.  I watch him do this with other family members and pretty much everyone he knows.  Most people don’t seem to have the need to say anything or point out the obvious.  I’m not most people.  I have to say something.

My Dad is a tightwad.  My Mom says, “Remember how your Dad would take us all out for ice cream, yet told us we couldn’t spend more than 75 cents?  Things were cheaper then, but the only thing under 75 cents was a glass of milk.”  She’d have to argue him out of a couple of quarters, even then. 

She got tired of arguing him out of quarters and married someone else.  Now my Mom never worries about quarters or much of anything else.  I’ve never seen her so happy.

My Dad and his wife live in a house I used to own.  It’s full of character and right in the middle of the coolest part of the coolest town in California.  It’s on a busy street, which never bothered me, but has been annoying my Dad’s wife ever since she moved in.  She’s been campaigning to sell it for a decade and recently won out.  My Dad agreed to sell.

He agreed to sell because my Dad’s wife has a brother who said, “Sell your house and you can buy mine.”  If you know tightwads, you know they love a deal.  The brother’s house has no character, in a less than desirable part of town, but he wouldn’t have to pay realtor fees.  He was convinced.

He was also stressed out.  The brother told him, “If you don’t buy my house in a month, I know a realtor with a client who’s interested.  You’ve got one month.”

My Dad must have been very stressed out.  He has his realtor’s license but called one of my sister’s friends to sell it instead.  He knew how hard it’d be to get rid of a house that soon, even if the house was the best one I’ve ever owned.

This realtor is a strong woman with strong opinions, exactly the type of person my Dad needs but would never hire otherwise.  Even with her dynamic sales pitch, she couldn’t get my Dad to get the house ready to sell.  Like most tightwads, he has more furniture in that house that can fit.  You have to walk through tiny pathways around the seven couches in their living room alone.  The realtor suggested hiring a Presentor.

My stressed out Dad paid $3,000 to another strong woman to tell him to get rid of his crap.  He could have saved every penny if he’d listened to anyone who’d seen his junk mail covered desk, or even his wife.  Being stubborn can be expensive.

The Presenter also told him to remove the overgrown landscaping and put in a 10x15 lawn in the front yard.  He removed the brush and 32 ceramic bunnies and duckies his wife placed around the yard, then paid $5,000 for a lawn. 

To me, no lawn is worth that many quarters.  There’s a lot you can do with a rototiller and the $2 sale plants dying in front of Home Depot.  There’s a lot you can save, apparently, when you don’t let your yard get overgrown in the first place.  That’s cheaper still.  

This spending money thing is a side of my Dad I’ve not ever known.  First, he’s listening to a female realtor.  Second, he’s following her expensive advice.  $8,000 is a lot of quarters.  We could have gone out for ice cream every night for years with that.

My Dad and his wife were happy to brag about how much they spent to get the house ready to sell but they weren’t forthright about the actual sale.  We knew it was sold because we could see the sign in the front yard.  We knew it sold quickly because people told us, “I never saw a sign out there until I saw the ‘Sold’ sign, too.”

I couldn’t keep quiet.  “It must have been worth it,” I said.  “You sold it.”

“The first day the house was on the market, we got an offer,” my Dad’s wife said.  “Before we could accept, we got another one for $20,000 more.”

“We took the first offer,” my Dad said.  “We needed to sell fast and the second offer people weren’t pre-qualified.  It’s only money.”

You need to argue to get a couple of quarters for ice cream but $20,000 is ‘only money.’

“At least you get to move into your new house soon,” Charlie said.

“Well, no.  Not exactly,” my Dad’s wife said.  “My brother’s wife needed eye surgery, so they’re staying put for a while.  She’s had the one eye done, and after she recovers she’ll need to get the other eye done.  We can’t just kick them out.”

“The people who bought our house are happy to let us stay,” my Dad said, “but they’ll be getting $200 a day.  At $200 a day, I’d be happy to let someone stay, too.”

“What are you going to do?”  I asked.

“We’ll move into our old little cabin and wait,” my Dad’s wife said.  “They’ll let us store stuff behind their garage if we want.”

“You spent all this money to get the house fixed up and sold within a month and now you don’t have anywhere to go?”  I’m back in High school now.  I’m saying things no one else will say, but everyone else is thinking.  It’s not a good thing.

“It’s fine,” my Dad says.

“We can’t just kick them out,” my Dad’s wife says.

“No, of course not,” Charlie says.  “But don’t you have a contract with them?”

“No,” my Dad’s wife says.

“So they could stay indefinitely or sell it to someone else?”  I say.  “You took an offer $20,000 lower on the first day your house was on the market and you have no contract?”

“It’s fine,” my Dad says.  “It’s only money.”

Charlie shakes his head at me when I start to open my mouth.  He didn’t even know me in High school.

“Since you’re visiting, let’s take you out to lunch,” my Dad says later on.  “We know a good place not far from here.

We agree, get in our car and follow them.  My Dad parks about six blocks from the restaurant’s address.  He signals for us to park on the street behind him.

“You have to park out here,” he tells us.  “Parking is free.  If you park by the restaurant, it’s ridiculously expensive.”

“A quarter every fifteen minutes,” his wife says.  “Just to park!”

“I figure I can walk a few blocks if it means I save a few quarters.  The government is trying to get back all the money it lost spending on stupid programs,” my Dad says.  “I’m not going to help them balance their budget, no Sir.”

I’m not in High school.  I’m not in High school, I think.  I shake my head, bite my lip hard, and follow behind.  Charlie looks over at me, trying not to laugh.

“He’s lost at least $31,000 selling his house,” Charlie says, “but thank God he’s saving a quarter.”

I’m ordering ice cream.

A little help? [] 6:37:13 PM