You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

TWO HOUSES

Marieanna called to tell me that she knew a man who wanted to sell two rundown houses in North Portland. She understood that I was interested in such an investment. “Sure, I replied, I would like to see them.” She told me his name, Terrell, and his address. “He doesn’t have a phone, ” she said. “I will tell him that you will be coming by. He is usually home.”

A couple days later I went to see him and the two houses. It was around noon on a sunny morning in the Fall of 1988. I approached the battered steel door of his place in an abandoned workshop on Mississippi Ave. I knocked, and after a few minutes, the door was opened just enough to reveal a slender African-American man in boxer shorts. He had a tattered beige blanket draped around his shoulders. Apparently, he had been asleep or perhaps, he was strung out on drugs, or both. He glowered at me, adjusting to the bright sunlight and the surprise of seeing a white stranger standing at his door. I introduced myself and asked, “Do you know Marieanna?” He uttered a grunt, which I interpreted to be an affirmative response. “Marieanna told me that you may want to sell your houses.” He nodded and said “I’m Terrell.” as he opened the door and gestured for me to come in.

The space I stepped into was almost dark. The only light in the room came from two windows with yellowed newspaper taped over them. The room was about 20 feet wide. An old refrigerator stood in the middle. To my right, I saw dirty dishes and fast food containers tossed in and around the kitchen sink. The only furniture in the space was a mattress and near it a folding chair. He flopped down on the mattress and gestured for me to sit on the chair. While reclining and leaning on one elbow, he told me “My father fell while stripping the roof off the big house. While in the hospital he learned that he had lung cancer. He had worked in the shipyards during the war. He died a few months later. He left the two houses to me and my brother. That was two years ago.” I asked if he would show me the houses. “Go look for yourself,” he said. “But the apartment above this shop is rented. You can’t go in there.” As I turned to leave, I saw him fall back on the mattress as if relieved of a heavy burden.

From the outside, the storefront and apartment above it looked to be sound, though in need of reconstructive carpentry and paint. The “big house” was a different story. This two-story wood frame house sat up on a bank elevated about 7 feet above the street. It was apparent that the foundation was failing. I opened the door to step in. The linoleum floor was littered with debris including lighters, syringes, and other drug paraphernalia. There was a musty smell of rotting wood and moldy plaster. It was apparent that the two years without a roof had caused extensive damage to the place. Plaster had fallen from the ceiling and walls. The upholstery on an old couch was tattered and moldy. It was difficult to make my way up the narrow winding stair to the second floor because of broken treads and a layer of plaster and other debris on them. The condition of the second floor was worse than the first. The only pleasant thing about it was the sunlight that penetrated the spaced sheathing of the missing roof. I left wondering why I would want to be involved in such an overwhelming project.

I thought this project would be too much for me to undertake by myself so I called my friend John who had wanted to invest in real estate. As we spoke his wife overheard our conversation. Realizing that we were talking about investing in North Portland, she interrupted saying “No way we are going to spend our money on that crime-ridden neighborhood.” John quietly said, “Well that’s the last word. Will you do it anyway?” “I haven’t decided.” I replied, “It‘s a big undertaking.” I estimated the value of the houses if repaired and rented. I estimated the cost of rebuilding them. The difference left enough for a lowball offer.

A week later I went to the shop to give Terrell my offer of $20,000. for both houses. His response was “Not close! You gotta do better’n that.” I told him that the inordinate amount of work which the houses required, would cost more than they would be worth. I said “20,000 dollars is all that they are worth to me.”

Over the following year, Terrell called occasionally to demand that I raise my offer. I always declined. Over that period I had nightmares in which I would be stuck in a dirt-floored, moldy basement of a dilapidated and collapsing building. On, what I thought was his last call, Terrell said “You better raise your offer ’cause I’ve got another buyer.” Again I declined. telling him “If it’s a better offer, you should take it.”

The year passed without another call from Terrell. I presumed he had sold the houses. The houses were gone from my thoughts and nightmares. It was mid-morning of a beautiful Fall day the following year. I was looking forward to having lunch in the garden of the Arts and Crafts Society, with a lovely friend, Norma, when the phone rang. On the other end was a man’s voice saying “OK. I accept your offer.” I didn’t know who he was, or what he was talking about. Perhaps it was a wrong number. He continued “Have the twenty thousand in a cashier’s check and meet me at Tico Title, 4:30 this afternoon.” It was the number $20,000 that jarred my memory. I asked “Is this Terrell?” “Who else?” he replied. “Will you be there?” In that instant I thought “Oh no”, I’ve got to decide right now. Was I morally bound by my offer of a year ago? I had never withdrawn it. “OK” I replied.

I didn’t have 20,000 dollars available. I spent the rest of the day hitting up family members for a loan of the few thousand that I was shy. I completely forgot about my lunch with Norma.

At 4:30 I entered the offices of Tico Title. There I found Terrell seated at a desk across from the agent. They were going over closing costs and the resolution of outstanding debts, such as unpaid taxes and utility bills. There was a sullen-looking man seated against the wall behind Terrell. I said hello to Terrell and the agent. Terrell turned, gesturing towards the mean-looking man, and said “This is my brother Billy. He just got out of prison and wants his share of the house money.” Without changing his steely expression, Billy acknowledged the introduction with an ever-so-slight nod of his head. The transaction was surprisingly quick. I gave my check to the agent. We signed papers. And it was done. As we left the office, Terrell raised his arms, tipped back his head, and hollered a loud whoop which echoed in the empty foyer of the office building. It was a surprising shout of joy that struck me as strange coming from a man who had just sold two homes for twenty thousand dollars.

On my way home to my apartment, I stopped at a newsstand for the early edition of the Oregonian. That night after dinner I settled down to read the paper. There, on the third page, was a short description of how the police had raided and evicted drug dealers from a house in North Portland. No names or addresses were given in the article.

I thought “This could explain the rush to sell without further negotiation and the shocking war whoop.” In the morning, on my way to work, I drove by the houses. They were empty with plywood nailed over the doors. On each house was a large orange sticker with the words:

“This Building is CONDEMNED by order of the City of Portland.”