V: In Which I Start to Think About Where I Will Live Next

To a man with neither wife nor job, the prospect of relocating conjures a staggering range of options. With none of the conventional restraints binding me, I can literally move anywhere; Amsterdam or Aukland, Belize or Bangkok, Tuscany or Tuscon, the only restrictions are my willingness to adapt to a new home and my ability to find work when I get there.

And yet, I am pretty much committed to a most prosaic choice: staying in or around Durham, NC, a town I have grown to love over my nine years here. True, this isn't exactly the publishing capital of the world, but then again I've never worked locally anyway; all my work emanates from New York City. The combination of New York wages and a Durham cost of living has allowed me to weather lean work periods in the past. That's a comfortable situation, so I'm loathe to make any change that involves a huge increase in my expenses, as would relocation to any big city in the Northeast (where, sadly, most publishing jobs are). And fortunately, there's a good chance that I'll have a pretty steady gig come September, one that would allow me to live wherever I please. I please Durham, please.

The next big question is whether to stay in my current home or move. "Move" is the obvious answer, for a lot of reasons. First, I don't need a 1650 square-foot house, as I no longer have to worry about giving someone else space. My dogs don't seem to care how much space I give them; in fact, they generally stick close by, especially around meal times, or when they are farty and want to share, which apparently is whenever they are farty. Second, this is the house where our marriage went kaplooie, so being here doesn't exactly inspire cheery thoughts. Furthermore, my future ex-wife did the decorating, creating an even more constant reminder of her and our failed marriage. All I need is "The Grand Tour" playing in the background to complete the picture; thanks, no. Finally, staying here means I'd have to buy out my wife's half of the house, meaning we'd have to agree on a fair price. Anyone who has had to negotiate with a future ex will understand my saying that I'd much prefer to let the market make that decision for us. Our negotiations have largely been amicable, but they've still left me very much wanting a couple of stiff ones when they were over, and I'm sure she feels the same way.

So move it is. For the past few weeks I've deluded myself that moving would be easy as pie. I convinced myself--on the basis of no evidence whatsoever--that selling the house myself would be no problem and that there is absolutely no need to get a realtor involved. I've also searched the real estate listings online and found quite a few cottages and bungalows in my price range in what appeared to be good neighborhoods.

Yesterday was reality check day. First, I went to the library and checked out several books on house selling. It is not so easy as I had hoped, turns out. Apparently, banks and the government and all other sorts of folks get involved in a house sale, and they are quite particular about what needs to be done, and when. I still think I can do it--heck, my future ex and I bought our current house from the owners without involving a realtor--but I also now realize this is going to be labor intensive. And that's assuming I can get buyers' attention in the first place; I won't be able to get an MLS number, so my house won't be listed on any of the most popular real estate sites. I'll start with an ad at craigslist and see whether that gets us anywhere.

One delusion down, one to go. It was time to take a look at all the houses that had looked so good at realtor.com. All I did yesterday was view them from the outside, but that was enough to eliminate most. One was in a neighborhood with many, many "House for Rent" signs, which I took as a bad omen. Several others were on lots that appeared to be slightly smaller than the foundations of the houses themselves. On the plus side, that eliminates the need for a lawn mower; a scissors would suffice. On the negative side, my neighbors would practically be my roommates. I need more privacy than that. Yet another house was located on a street that, I subsequently learned, was notorious for gang activity. Now, there are many different kinds of activities. Softball is an activity, for instance. Drug dealing and murder are also activities. Sadly, gangs are not so big on the former and are quite keen on the latter two. It appears as though I need to rethink my price range.

My trip yesterday was a bit discouraging, but it did yield some valuable insights. From now on, whenever I see a photo of a house that is in extremely tight close up, I will know it is because the house next door is six inches away and the real estate agent doesn't want me to know this. Does he think I won't realize it when I come to view the house? "Jeez, that wasn't in the picture! Ah, well, then, it'll probably be gone tomorrow. I'll take it!!" Second, one should be suspicious of real estate ads that don't include pictures of the backyard. It probably indicates that the backyard is either a (a) swamp, (b) landfill, or (c) operational abattoir. Finally, beware of ads that tell you a property is "practically" in the neighborhood in which you want to live. I first encountered this ruse in New York City; "Come live in a refrigerator box along the Gowanus Canal. It's practically Park Slope!" The same principle applies in Durham, where neighborhoods can go from livable to die-able very quickly. Caveat emptor.

After readjusting my expectations, I found an online ad for the perfect home this morning. It had only listed the day before, so I called the realtor to arrange a showing, only to find out that the house had already sold. In the future, I must remember to inquire about the good houses before they go on sale. Of course, that will require my going door-to-door in every Durham neighborhood I'd like to live in and asking folks whether they're planning on selling their homes anytime soon.

That'd give me something to do until that steady gig arrives in September, I suppose.

So there you go.