Juneteenth Mortgage Montage in Blue

by Marcus Wicker

June 19, 2021

When I wish my herbalist an early Happy Father’s Day

he responds with fist bumps, tucks a twenty in my cupholder

& replies: Thanks! Happy Freedom Day, bud. A field of cash crops

shy of forty irrigated acres. But fuck it—I deposit the rebate.

Last week, I threw a heart on a listing not three seconds after

it posted. & in the seven minutes it took to brush my teeth,

change out of sweatpants & speed to East Memphis

it ghosted me. Vanished, into real estate purgatory. Contract Pending.

I arrived just in time to watch an agent ink the sale

on the hood of her milk white Mercedes. These sellers want blood

from a turnip for rotting floorboards. & a bus station beeping

in the driveway. Reader, this has altered my sense of what’s possible.

Fridays, I’m the cranky Sommelier of Zillowland. Hammered off vintage

or ethical sourcing. Our jovial realtor lifts his brow; gestures at a golf ball-

crack in the ceiling & pronounces it a beauty mark. “Strictly cosmetic.”

I lean in for any mention of provenance—a footnote that never arrives.

At an open house in midtown, I tease my fiancé, Let’s hold out for rehabs

that scream: Welcome, desegregated household! Does this wonky wainscoting

say Loving v. Virginia to you? Eliminating craftsmans, cottages, bungalows.

Anything Colonial, Medieval, Georgian, Victorian, or Gothic. Leaving us

ranches. Prefabs & McMansions. Certain grandma & gingerbread homes.

Type Neoclassical Revival into Redfin. Then imagine a dim bulb

swinging above a toothy huddle of ad men, colluding to erase “plantation”

from the dictionary. This morning, our coiffed blonde loan officer asked me

Do you have access to family money? & you’re thinking: Cue deluge! Rented mule!

Here come the amber fields of pain. But I’ve been trying not to rhapsodize

tragedy. Tonight, I’ll raise a plastic chalice to ownership. & dig my Nikes

into earth, where I’ll dream lush gardens. Of money plants, marigolds & herbs.

Leafy mint to snip & muddle with choice bourbon. On a granite kitchen island

designed for hosting breezy derby parties. Because fuck it—

I hustled slow. Bled turnips from a page for it. Now I’m trying to close

the deal on a thirty-year bond for my children’s speculative freedom.

I write the realtor, “What else can you sell me? Is there anything left for us to see?”

He texts back a ghost emoji. A small crop of tumble weeds.

An empty lot, on a cracked street, named after the mortgage broker’s family.