He looked away. “Where’s the boat?” he demanded, looking at his salesman.
“Sheriff’s impound dock, South Substation.”
The broker looked genuinely shocked. “What?”
“The Sheriff’s dock. Down past the Bay Bridge.”
“I know where the damn dock is. What are we doing with a boat that’s impounded?”
The salesman shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
“Never mind,” snapped the broker as he gave his young protégé a dirty look. “You can fill me in on the way over there. Grab the camera,” he ordered. “We’ll follow you over in our car if you don’t mind.”
We were already halfway out the door.
What had been a doable project in my mind suddenly looked hopeless as we all climbed on board. The broker and salesman agreed they couldn’t believe something this fucked up could still float—the weight of the barnacles alone should have been enough to pull her under. I didn’t say, “I told you so,” because they realized it immediately. The boat was a disaster. A dozen 35mm frames later, they were ready to go.
As we headed back up the ramp, Jennifer politely asked the broker, “What are you going to tell the bank?”
“That they should seriously reconsider your offer.” The salesman could see his commission slipping away. “We’ll get these pictures developed and over to them right away, see what they say, and then we can talk. Would you be willing to go to a somewhat more realistic price?”
“Would you?” Jennifer asked.
“Yeah, well,” the broker mumbled, looking away, “I’m assuming we have your number.”
We didn’t expect to hear back from them.
Some folks say the two happiest days in a person’s life are when they buy a boat and when they sell it. I’d pretty much resolved myself to the fact that the brokerage and bank were in bed together and had already figured out a way to collect on the insurance, rather than accepting some ridiculously lowball offer like the one we’d tossed at them. But I just couldn’t stop thinking about her.
“What are you guys going to do with a boat anyway?” one of the waitresses asked me at Hodad’s the next day. Word had gotten around quickly.
“We’re planning on turning it into a floating brothel,” I said, teasing her. She was a little hottie, and guys were always hitting on her. “Know anyone cute enough who might be looking for some honest work?” It was lunchtime, the place was packed, and the grill was going full speed. I pushed a couple of guacamole burgers towards one of the new girls who wasn’t sure what to think about our rapid-fire conversation.
“You’re a perv,” the hottie retorted. I smiled, nodding in agreement. “Dream on,” she said, both of us enjoying the light-hearted banter. “Where’s my double-double, Dickwad?”
“Coming right up. Sure you don’t want to think about getting a real job?”
“And give up all this?” she said. “Get rid of Jennifer, and I might just give you one.”
“Promises, promises,” I told her as she grabbed her burgers and headed out of the kitchen.
Passing Jennifer coming in, she added, “Your boyfriend is a sicko.”
“That’s only one of the reasons I love him so much.”
Approaching the grill with a new order, Jennifer knew I’d been teasing the waitress. “You’re going to make her crazy if you don’t knock it off.”
“She can take it. Here’s your Cobb, dressing on the side and a chicken Caesar.”
As I turned my attention back to the grill, I wondered, what the hell are we going to do with a boat, anyway? The whole thing was an impulse. One of the things that had me thinking was how quickly I slipped back into hardcore negotiating with those brokers. I’d left that life in Seattle and was determined never to go back. But I didn’t plan on flipping burgers the rest of my life, either.
“Adam and Eve on a raft, and wreck ’em,” barked another waitress. And so it went. Life at Hodad’s.
A few days later when we got home from work, the light on the answering machine was blinking. The agent had left a message for us to call him as soon as possible. “The bank got back to us about the boat. They want us to call them,” I yelled out to Jennifer.
After the third ring the receptionist picked up the line. “Douglas and Douglas Yacht Brokers. May I help you?”
“This is Corey Phillips. I’m returning Bob’s call about the old Drake.”
“One moment, please. I’ll connect you with Robert’s office.”
After a short pause, Bob came on the line. “Mr. Phillips, thanks for getting back to us. We’ve received an interesting counter-proposal from the bank.”
My pulse quickened. “How much?” I asked.
“As I was saying, the bank came back with a very reasonable counter offer, one that we feel is more than fair.”
“How much?” I repeated, louder than before.
Shakily, he continued. “Well, after reviewing the photographs we sent over for review—”
My hope was turning to anger. “I asked you a simple question. How much?”
“One hundred and ten thousand.”
I hung up.
Ten seconds later the phone rang. “Mr. Phillips?”
Recognizing the broker’s voice, I said, “We’ve got nothing to talk about.”
“Please, just hear me out. I think they’d be willing to listen to any reasonable counter you may have.”
“I already made a reasonable offer.”
“Come on,” he said pleadingly. “Twenty thousand dollars for a sixty-footer?”
I knew he was right. No executive board would want to have to try and answer to their stockholders, or explain to the IRS for that matter, why they let an asset once valued at close to a million dollars go for twenty thousand bucks. “Okay, you’re right. You’re right, Bob.” I loved over-pronouncing his name. “I’ll go twenty-five.”
There was silence on the other end, so I added, “If they accept it, fine. Call me, and we’ll close. If not, don’t call me again.” A long pause followed. I waited patiently.
Finally the broker said, “I understand. I’ll present your new offer and get back to you within seventy-two hours.”
“Only if they accept. Otherwise, leave us alone.”
The bank didn’t take long to make a decision. The next night when we got home from work, there was another message. “Offer accepted. One condition … you accept the boat as is, how is. Please call at your convenience.”
I nearly bounced off the floor, my whoop of triumph reverberating through the house.
Jennifer came around the corner. She took one look at me dancing around like an idiot, and threw her arms around me. “Well, now what are we going to do?” she asked, with a big grin on her face.
We’d gone back to the boat after