The Saturday Morning Post

Craig Bengle, Washington Bureau Chief

I don’t think I’ve gotten off to a good start on a Monday morning in years.

This past Monday was no exception.  Barefoot and bathrobe clad , I sauntered down to the end of the driveway to pick up the morning paper.  Imagine my surprise when I was greeted by a prim, young woman with clip board in hand and a disposition that was sunnier than it ought to be at that time of the morning.

“Mr. Bengle?” she chimed.

“Yes, that’s me.” I said, pulling the knot on my robe a little tighter.

“My name is Marjorie Williams, and I’m from the Federal Housing Finance Agency.”

“That’s great,” I said.  “What can I do for you at 6:30 a.m.?”

“Well, for starters,” she pulled out a form, “you can write me a check made payable to the U.S. Treasury in the amount of . . . of . . .  here it is, $1,243.36.”

“A check for twelve-hundred dollars?” I protested.  “You have the wrong house.  I already paid my property taxes this year.  I can prove it.”

“Actually, this is not about your house, Mr. Bengle,” she said assuringly.  “This is about keeping Mr. Peterson and his family in his.”

“You mean that guy down the street?,” I asked.  “That guy with the boat in his driveway, and that collection of ATV’s in the front lawn?  What in the heck do I have to do with him?  I barely even know him.”

“I guess you must not have heard the bad news,” she said.  “Mr. Peterson and his family have a bit of a problem.  They bought their home under the “No money down, Nothing to lose” program from Countrywide Mortgage and got a subprime, adjustable rate loan as well.”

“Yeah, so what?” I asked.  “Isn’t he also the guy who put that addition on to his house and dropped in a new pool last year.”

“Yes, that’s him.  Exactly right,” she pronounced.  “Well, there’s a bit of a problem we need your help with.  Apparently Mr. Peterson, who I assure you is a very nice man, and such a lovely family, also took out a 2nd mortgage on his home to pay for those little improvements and the-”

“ATVs?” I asked.

“Yes, yes.  All five,” she murmured.  “Anyway, the Federal Housing Finance Agency has decided that it would be preferable for you and five of Mr. Peterson’s closest neighbors to pitch in $1,243.36 per month for the next three months to help Mr. Peterson with his mortgage payments.”

“Are you kidding me?,” I fumed.  “Why in God’s name would I want to do that?  It’s not my fault that he’s overextended.  I mean, he’s the one who-”

“Did I mention the fact that Mr. Peterson’s “underwater” and owes more on the house than it’s worth?” she asked.   ”Would that change your mind?  I mean, its really pitiful.  He bought the home for $550,000 and now it’s worth only $195,000?”.

“Mam, I don’t care what his house is worth.  Maybe, maybe” I stammered, “maybe he shouldn’t have dug the hole for that pool in the first place.  Maybe he shouldn’t have bought all those-”

“Listen, Mr. Bengle,” she said impatiently.  “I have a lot of houses to visit today.  There are over ten million homeowners in Mr. Peterson’s situation, and that’s a lot of ground to cover in these heels.  If you don’t act and help us now, and I mean right now, Mr. Peterson’s home will join the ranks of the over 1 million that go through foreclosure this year.”

“What do I care?” I asked incredulously.  “It’s not my house.  It’s not my fault and it’s just not fair.  Take his stupid house.”

“This is not about fairness,” she declared.  “In fact, it’s for your own good.  If you don’t pay up the bank will have no choice but to take the Peterson’s home.”

“Great,” I said.  “I wouldn’t mind living next door to a banker.”

“That’s not how it works.  Do you think the bank is going to mow the lawn?  Clean the pool?  Paint the shutters?  We are talking major upkeep here, Mr. Bengle.  The bank just can’t afford that.  And believe me, when the bank’s good and ready, they’ll sell Mr. Peterson’s house for less than the price of that bathrobe you’re wearing.”

“They can’t do that,” I exclaimed. “His house is nicer than mine.  That will make my house worth . . . worth . . .”

“The underwear you’re wearing, Mr. Bengle?” she noted triumphantly.

“But I’m not wearing any underwear,” I pleaded.

“That’s my point, and by the way, that was evident from twenty feet away, sir,” she grinned.  “So, now, if you will, I’d like that check, please.”

“I guess I have no choice,” I said dejectedly, “This is all so unusual and so unexpected.  You would think the government would just raise my taxes instead of having me argue with you in my driveway.”

“Oh, the tax increases are coming too,” she stated flatly.  “You have four neighbors within a block who can’t make payments on their cars from General Motors.”

“So?” I said.

“That bail out’s next,” she whispered.  ”So we’re going to need some help from you on that as well.”

Copyright 2008 The Saturday Morning Post – All Rights Reserved