The House We Bought and Lost

singing the bungalow blues

Oh shit, oh fuck, I am that friend. I am that friend who spends two hours in a town and gushes, “I could LIVE here!!!!” Mexico City, Amman, Myrtle Beach, a tiny paradise off the coast of Sicily, I! COULD! LIVE! HERE! Of course, a girl has no home. And though womanhood is mostly a shady, opportunistic handshake I’ve made with God, in the absence of home, I am at home everywhere, if only in my elastic mind.

I recently found a note on my phone from 2018 describing Sicily and MDMA as the only things I’ve ever known to “live up to their hype.” I have since become more optimistic, amassed experiences that, too, fill my heart with joy and wonder beyond expectation (hello, marriage). But I have also screwed myself by remaining a romantic looney toon, catching feelings for things and places before they fully materialize.

Enter: the Magill Avenue bungalow.

We’d been driving around for months, vibe checking every town with a train station until realizing, quite profoundly, that southern New Jersey was where we should become homeowners. If I tell you my feelings about New Jersey, you’ll probably be a dick about it. But I’m going to tell you anyway because sticks and stones etc. Plus, I owe it to Philip Roth. 

There are people who move to New Jersey to settle down and tune out the noise. It is, after all, America’s suburb—a soporific expanse of strip malls, a caffeine slap of road rage on the Atlantic City Expressway. But there are also people, like me, who move to New Jersey to stop sleepwalking. To live out the dreamlike nostalgia of their existence. Because New Jersey is a warm bubble of Americana. You’re always an hour max from the beach, and on every corner, there’s a pizza shop, a bakery, or a diner. In Mount Ephraim, you watch a blue-collar union guy teach their kid how to drive a truck. In Haddonfield, a nanny is paid to do the same, except the car is a Benz and the kid is a terror. There’s something for everyone in New Jersey, provided you’re not the type of dork who thinks dunking on it is a flex.

I’d never felt so connected to the neighborhoodiness of a place before. A little 70’s California. A little preppy, old money New England. A little Philly trash. On the idyllic grid of bungalows and Cape Cods, I got the sense that the quotidian could be extraordinary.

It was a breezy and flowering spring day when we pulled up to the bungalow on Magill Avenue in Collingswood. A little boy wobbled past me on a red trike, his dad trailing behind him, smiling, young, baseball cap and flannel shirt. The lawns all had that professional touch. And there it sat: the 1000 sq. ft. I prayed for. It had a periwinkle door and a stained glass window. I saw myself on the porch, writing the book that actually gets me somewhere. Saw my need for “getting somewhere” shrink as I built this normal New Jersey life. The fantasy was stringing together like popcorn garland before I’d even stepped foot inside.

And inside, it was bright. We smelled pot and giggled about it. The kitchen was brand new, white marble. I hated the floors, that pale vinyl imitation of hardwood. “We’ll tear those up first thing,” I noted long before knowing it was ours, but still, somehow, knowing it was ours. There were huge windows all around and enough sunlight to make a jungle of the place. I already knew precisely the blue-and-white paisley wallpaper I’d use for the accent wall—the rest, a warm peach. Yes, I saw it coming together with embarrassing immediacy. There was no central air.

The two bedrooms were tiny. The tenant used one as a closet. I ran my hands along the metal clothing racks, just to see if I could ascertain whose existence unfolded there before me, what kind of pot they might smoke, the energy stored in the walls. It was kaleidoscopic floor to ceiling, Free People and expensive denim. Statement earrings and strappy sandals and Frye boots. A sign above the door that read, “La Stanza della Principessa,” the princess’s room. A fauxhemian Italiana! I wondered if we could be friends, if she could pass me the torch to this place—the one that illuminates those dark first nights of wondering whether we made the right decision. Wondering how we would, one day, fit a crib in there.

On Zillow, the Magill Avenue bungalow was aptly tagged with the words “backyard oasis.” There was way more yard than we needed and thus, it was ideal. “We could easily put an edition on. Maybe make it the master,” I mentioned, standing over the koi pond. How one resists watching their life play out from somewhere with a koi pond, I am not sure. I saw it all and I wanted to tell everyone on earth. I got to yapping right quick. “There will be so many post-run cigs smoked and books written from that porch,” Monica said in the group chat.

The day we found out our offer was accepted, Rachel was over and I was cooking us all dinner. Braised cannellini beans in blistered cherry tomatoes with ricotta, basil, and crusty bread. Andrew had stepped in the back when the realtor called, and emerged from our bedroom with the news. “We’re fucking homeowners.” We freaked out and threw our arms around each other. He picked me up. Rachel took pictures. It was a moment I’ll hold onto forever. The day we thought we cracked the code that unlocks the next phase of life.

As the process moved along, I had my doubts about the size. Andrew seemed so sure, though. And so I became sure. So sure that the Magill Avenue bungalow, small thing it was, expanded in my mind. It was all I thought about all day, every day. I lived on Pinterest. I researched the costs of putting on editions, and finishing basements. I asked friends for their contractors’ contact information. I mapped out my run course around Knight Park to Cooper River Park and back. Parks on parks. This imaginary life was verdant and breathless. I was my fittest. All my shorts fit again.

Signing the contract seemed to thrust upon Andrew an unfamiliar doom. He became edgy and panicked, made me look like a rock when the opposite has always been true. I recall the shallow breathing. I recall the 1000 “what ifs.” I recall the hesitant acceptance of a very big mistake. But we kept moving forward because we just did the impossible: we bought a house. Together. As a married couple with a realtor and a mortgage broker and an inspector. We fingered our initials on DocuSign. I spilled the beans. Everyone was happy for us.

When Andrew found out I posted the news to my Instagram story, he was pretty annoyed. 

“I thought signing the contract meant it was a done deal!” I whined. 

“No. We still have to get the inspection. Stop telling people.” 

I deleted my story, but continued squeezing this little fact—HEY, WE BOUGHT A HOUSE!—into every conversation, especially with friends who also planned to leave the city. In any case, we shared priorities. Clean air and a parking spot. Space for the dog to run. “Building equity” (no clue what that means). And whenever I felt frustrated or grossed out by Philly’s many frustrating and gross phenomena, I reminded myself: three more months.

I’ll keep the outcome short because we all know where this is going. The inspection revealed the house needed a new roof, among other fixes. And without getting into the numbers, you should know that it would have been in the seller’s best interest to make the repairs. Her lawyer and agent both described her as “one of the most difficult clients they’ve ever had,” and when all was said and done, said they planned to drop her. She did not agree to make the repairs, but instead, offered us a $1000 credit. Andrew had picked me up from work and told me in the car. I think he expected me to take it worse than I did. There was shock, sure. And sadness and confusion. But I remember laughing from a place of incredible lightness, like the obsession had broken and exploded into a swarm of butterflies. We requested to dissolve the contract. She agreed. We’ve already redeposited the down payment.

The most potent image I had of the Magill Avenue bungalow was of Andrew and I dancing in the living room. It’s not like we dance often or anything. I just think I hated the floors so much that I believed dancing might suffuse them with the kind of love that renders them beautiful. And so we may not have anywhere to live come July, but at least I have the wisdom to say I got better shit to do with my time than waltz across some ugly floor beneath a leaky roof. 

Thank you, universe, for having our backs. Maybe hit 'em with the foam roller while you’re back there.

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