The First Step Towards the Rest of our Lives

Preston T. Schroeder

My heart pounds. Finally, after about 18 months of couch-surfing and homelessness, this might be it. I contemplate if this is the correct choice as I park my Mazda into the parking lot of my credit union, realizing that a significant chunk of my past couple of years' savings is about to disappear on my first major purchase; a roof over my head.

I nervously enter the credit union to fill out the paperwork on this chilly afternoon in late October, understanding the dangers of having this much money on me in cash. I insist upon slightly less than was asked on Marketplace, as I remain optimistic about the private seller going down in price after negotations, due to the larger duration of time the motorhome has been on the market. He seemed reasonable about stuff like that. Definitely somebody that I felt comfortable nagotiating with.

After receiving the cash from the bank, and hiding it in my brown leather jacket, I texted the seller and made my way to his house. It was a beautiful place in Eastern Texas. I stepped out of my car, into the starting rain. I felt the humidity at the bank, and understood the fresh scent even before the water started sprinting from the sky. I walked up, dripping from the weather, and gave a door two solid knocks as I waited.

I didn't know what to expect, as I had been communicating frequently with the seller through text, but hadn't yet laid eyes on him outside of a close-up Facebook profile picture. It's an understatement to say that I was pleasantly surprised whenever the door opened to a beautiful woman. She informed me that she was the wife of the seller and that he would be out shortly. In the time we waited, she walked me into the 1996 off-white Four-Winds motorhome, waiting outside for my tour.

I'd looked at half a dozen of these motorhomes in the past week, with at least 20 more weeded out since the beginning of my journey, but looking at this one, I knew instantly it was going to be my home. Still, I insisted on a basic inspection being done as the sellers wife and I talked about the vehicle, as well as adventures she shared with her husband in it before their kids started getting older.

We continued to speak before the front door of the vehicle opened again. In walked a shorter, stockier man with a shaved head and pointed chin, slightly resembling Hank, from the television show "Breaking Bad". I knew his face in an instant from his Facebook profile, but was caught offguard by his stature. This was the seller of the first place I will soon call my own. He was incredibly helpful over this whole process, answering any questions I had. As his confident stature already implied, he turned out to be a Navy veteran who currently works training financial advisors, and has a history at the university that I recieved my own degree from years ago.

The next couple of hours were spent in small talk, my asking of numerous questions about the motorhome, repairs that need to be made to it, and a basic inspection from the mechanic. I learned about a missing side door handle from a potential buyer opening the side door too hard, an electrical switch that got caught and broke off a while ago, requiring pliers to swap the power, and a dodgy "Break" light on the dash. Small fixes that some might see as problems, but I only view as personality.

After the inspection was finished, negotiations started. They were quick, as a mutual friendship seemed to be growing, allowing me to purchase for slightly higher than I wanted, and allowing him to sell for slightly lower. I appreciated our agreed upon price, so with the understanding that I requred a few days away for work in the morning, I went ahead and pulled out the paperwork, which we both signed as I transitioned a stack of cash to the seller.

And just like that... one less of the homeless. No more staying on friends couches, or working overtime just to sleep in my bosses office on cold nights and rainy days. No more brushing my teeth in the sinks at Wal-Mart or wearing the same pair of jeans every day due to lack of proper spacing. From now on, I have a closet. I have a kitchen. I have a bathroom. I have a bed.

Now to just make my way to the Tax Office...