Read Online The Subprimes by Karl Taro Greenfeld - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karl Taro Greenfeld
Ads: Link
the fault of the borrower. If those subprimes had been so witless as to be unable to read a damn contract, then whose fault was that? Not the banksâ. Blaming the banks would be like blaming the weather. Sure, they were greedy and ruthlessly profit-driven and served no other master but shareholder returns, but thatâs what they were supposed to be. Banks acting any other way would be like rain falling upward.
There had been, for a few precious months before the defaults and the foreclosures and the repossessions, the first stirrings of what might be called a community: Mrs. Villablanca walking her dog and waving to her nearest neighbor, Mr. Gonzalez, who lived four yet-to-be-sold houses away. It seemed that it was only a matter of time before those houses in between filled in and a little town would flourish. There would be block parties, families sitting around, having tamales and carne asada . A few residents even planted trees, stunted, barren ficuses and acacias, forlorn-looking in the dry, sandy dirt next to the concrete foundations.
Long before there were developments and highway systems, those hardy, misguided pioneers who wandered through this territory on spindly horses choking on chalky sand would have shuddered at the thought of even bedding down here, miles from water, miles from shelter, miles from shade. Yet here they were, the first few dozen of what the developer promised would be a community of many thousands, hooked up to the grid, stealing aquifer water from farmers upstate. There would be a school bus coming through every morning to pick up little Juan and Mariaand deliver them to a fine K-through-12 just sixty miles away. It was a version, however dry and withered and sand-choked, of the American dream.
SARGAM, OF COURSE, HAD ARRIVED long after the Villablancas and Gonzalezes had moved out, loading what they could into their listing minivans and pickup trucks and making their way south and east, to try their luck in Arizona or New Mexico or Texas. They were probably picking fruit, Sargam imagined, and maybe they were even thinking of their time in Valence as the finest of their lives, when they almost had a home in an almost-community. That may well have been the last time when almost was good enough, when almost middle class, almost happy, almost satisfied, and getting almost enough sleep and almost having the car you wanted and the spouse you dreamed of was enough to get you an almost decent life. That era had closed. Now there were only those who had everything, and the rest of us who had nothing.
Sargam came to Valence on a battered white Yamaha with clanking saddle cases and a creaky seat. The bike was coated in dust and leaking oil from the crankcase and fluid from the rear brake lines. Sargam had coasted down the off-ramp from the highway on fumes and parked in the first driveway she saw, a cracked, paved spit that fronted a boarded-up three-bedroom. She slipped off her helmet, shook her black hair loose, and studied the row of similarly abandoned houses; she knew she wasnât alone. She heard a dog barking. Heard a hammer banging a nail. Could sense in the too quiet that others had paused mid-task and were watching her.
She leaned her bike on its kickstand and slipped a water bottle from one of its cases. Took a drink, poured water over her face,and whipped her hair sideways to see from the corner of her eye a little girl peering at her from around the corner of the next house.
When she turned to look directly, the girl was gone.
Sargam had been to a hundred abandoned exurbs like this. Most of them had become the refuge of meth cookers, krokodil mixers, their customers, and those who didnât mind being in their company: smugglers, illegals, fugitives, subprimes who had given up. But other exurbs became inhabited by those who wanted communities, subprimes who didnât have the credit score required to pass a job screening, to rent a proper apartment, subprimes whose bad
There had been, for a few precious months before the defaults and the foreclosures and the repossessions, the first stirrings of what might be called a community: Mrs. Villablanca walking her dog and waving to her nearest neighbor, Mr. Gonzalez, who lived four yet-to-be-sold houses away. It seemed that it was only a matter of time before those houses in between filled in and a little town would flourish. There would be block parties, families sitting around, having tamales and carne asada . A few residents even planted trees, stunted, barren ficuses and acacias, forlorn-looking in the dry, sandy dirt next to the concrete foundations.
Long before there were developments and highway systems, those hardy, misguided pioneers who wandered through this territory on spindly horses choking on chalky sand would have shuddered at the thought of even bedding down here, miles from water, miles from shelter, miles from shade. Yet here they were, the first few dozen of what the developer promised would be a community of many thousands, hooked up to the grid, stealing aquifer water from farmers upstate. There would be a school bus coming through every morning to pick up little Juan and Mariaand deliver them to a fine K-through-12 just sixty miles away. It was a version, however dry and withered and sand-choked, of the American dream.
SARGAM, OF COURSE, HAD ARRIVED long after the Villablancas and Gonzalezes had moved out, loading what they could into their listing minivans and pickup trucks and making their way south and east, to try their luck in Arizona or New Mexico or Texas. They were probably picking fruit, Sargam imagined, and maybe they were even thinking of their time in Valence as the finest of their lives, when they almost had a home in an almost-community. That may well have been the last time when almost was good enough, when almost middle class, almost happy, almost satisfied, and getting almost enough sleep and almost having the car you wanted and the spouse you dreamed of was enough to get you an almost decent life. That era had closed. Now there were only those who had everything, and the rest of us who had nothing.
Sargam came to Valence on a battered white Yamaha with clanking saddle cases and a creaky seat. The bike was coated in dust and leaking oil from the crankcase and fluid from the rear brake lines. Sargam had coasted down the off-ramp from the highway on fumes and parked in the first driveway she saw, a cracked, paved spit that fronted a boarded-up three-bedroom. She slipped off her helmet, shook her black hair loose, and studied the row of similarly abandoned houses; she knew she wasnât alone. She heard a dog barking. Heard a hammer banging a nail. Could sense in the too quiet that others had paused mid-task and were watching her.
She leaned her bike on its kickstand and slipped a water bottle from one of its cases. Took a drink, poured water over her face,and whipped her hair sideways to see from the corner of her eye a little girl peering at her from around the corner of the next house.
When she turned to look directly, the girl was gone.
Sargam had been to a hundred abandoned exurbs like this. Most of them had become the refuge of meth cookers, krokodil mixers, their customers, and those who didnât mind being in their company: smugglers, illegals, fugitives, subprimes who had given up. But other exurbs became inhabited by those who wanted communities, subprimes who didnât have the credit score required to pass a job screening, to rent a proper apartment, subprimes whose bad
Similar Books
