Getting back on the horse
(This article, which first appeared in the
Japan Times of Aug. 30, 2008,
is reproduced here in Eyes on Japan by kind permission of the
author.)
They're not my family, they're not my
friends. They're . . . my "famuters" — those familiar
commuters who ride the train with me each and every day.
This
year's sublime fiasco with the sub-prime mortgage market in the United
States had made me wince at the plight of U.S. mortgage holders, even though
I am not one of them and I have but a buck ninety-eight invested in American
banks.
But
it's made me recall the rough years of Japan's real estate bubble, during
which time I had a house yanked from under my feet here in Tokyo. And I
didn't even own it. I was renting.
Until
then the bubble meant nothing to me other than fodder for humor columns. For
what is funnier than seeing a galloping economy screech to a dead halt, with
the poor rider being flung forward into the water trough?
Yet
all of a sudden I wasn't laughing. I had learned that the rider was me.
It
happened like this: My former employer suggested I get out of company
housing. Subtle, eh, putting suggested in italics. Quite unlike the daggers
in his eyes and decibels in his voice.
Anyhow,
I began to frequent realtor displays and in front of a quiet back-street
business in north Tokyo,
I found the house of my dreams.
Brick
veneer outside, wood paneling inside. Huge living room/dining room. Three
spacious bedrooms. Separate wing with two rooms and a kitchen, perfect for
my mother-in-law. Ample yard. Parking space. Five minute walk from the
station. Seven minutes from my kids' school. Partially furnished (with a jet
bath, no less) Plus. . . with a monthly rent sharply below anything else in
the neighborhood.
That
should have served as a warning. But a sucker is born every minute and my
time had come. At the moment my biggest worry was a kitchen barely big
enough in which to break bread. Fortunately, we ate mostly rice.
The
whole family loved it. Except. . . our dog. Who maybe could smell something
was up.
But
we ignored man's best friend and jumped through all the hoops with the
realtor, who introduced us to the "owner," a man was almost giddy
with joy. A few bows, some signatures and a greasy handshake later, we had
rented a home.
And
so . . . with frilly little hand towels as gifts we dutifully knocked on
neighborhood doors, Japanese-style, and introduced ourselves as the new kids
on the block.
Only
to have the neighbors stare at us like we were tree sap in shoes. They knew
what was coming. . . but took the towels anyway.
Yet
we settled in, all of us happy with our new home — except of course, the
dog. It lasted about a month.
Then
our furnished fridge conked out and the jet bath ran out of gas. We called
the "owner" for help and, no matter what the hour, the man never
answered his phone.
A
week later we had a cop at the door. He wanted to know if I was. . . and he
offered a Japanese name. Somehow he soon guessed I was not his man.
Who
it seems had been the real owner of the house, a true victim of bubble
trouble. He'd skipped out on a truckload of debts, with the law and his
creditors in hot pursuit.
"So
who owns the house now?"
Turns
out it was not our "owner." He was just one of the creditors, out
to recoup losses by renting a house he didn't own. A house that had just
been sold at public auction to a large real estate firm.
Whose
representative soon showed up with the requisite credentials. They suggested
we leave. It was a message I'd heard before.
But
I am an American and in such times Americans know what to do. We sue.
I
sued the realtor who had misled us and I sued our never-at-home
"owner," who found it harder to hide from my lawyer.
Both
men showed the requisite remorse. It was an honest mistake, they said. It
might have happened to anyone (stupid enough to fall for it). We then
settled out of court.
Not
a bad deal. We ended up living in the dream home rent-free till we could
find a new spot. The bad guys then paid all expenses for the move. And they
then sweetened the pot with a hefty damage payment.
About
which our lawyer — gentleman-like — said, "Don't worry about me.
You keep it all."
Until
I responded even-more-gentlemanlike with, "No, no, you should be
paid."
"Oh.
. . OK," he said. And then he took half.
None
of this properly describes the trauma we went through, the times the men
showed up suddenly to suggest we leave sooner, the "boy, are you
dumb" looks flashed at us by neighbors and the weeks and weeks of
desperately trying to find a place — any place — to house our family.
Finally,
we found a rental and moved promptly. In the end, the new place was, at
best, just OK. In fact, only one of us really loved it.
You
guessed it — the dog.
© Thomas Dillon for the Japan Times 2008. All rights
reserved
Editor's note: Sincere thanks to the author for
his kind permission to republish the above article, which first appeared
in his regular Japan Times column "When East Marries
West".
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