Project Flipadelphia: The Fish Bowl

My palms were sweating as I gripped my paddle up in the air. Her eyes, the auctioneer, darted to mine faster than a bullet on crack. And her team started making their way with the mic pointed at me like I was magnetic. 

"Which one?"

Oh crap. Which house do I want? I have 24 on one hand and 31 in the other. 31 looks like piece of crap, 24 looks less like a piece of crap but 31 has its own private canal. 

"Which one, dad? I turned to my father who had his arms crossed. 

"Whatever, just pick one." Just moments before, he had declared he could buy one with just the watch on his wrist.

Ok. Whatever, he said. He doesn't care, I don't care. Right? My mind spun, eyes darting through every detail-- square footage, foundation facts-- never having seen either of these properties in person. It was futile. This was useless. JUST PICK ONE. 

"24"

"Proceed to the signing table over there, someone will help you." The deed was done. 

At the signing table, a sleezy looking young man asked me to sign my initials here, here, here, and sign here. I did so hesitantly, not sure if I had made the right choice. The dust hasn't settled, maybe I could still undo it! Waiting for the paperwork, I watched as the last houses were snapped up for as little was $19,000. 

As I left the building, I walked toward my car knowing that the rubber has hit the road. I've entered the fish bowl.