Loan Modification

“You good with kompyutaz?” Sasha demanded. “My friend is a genius with kompyutaz, he says you can find anybody through some website.”

There are some websites that index people’s information, but I don’t have much faith in pay sites. If the contact info’s not out there, I figure, it’s not going to be after you pay for it. Still, Sasha was doing a good job and, aside from the in-your-face vulgarities, seemed like a nice enough guy overall. I agreed to crawl the Web a bit in search of…

“This fucking bitch who took my money. She used to fuck my brains out. Then, one day, she disappeared with my money.”

“That sucks,” I commiserated. I soon learned that the real problem was not the little money she took, or the “fucking lesbians” she cheated on Sasha with, exposing him to an elevated risk of contracting STDs. It was the fact the she was twice as smart as he was, and used that brain to file loan modification papers with his lawyer. “Obama passed the law,” he explained, allowing people at risk of default to work out their loan with their banks. The girl helped him file the papers, then absconded with her master’s degree, newly minted job in finance, and a gaggle of bisexual bedmates who were not Sasha.

The least I could do for the guy was help him cyber-stalk this cruel woman. He had her phone number but knew she wouldn’t pick up. He suggested that I call her posing as a headhunter in order to get her mailing address, an idea I quickly shot down following a flashing mental image of my deposition by her attorney. “Isn’t it true, Mr. T–, that you called the deceased under false pretense the day before she was run over in front of her building by a Home Depot van?” the fictional lawyer demanded.

The first thing that came up was her LinkedIn profile, which listed her current job on Wall Street, the start date of which roughly coincided with her exodus from Sasha’s Staten Island home. I said that he could pursue a search through her employer, but that this was risky. Which it was. Suddenly, this guy’s very real problem turned into a concrete goal–the kind I usually lack–and various possibilities starting running through my head.

“If you can help me, I’ll hook you up,” Sasha promised while  running an electrical wire along a wall.

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Ex-Soviet immigrant turned wanna-be scribe. I bite off more than I can chew, but at least I've got good teeth.

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