20 days remain until my house is foreclosed upon.  Time is running out and so are my creative ways to express that factoid.  Strategies to avoid foreclosure ran out some time ago.  The flu bug buzzed in last Sunday night or Monday morning to pay me a visit whilst my immune system was asleep on the job.  I never get sick and I mean never.  The illness completely faked me out.  I thought the fog in my head and exhaustion in my body was just another bout of depression brought on by the upcoming foreclosure.  I’ve become so accustomed to waking up in the morning and talking myself into seeing the brighter side of life I was worried the ploy was failing.  I was about to force the brightness into my head by staring directly into the sun until my eyeballs burst into flames when I realized a sore throat is not a symptom of depression.  Thank goodness.  I hate the smell of burning eyelashes.  

As the anxieties of imminent foreclosure mix with the haze of retreating flu symptoms in my noodle I find myself staring at a For Sale sign in a neighborhood a few streets away from my own.  Here’s a photo of the marquee that summoned me along with my all too familiar poor judgment:

3 bedrooms and 2 baths!  It’s more space than I need.  Will anyone give me a loan?  Can I even swing the payment?  "Man, this place is awe-some," I unclearly think to myself.  “You should go back to your own soon-to-be foreclosed house, grab the cat and get his opinion. He’s finicky when it comes to architecture you know,” I blather as my camera snaps off another two photos

Click.

Click.

I’m not sure exactly where they’re hiding the 3 bedrooms but I assume one of the bathrooms is that trench in the ground and the other must be the bush on the left.  Doesn’t that technically count as a half bath?  My cat says the entire house is a bathroom.  Owning the world’s largest cat box must be worth something besides the joys of feeling cat poop between my bare toes.  Right?  “Hmmm… I better reconsider this property,” I say to myself.   And then it hits me.  I’m not standing on the precipice of this empty property as a prospective buyer.  I’m here to do a little sleuthing – Foreclosure Scene Investigating if you will.  F.S.I. Los Angeles is the television series otherwise know as my life.

The sad truth about the property is that it’s another foreclosure.  I remember jogging by months ago before someone bulldozed the house down.  Before the chain link fence went up.  Before the property was wrapped in yellow caution tape like some sort of crime scene.  Before the gargantuan foreclosure notice was posted on the front door for all passersby to gawk at.  It was one of those great, funky Hollywood homes in the midst of a remodel.  I remember when they laid beautiful Chinese multicolored slate on the long narrow stairs leading down to the front door.  It made me believe I possessed good taste because I laid the same slate on the staircase leading up to my front door… and surrounding my backyard pool… and the front porch… and-- Did you know you can slate a roof?  If I weren’t going to lose the house I’d foolishly consider the proposition.  Heck, I want to slate my entire street but the city and the neighbors refuse to chip in.  Cheapskates.  

The yellow caution tape surrounding the property was an especially foolhardy touch on the bank’s listing agent’s part. I live in a nice, safe neighborhood but foreclosure madness doesn’t discriminate.  The yellow caution tape was a proclamation to all would-be ransackers to have a field day stripping the copper piping, appliances, furnace, windows, AC unit and whatever else that was once worthless but now has value in this anarchy of economic times.  If it were me I’d be a little more creative and install a big traffic light stuck on green for "go ahead pillagers."  Desperate times call for disparate measures. 

Within weeks the house fell into rapid decay.  Windows were broken, the garage door removed and god only knows what else.  My curiosity was at odds with the gumshoe in me.  I had to know what that "what else" was but I also needed to gather clues to the foreclosure crisis mystery sweeping the nation.  Maybe there's room for both... maybe.

It’s June 2009.  My girlfriend and I are out for an early evening stroll to enjoy the golden hour of a retreating sun through the smog filled atmosphere of Los Angeles.  This is the first leisurely stroll I’ve taken in months and a welcome respite from the financial obsessing of late.  It feels luxurious yet furtive.  I liken the experience to not wearing underwear in church or walking into an important meeting with a cheese sandwich crammed in my pocket to experience the power of an absurd secret.   We pass by an empty, derelict house and gaze upon the edifice of yet another broken dream.  It’s in foreclosure.  The large notice on the door tells us as much.  This town, Los Angeles, corners the market on crushed aspirations as it chews up and spits out hopeful actors, writers, directors and artists.  Now it’s adding homeowners to the list.  

A lump forms in my throat and it feels as though Charlie Chaplin is riding a mechanical bull through a pile of hot sauce inside my stomach.  Foreclosure is a likely outcome to my financial predicament and this is what it will look like.  I can’t resist getting a closer glimpse into what the future may hold when I’m forced to abandon ship.  I'm a glutton for punishment.  We peer inside the front windows and survey the empty den, living room and dining room.  Brand spankin’ new, hand-scraped, wide-planked hardwood floors defy the ceiling's shadow.  Nice choice.  I put the same flooring in my house.  These people must have great taste because I like to believe I have great taste.  That’s not the only thing we have in common.  Whoever once owned this home are obviously my brethren in financial misadventure. 

I gaze beyond the flooring and discover a baby stroller left all alone in the expanse of the living room.  A family lived here.  A child lived here.  Now the yellow caution tape makes sense.  This is a crime scene.  The isolated stroller indicates there was no time or space to spare when it came to gathering belongings and abandoning the home… child in tow.  I do not know this family and I do not know their circumstances.  What I do know is that while messy and loud on occasion, children are incredibly sensitive little creatures.  They lack the capacity to fully comprehend the hows and whys of stressful situations like foreclosure.  I cannot fathom the duress this family suffered and the repercussions that will play out in years to come nor do I want to.  A crime has been perpetrated but my emotional attachment to the case makes it impossible to solve. 

As we make our way up the steep staircase I notice the empty crevices between the tiles of slate.  Someone didn't get a chance to finish the grout work.  That's okay.  Grouting is a pain in the butt and I’m glad when someone doesn’t have to endure the process.  It’s the only silver lining I can find in this family's sad situation.  Mad props to you, o homeowners of yesteryear.  

A month or two later the caution tape was replaced by a sterile chain link fence.  Shortly thereafter I jogged by to find the house replaced by a gaping hole in the ground.  Not even the foundation was left behind.  And now, as evidenced by the photographs above, a lone and hideous fence survives as final testament to the broken dreams of a homeowner.  I do not want this to become the fate of my house so I choose to stay until the bitter end if not to insure against the onslaught of pillagers then to ensure the memory of my own broken dream will somehow live on after I’m gone.   

As this Foreclosure Scene Investigation continues the terrain of scattered evidence befuddles me.  Some of it appears to be tampered with and the rest shows signs of contamination.  The results from the trace evidence lab won’t be ready for weeks and Lieutenant Brass is breathing down my neck for answers.  I have to come to a conclusion… and fast.  It’s time to go with my gut on this one and nail down the perpetrator of the crime… without bias.  

My conclusion?  

The bulldozer did it.