Fifteen minutes before our appointment to close on the house, we pull into a tiny parking lot with cracked and buckling asphalt.  As we get out of the car, the sun hot and bright in our eyes, we assess the decrepit building in front of us and, as we head towards the front door, debate whether it’s from the 1950s or the 1970s with its geometric exterior and faux wooden panels; the inside of the building is as quiet as a graveyard and smells like somebody’s grandmother.  The elevator is mirrored, and reeks of feet.  I concede that the building is from the 70s.

We find the title company’s suite and knock.  As the door opens, we see a cramped two-room office.  The front room is decorated lavishly with a giant desk buried under stacks of papers, a creaky dark leather tufted loveseat with a matching chair, and giant paintings with antiqued frames.  The one person in the office nods at us and continues to work on his computer, facing away from the seating area; after a few awkward moments, my husband comments on how quiet the building is.

Just then, we hear a moaning from next door. That kind of moaning.  The kind of moaning that makes me wonder exactly what kind of business is housed next door.  Then, a man’s voice says, “OH. MY. GOD.”

A few seconds later: “OH. EM. GEE.”

My husband looks at me, I look at him and we quickly focus on our iPhones, trying not to giggle although my eyes tear up a bit from the effort.

I glance at him and he rolls his eyes and mouths, “OH. EM. GEE” and I let out a gigglesnort.

Meanwhile, the Title Guy is either oblivious or completely ignoring us and the mysterious moaning man.  Maybe he’s used to it — or maybe he just doesn’t have the humor of a fourteen year old boy.  I raise my eyebrows at my husband as we’re escorted to the “conference” room in the back and, on that note, we begin the forty-five minute paper-signing marathon.

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