movies about architects

Sweating in a windowless office wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. My would-be mortgage broker sifted through a stack of new listings and old pamphlets, building up the ease of home purchase while muttering something about the the “gay Ansel Adams posters” in his newly acquired office. What I had dressed up for, what I had saved up years for, quickly filtered through a handful of standard salary and marital status questions that gauged my risk as a human being. Down the hallway, the Friday afternoon cleaning lady started vacuuming, and lines of empty cubicles sat in front of the western facing window wall, looking out at a packed freeway intersection, blasted by an early evening sun. I was low risk, he said. Actually it was more along the lines of “Dude, your credit score is bad ass.” The air system cranked back on, making me realize that it’d been off this whole time, off most of the time since the glass building had closed for the weekend.
Five minutes later it had turned back off, and we’d pulled up a hundred or so listings that matched my parameters that fit within the parameters that he’d offered me. Whatever I choose to pursue,  “I’ll be a bitch, but I’ll be your bitch,” which sounded exciting as I’d never had my own real estate bitch. Someone alongside who wouldn’t pull punches. Lender and realtor all in one.

My god, what have I done?