Somehow, dad knew he was in real trouble so he wanted to pay off the house for mom. I came home and took them up to the City Savings and Loan. He was wearing a short sleeve summer shirt with a plastic pocket saver full of mostly nothin’. He had on dirty pants and ink splattered shoes. He’d come directly from the factory. Mom dressed for the occasion. Put on red polyester flairs and a low-cut, yellow, knit, scoop-neck, tit bitch top. We marched into the bank and he proceeded to write that final check and get his little payment book updated and stamped. He proudly asked for the deed to “our place” and was informed by the rude and impatient teller that it would arrive by mail and that stupid bastard just looked at us like it was no big deal for trash like us to be “home owners” and somehow, god damn it to hell, no balloons went up or fire crackers banged, no banner unfurled to celebrate this great achievement (which we knew was a great achievement indeed . . . making that last payment) and dad just said “ok” and put the little book away and the pen back in the pocket saver and we turned to leave. But of course, mom unable to suffer her hurt in silence turns to the teller and says, “Vel, you coult haf at least given us a pencil . . . or a key chain.”