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The call came Monday. From Lou Kagan, his lawyer. All the paperwork had gone through. The credit checks had come out OK. Any questions abut why he was paying in cash were resolved. The co-op was ready to close.
It was the start of a busy week, as Knox was also working on his next column. Fact was, the column was easy. He picked a topic he knew well. Batman. In this case, the public perception of Batman, in comparison to Commissioner Gordon and Mayor Borg. His chat with Steph Brown helped him bring things into focus, though everything she told him about her Batman was useless. Sometimes, it's not the words but the thoughts that help.
He couldn't help feel a bit distracted, though. At week's end, he'd be signing the papers. He'd be turning over the cash. He'd be fulfilling the American Dream, or at least the urban version. It was daunting. He would be a property owner.
And he'd be living in Bristol. In Suburbia. OK, it was just outside the city and didn't feel any more suburban than the few nice neighborhoods inside the city limits. But he was leaving a place he'd woken up to most mornings for 15 years. Of all the changes in his life, this was the one that got to him most. Magic bars? Princesses with beautiful hair sharing your bed? Friends with superpowers, and teenager warriors? Eh. That was just people and just a bar. This? This was Leaving Gotham City. This was, to be melodramatic, Starting Over.
He walked a lot the week before the closing. It was nice in the city (though the rains were moving in by Friday), and he decided that he might actually miss these grimy, crowded streets. Not that he wouldn't be in the city all the time. His friends were still here, as were the newspapers and the library. But he wouldn't come here. Not to the grocery store and the deli and the newsstands and even the really rotten alley he never, ever walked down but always peeked into. "Face it, Allie," he said to himself," you're getting nostalgic in your old age. Better cut it out."
Thursday, PM published the column. It was (by his standards) rather thoughtful. Supportive still of Borg, it tried to make sense of why Gordon's stock was rising, why Borg couldn't buy a break, and how the man in the bat costume seemed outside such things just by wearing a bat costume and never talking to the media. This column didn't raise much of a stir, though Vicki Vale loved it and told him that Bruce Wayne thought it was "smart". (Is Bruce calling something smart a compliment?) Knox bought a dozen copies, earmarked 10 for his friends at the Bar, and celebrated with drinks at Murray's.
He was too nervous to chance going to the Bar. He didn't want to be Bound with 12 hours to go to the closing. He missed the place (and Raps, and his friends), but he knew where he needed to be.
Friday afternoon, at 1 pm, Alexander Knox wrote the largest check of his life, as well as several smaller ones, and signed more sheets of paper than he thought any one man ever could. The lawyers for the co-op and his lawyer conferred, stamped and dated all the papers and the checks, and made it official. Knox now owned a two-bedroom apartment at the Burton Arms at 27 Brubaker Avenue in Bristol, Jersey, USA.
After it was over, he stood outside his lawyer's office and studied the keys. Tomorrow, he would go and take possession for real. For now, he just walked home, depsite a drizzle and a breeze, and let it sink in.
"I own an apartment...how about that?"
It was the start of a busy week, as Knox was also working on his next column. Fact was, the column was easy. He picked a topic he knew well. Batman. In this case, the public perception of Batman, in comparison to Commissioner Gordon and Mayor Borg. His chat with Steph Brown helped him bring things into focus, though everything she told him about her Batman was useless. Sometimes, it's not the words but the thoughts that help.
He couldn't help feel a bit distracted, though. At week's end, he'd be signing the papers. He'd be turning over the cash. He'd be fulfilling the American Dream, or at least the urban version. It was daunting. He would be a property owner.
And he'd be living in Bristol. In Suburbia. OK, it was just outside the city and didn't feel any more suburban than the few nice neighborhoods inside the city limits. But he was leaving a place he'd woken up to most mornings for 15 years. Of all the changes in his life, this was the one that got to him most. Magic bars? Princesses with beautiful hair sharing your bed? Friends with superpowers, and teenager warriors? Eh. That was just people and just a bar. This? This was Leaving Gotham City. This was, to be melodramatic, Starting Over.
He walked a lot the week before the closing. It was nice in the city (though the rains were moving in by Friday), and he decided that he might actually miss these grimy, crowded streets. Not that he wouldn't be in the city all the time. His friends were still here, as were the newspapers and the library. But he wouldn't come here. Not to the grocery store and the deli and the newsstands and even the really rotten alley he never, ever walked down but always peeked into. "Face it, Allie," he said to himself," you're getting nostalgic in your old age. Better cut it out."
Thursday, PM published the column. It was (by his standards) rather thoughtful. Supportive still of Borg, it tried to make sense of why Gordon's stock was rising, why Borg couldn't buy a break, and how the man in the bat costume seemed outside such things just by wearing a bat costume and never talking to the media. This column didn't raise much of a stir, though Vicki Vale loved it and told him that Bruce Wayne thought it was "smart". (Is Bruce calling something smart a compliment?) Knox bought a dozen copies, earmarked 10 for his friends at the Bar, and celebrated with drinks at Murray's.
He was too nervous to chance going to the Bar. He didn't want to be Bound with 12 hours to go to the closing. He missed the place (and Raps, and his friends), but he knew where he needed to be.
Friday afternoon, at 1 pm, Alexander Knox wrote the largest check of his life, as well as several smaller ones, and signed more sheets of paper than he thought any one man ever could. The lawyers for the co-op and his lawyer conferred, stamped and dated all the papers and the checks, and made it official. Knox now owned a two-bedroom apartment at the Burton Arms at 27 Brubaker Avenue in Bristol, Jersey, USA.
After it was over, he stood outside his lawyer's office and studied the keys. Tomorrow, he would go and take possession for real. For now, he just walked home, depsite a drizzle and a breeze, and let it sink in.
"I own an apartment...how about that?"
