"Mr. Wilson"

 

Mr. Wilson:

 

I tell you what, I’ve been in this neighborhood my whole life, and that house has always been an eyesore. It’s completely out of place. Who wants a big kooky gothic building like that in a residential area?

Its history is something else too…

The house was built by a tobacco baron, about 220 years back. But the very day he was to have moved in, him, his wife, and their two kids perished in a ghastly accident.

The family was en route to the house, riding in a horse-drawn carriage, when the carriage suddenly caught fire, and the four burned to death inside. A lantern had spilled, lit the carriage ablaze, apparently. But this was a while back, before forensics, CSI, and science like that, so it’s impossible to say what exactly happened. Whatever it was, it must have been a terrifying experience.

Worse yet, the driver of the carriage and the family’s butler had tried to pry the stagecoach doors open, but the horse got spooked and galloped away and that dang runaway horse then dragged the flaming carriage all through the town. The townsfolk, their pants scared off, were hollering and pointing and running every which way…

A policeman on horseback finally rode in, chased after the flaming wreck, and shot the runaway horse dead. Tragically, however, none of the family survived. 

I tell you, it must have been a nightmarish scene.

Allegedly the house was built on the spot of a battle, or a massacre, depending on who you ask, involving Pilgrims and Indians. Exactly who massacred who is hotly debated among historians. But it is for sure that many died and were buried on those grounds. The Pilgrims’ bodies were dug up and moved later, given proper burials. Rumor has it that the Indians, though, are still buried there…

For years it was considered cursed, hallowed ground. No one wanted to build anything there. One merchant tried to build a general store, but accidents kept happening during the construction, and he gave up. A couple workers died too during the construction of the house. Both fell from tall ladders, in the same spot, weirdly enough, I read.

After the tobacco guy and his family died in that freak fire, the house and the land sat empty for years. Until it was bought by the funeral folks.

Yessir, I remember back when it was a funeral home. When we were kids, we’d ride our bikes by the house, rubberneck and gawk at it. The funeral home only took in bodies, embalmed or cremated them, at that time, from what I can recall.

It’d creep the heck out of us, watching columns of gray smoke billow up from the chimney, knowing where the smoke was from… There’d be a noticeable metallic odor around the house too, kind of like a roast lamb or the smell of a cooking grill after cleaning it…

No one wanted anything to do with the place, other than gawk at it out of morbid curiosity. No one I knew had ever gone in there, no one I knew had stepped foot inside that creepy gothic monstrosity…

It was a family business for years, the funeral home. Then the family moved on, passed on. I never read about or heard of any accidents or gruesome stories involving the funeral home family, though, the Barkers. The patriarch was said to be a fine man. He was well-respected in the community and donated generously to the local church.  

One of the sons eventually became the undertaker and ran the place. But he didn’t live there and wasn’t active in the community. I remember seeing him. He was a freakishly tall, thin, and pale fellow. The man was pale as a vampire. He and his assistant, another pale, tall fellow, lived on the other side of town.

The two seemed to always be together and no one knew much about them. Given their work and unsettling appearances, no one wanted to have much to do with them. They were an embodiment of death. They looked like ghosts themselves, and there were rumors that they might actually be ghosts.

The two scared the bejeebus out of everyone. I got the heebie-jeebies just at the mere sight of them.

The pair worked there for years until they closed the business after the last Barker died.

You know, it’s off-topic, but I wonder what happens when an undertaker dies? Who buries the undertaker? Must be strange for an undertaker to bury another undertaker. I don’t know. I wonder about stuff like that. My wife says I talk too dang much. Anyway…

Anyway, they sold the property. We thought it’d be torn down and rebuilt, but a young family bought it and moved in not long after the funeral business shut down. It surprised everyone in the neighborhood. We couldn’t quite wrap our heads around why they’d want to live there, of all… You know, the stories of that place…

Everyone had a ghost story about it, about the house. Everyone in the neighborhood would talk about how they’d see strange phenomena, ‘round there. The most popular was the story of a ghost lady in an old-style white dress, and her stomach was ripped open and bloody, as if she’d been attacked, stabbed and murdered in a gory way.

The lady allegedly looked like someone from colonial times; she had a bonnet of some sort, and she’d walk around in circles, on the front lawn of the house, looking confused, like she was searching for something. At least that’s what everyone said. I never caught a glimpse of her.  

Maybe because I don’t believe in it. I don’t believe in that ghost hooey. I never cared for scary movies or any of that jazz. I never even believed in God, to tell you the truth. But I never told anyone about that because there’s nothing worse than an atheist. An atheist is one step up from a communist. Or are atheists worse than communists? I don’t know.

I used to hate going to church. I hated pretending to pray. I’d daydream during the sermons. The priests up there in their robes. They were only grown men in pajamas to me. You know, one of them touched the altar boys, and I’d heard about it. Maybe that’s why I didn’t believe in God, because I heard the rumors about the priests. I heard it long before it became a national news story…

I hated the church. I hated it for most of my life.

But after the shootings, I’ll admit that I came to appreciate the community aspect of our church. I must admit the prayer services, candlelit vigils helped me through those dark days, just being with others, at that time, you know?

Still, the ghosts and that jazz, it’s hooey! I think it’s people’s imaginations. I can’t stand those silly horror movies. I really can’t! My wife watches them, but I think it’s nonsense.

And I can’t stand those “ghosthunter” shows on TV, either. I tell you, it’s a bunch of shysters, if you ask me. Hoaxes and hoaxers. All that. All those mediums and exorcists. Those “demonic possessions.” For shame! Those possessions back in medieval times were probably just some poor, mentally retarded kids, kids with speech impediments or folks with mental illnesses. Demons and ghosts, hah! It’s hogwash. It’s sad. It’s gosh-darn sad. Plain sad.

Everyone in the neighborhood figured they’d tear the place down. Not that I believe in ghosts, but still, who wants to live in a former funeral parlor? It’s yucky. It makes me want to throw up, thinking of those bodies in there, rotting and being embalmed and burned. The blood and guts running up and down the pipes in there. Who wants to shower in that? I gotta wonder if they flushed the blood and guts down the same pipes as our sewage. And then… does the treated water go to the same place as our drinking water comes from? The same pipes our house water comes from? I could google it, but it’s probably one thing you don’t want to know… Ick!

But, anyway, they remodeled the house and converted it into a residential property. I’m thinking they removed the funeral equipment before the family moved in, although I can’t say for sure.

Rumor has it the place still has its original furniture, the antique furniture, from the tobacco family, from 1800. Now that must be a sight, I tell you what…

Heck, they seemed alright, that family, the Oswalds. I remember them. They weren’t kin to the, you know, the infamous Oswald, but it must have been strange to share his name. It must have toughened them up, I’d think.

They came to a few neighborhood cookouts. But, tell you the truth, it was always uncomfortable being in their presence. Because they lived in that house. It was like the death clung to them. The spirit, idea of death had wrapped itself around them. Anytime you’d see them, you’d think of the bodies, the corpses being drained of blood or burned or whatever.

Again, I don’t believe in that junk about ghosts. But how could they live in that house? Why would they? Just look at it. Its gothic spires, its Victorian architecture. It looks like something from Edward Scissorhands.

They’d only lived there a couple months before… that happened… and all of them had been looking haggardly and sickly, more so than ever in the days prior...

A couple of the neighbors had caught a whiff of a burning smell coming from the house, similar to when the crematorium was running. Another neighbor said she’d been smelling a puke-like stink wafting out of there, another said it was like burning garbage. But me, no sir, I never noticed anything of the sort. Aside from the folks looking sickly, I never noticed anything strange ahead of that.. that day. That nightmare.  

It was such a nightmare too, when it happened. When the kid snapped. The kid had seemed normal enough, originally. Before he became a recluse. He’d been running around the neighborhood, same as any other kid. I heard other kids teased him, and his siblings, over their house, called them the “Adams Family” and stuff like that. You know how cruel kids can be.

But I don’t know if that was enough to make him snap. I don’t know if there’s ever really one reason. If there’s ever really one sign or there’s many signs. I don’t know.

I blame the parents, to be honest. How do you let your kid not leave his room? How do you let your kid sit around 24/7, playing violent video games and posting gory pics of plane crashes and gruesome murders online? The kid taped black garbage bags over his bedroom windows. He washed himself compulsively. He had no friends. He was pale as a ghost and only wore black. The kid looked like a monster, like a vampire. It was scary. Like sometimes you hear that a neighbor or coworker snapped, and you think, “How could he?” But him? It was like, “Of course he did…” The kid was a freak. He had serious issues.

So why did the parents buy that little freak a gun? A machine gun? It’s not like he’s going deer hunting with an M-16. I can’t wrap my head around it. Really, I just can’t.

I didn’t hear the gunshots. But I was home. I was getting ready for work. I saw the little freak, too, driving his mom’s minivan, on the way to shoot up his school. It was the first time I’d seen him in months. He looked a lot older than I remembered and was wearing a dang wedding dress. His face was blanched, looked made of marble. I couldn’t spot a trace of emotion.

Of course, I didn’t know he’d just shot his whole family and was on the way to shoot up his school. When the police interviewed me, I told them this. I wish, I so wish I would have known. I wish I had a clue. I would have called the cops. Then maybe I could have stopped the little freak from killing those poor kids at the school.

That’s the regret I live with. That’s what I think about. I flashback to that muggy morning. How hot and sticky it already was. How high the sun hung in the clear blue sky, the sun this huge shimmering orange ball. That might have been the hottest morning I can ever remember.

My dang car was like an oven; it was plain scorching inside. The steering wheel in my car felt like it was on fire. I was standing in the driveway waiting for the car to cool down when I saw that little psycho, driving along in his death van.

I think about that, about seeing that kid, that freak. He didn’t look at me. But I looked at him. I almost waved at him, like I do every neighbor, but I didn’t. Because he scared me. I think of that too. What if I’d waved at him and he’d rolled down the window, of that brown death van, and shot me dead in the street, like an animal?

What if that stopped it, though? What if he’d shot me, then the cops came and stopped him from going into that school? I’d rather he took me out than those kids. Maybe I’d have survived, and it’d be me in that wheelchair instead of that kid a few doors down, who’ll never walk again. I’ve lived for 52 years. That kid is only a kid. That kid is only 15, and he’s got to be in a stinking chair for the rest of his days!

I live with that. I live with those thoughts.

In the days following the shootings, I wanted the house torn down. Everyone in the neighborhood did. There’d be gawkers, idiots driving by, snapping photos of it. As if that’s what we needed, after the press, media was hounding us, with all their press vehicles, photographers, slick-talking journalists poking mics in our faces, their news tents pitched everywhere up and down the block.

We wanted to have that ugly house bulldozed once the cops were done with the crime scene. Heck, I’d have driven the bulldozer myself, taken it down. Everyone around here wanted that house gone. 

But not the relatives of the family, some cousin who inherited the house. No sir. He insisted on keeping it and renting it for now. He’s holding out to sell it later, apparently. Maybe he’s thinking the infamy will wear down and he can command a better price.

We, and I mean me and the other folks on the neighborhood council, lobbied the bank to buy the property so it could be torn down. We wanted to build a playground on the site, or start a small farm, a garden, do something to put life there, bring life to that place of unspeakable death.

But we didn’t get our wish. That ugly old horrible house is still standing, high and creepy as ever. And weirdos still are driving by to take photos of the dang thing. It’s a travesty. It absolutely is.   

Now a former NFL player is moving in, renting the place. I remember him playing. The guy was a terrific lineman.

But when I saw him driving up, walking into the house, he didn’t look good. He was limping and his face was sullen. I think he’s fallen on hard times. That must be why he’s living in an old murder house. Poor fella…

I wonder, would a guy like that be afraid of “ghosts?” I mean, he played against the fastest, strongest, most ferocious athletes in the world. What’s scarier than an NFL linebacker? No one is tougher, nothing is scarier than an NFL linebacker flying at you. A dang pumped up, 6’2, 240-pound hot mess of muscle. A meathead with a neck as thick as a tree trunk. A mohawked-maniac stabbed full of steroids, all screaming and flying at you like a bat out of hell. I tell you what, nothing is scarier than that...

Speaking of linebackers, Junior Seau was that fella’s teammate for a couple seasons. Junior Seau! I want to ask him about Junior, the “Tasmanian Devil.” I loved that guy! He was a favorite player of mine, probably my second favorite linebacker ever, after Derrick Thomas.

I’m not sure I could work up the nerve to ask about Junior, though. Not after what happened... I guess it’s one of those things you shouldn’t mention…

"The Funeral Home" (from "NFL Concussion Protocol: The Tragedy")

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The Funeral Home:

 

“It used to be a funeral home…”

“Whoa, it is… gothic… and that burgundy color… looks a bit like an old church. It’s definitely big enough for all three of the kids,” says Susan, who’s stirring nervously in her seat and repeatedly sweeping back a wayward strand of wavy golden hair behind her right ear.

Jim, her husband, seemingly pays little attention, and mumbles “kids” sarcastically. Sitting behind the wheel of his black Porsche SUV, his eyes are empty as open graves. He snarls and turns the steering wheel, nosing the vehicle smoothly into the property’s long, straight, almost endless driveway that reminds Susan of a tarmac.

“How long will the project last?” she inquires. Her voice slightly raises. Anger and annoyance are coursing through her.   

Jim relapses into silence, then shrugs his shoulders, parks the car. Susan sighs and shakes her head.

“Typical Jim,” she thinks, “malignant in his reserve and stoic in his void.”

 

The two exit the vehicle. Susan’s high heels clicking rhythmically on the black pavement of the driveway as they walk towards the verandah, step up the curiously steep stairs and approach the high, pitched, thick black metal gothic double doors. The entranceway is cut from granite stone and has ornate carvings of Biblical themes and 3-foot statues of Peter, Paul, Jesus and Mary built into the lower left and right sides of the archway.  

 

The door opens inwardly, as if by itself. The pair are met by a real estate agent, a frumpy woman who materializes, like an apparition. The schmoozy woman smiles with her whole face and ushers the couple inside.

Susan thinks the agent just looks like an agent, just looks like someone from a real estate sign. Like she’s more of a photograph than a person.

The agent moves fast for a woman of her size, and makes cloying conversation, attempting to ingratiate herself, and as she speaks, she laughs mechanically in a way that reminds Susan of the sounds of sitcoms she’d watched as a kid, like Married With Children and Friends. Those 90s sitcoms with laugh tracks that’d go off in bursts at snappy one-liners.

Susan wonders if the real estate agent is a human at all, or if she’s a bot, a cyborg, or AI hologram.

Then Susan starts to notice the agent’s perfume, how musky it is, how it lingers in the air as the agent whisks them through the furnished house. No robot would be programmed to smell like that, Susan thinks.

They move fast through the first floor, their heads on a swivel. The agent’s hands glide, gracefully, as if in tai chi movements, and she speaks of amenities, distances, and dimensions.

Inspecting the antique furniture, the drapes of crushed velvet, the house strikes Susan as a time warp. Or perhaps a bizarre, grotesque museum. Everything seems dusty, like a museum, and although every room has large windows, little light enters the house. There’s such a grimness to the place. A stuffy feeling. An ugliness to everything. 

Even the hardwood floors. They look freshly polished; however, their shine is almost unnaturally sparkly, Susan posits. She scratches her nose and notices a strong antiseptic smell wafting in the air.  

When they step onto the wide staircase, they find themselves instantly on the second floor, unnervingly so, as if they didn’t climb the stairs at all, or as if Susan experienced a splice in time, or a spell of amnesia.  

Then they are checking each bedroom. They move with precision, at an almost military speed. The hallways slant and bend curiously, disturbing Susan’s equilibrium.

The bedrooms are horrendous, each room painted a different unsightly color- lime green, 70s neon orange, banana yellow. Yikes. Whoever designed the place must have been color blind. Or insane. Susan ponders redecoration schemes…

Susan is suddenly spooked by the rooms’ dim, unnatural light that repeats in various wall mirrors and gilded picture-frames. It’s a sepia tone that’s harsh, hideous.

Gazing at one of the picture-frames, she’s creeped out to notice that all the picture-frames hanging about the house are empty. Every single one of them. They are devoid of photos, paintings, anything, and Susan feels it renders the house indescribably creepy and bleak…  

Besides barren, the house just seems… chaotic, uneven and off-balance. It’s as if the house was an experiment, a strange arrangement of angles, geometric spaces and patterns only a mathematician could understand. Every room seems like a wrong turn, a dead end in a maze. Every room she sees is confusing and ultimately unsettling.

In addition to her aesthetic repulsion and discombobulation, viewing the house just feels joyless. It’s a mechanical, cold task. It’s automatic. It’s forced. There’s no happiness here. The place feels suffocating. Susan loses her breath and wheezes once or twice, like she’s at a high altitude.

After inspecting the fully furnished bedrooms, which, to Susan, are all morbid, they’re at once in the basement; and again, Susan only recalls beginning down the stairs from the second floor, right as she was thinking of how the stairs remind her of an Escher print...  

 

The basement is a tall, windowless space. It is bright white. White everything. Shiny white linoleum floor, white paneling, white walls with Grecian cornices, but in the background, the basement’s space is vast and dark, and Susan sees stars, moons, and planets, cosmic debris and what looks to be an asteroid, the space rock barreling forth, in their direction, like a wrecking ball.

Susan presses her eyes shut, grinds her teeth, braces herself for impact, feeling as if she’s aboard a passenger plane, about to crash.

But she opens her eyes to find herself in a forward motion, from the living room toward the kitchen, and Susan has a sensation that their feet aren’t moving, that the floor is moving, instead of them, like the floor is an electronic machine, a people mover, like in the airport. She feels a hard stop and gets slightly dizzy crossing into the kitchen.  

She shudders, gulps instinctively, then pans her gaze around the spacious, fully equipped kitchen, with its silver refrigerator, and modern appliances. It’s a stark contrast to the rest of the house. It’s so… modern… It’s light and there’s not a single antique… It could be in one of those “Modern Homes” magazines she sees at the supermarket.

Surprised by the commodious kitchen’s immense size, she also thinks the house appears far larger, almost infinite inside; the house far bigger than it seemed from the outside.

Jim, as usual, doesn’t speak much to the agent or Susan, just grunts and snorts, here and there, but he stops to take a business call, rages at his phone, drowning out the tinny voice in his headset. Hoarsely, he bellows out something unpleasant regarding a projected target date.

 

Susan does most of the talking with the agent, asking the usual, perfunctory house-related questions, inquiring about the neighborhood too.

However, in truth, she’s confused and scared. She already hates the house, its design. Its effect on her. The psychic visions and unnatural movements. How she’s losing her grip. It’s as if the place was meant to be intimidating, disorienting, and ugly.

It could have been nice, warm, a real home, perhaps, Susan thinks to herself, pensively. It has huge panoramic windows in the living room, a wide staircase in the anteroom, and its chestnut brown hardwood flooring is an inviting color. There’s plush antique furniture everywhere, 19^th century moldings, and recently added marble flooring and brass fixtures in the bathrooms.

And the kitchen, even by Susan’s standards, is immaculate. It’s sparkling, and state of the art, having just been remodeled, and has a fancy, see-through fridge, and smart controls for the appliances.

It could have been a nice home, Susan thinks. It really could have, if not for…

 

Behind the house sits a sizable spit of land, a behemoth of a backyard. Tragically, though, it is an eyesore. The square patch of land is filled with only shabby wildflowers and bushes and is bisected by a small unkempt lawn.

The backyard is curiously empty, giving it a strange, eerily vacant and lonely feeling. She’d never seen a backyard that big be so empty. Not a patio set or a wooden table or grill or playground or pebble path or bird bath or anything. Susan thinks it probably should have a pool, given its tremendous size, but considering the house’s history, she understands why no pool was installed.

The house’s history, yes, it flits through her mind, once again. The history is probably what makes it appear uglier than it is.

Almost telepathically, the agent’s smug robotic face shifts, darkens, and becomes downcast, as she lowers her double chin toward the floor, the basement.

“So, you know, this property was a business, providing services for those who’d passed on,” the agent’s cheery voice deadens and sounds apologetic.

“Services for those who’d passed?” scoffs Jim. The sarcastic tone of his voice clearly mocks the agent’s euphemism, and he cocks his big head to the side, his hazel eyes narrowing. He stares dead on at the agent and sneers at her, menacingly, his pearly white teeth peeking out from underneath his curled, thin upper lip, his bleached choppers gleaming in the bright sunlight slanting in from the kitchen’s floor to ceiling windows.

“It was a funeral home, yes. But this was disclosed in the literature. And it’s why the place is renting for a fraction of the price of the others in this neighborhood,” the agent goes on, matter-of-factly. Her tone returning to saccharine, her eyes brightening, she continues, “This place is a steal. A property this size…”

“The price is hardly a steal if it’s really haunted! Your literature didn’t mention anything about that,” Susan shoots back, her venomous candor taking the agent off guard.

“There was… was an unfortunate…” the agent bumbles, turning her cheek to avert the couple’s scrutinizing gaze.

Susan’s sigh interrupts the agent’s feeble attempt at an explanation. “Unfortunate?” Susan blurts out, her face twisting into a harsh scowl.

Susan sniggers, clucks at the agent’s callousness, and goes on, “The kid killed his siblings, his parents, then went to his school and shot 25 people. He claimed he’d been possessed by demonic spirits and had a paranormal expert testify on his behalf in court. Please, we heard about it on the news, and we read about the case online just this morning,” Susan’s arms are akimbo as she speaks; her eyes are bulging, electric in anger.

The agent rolls her eyes, flutters her long fake lashes and draws in a deep breath. She shakes her head and brushes back the curly black bangs hanging astray from her chignon.

Then the agent stiffens up. Perhaps expecting another fusillade of questions or complaints to spring from the couple’s lips, the agent decides to play hardball, and her tone suddenly shifts to one of robotic rage and forced politeness.

“Okay, okay, you folks know the history of the place. It was all over the news. But remember, the kid eventually pled guilty, and no such evidence of ‘paranormal’ anything was found.” The agent flicks her fingers in air quotes around the word “paranormal,” and continues, “The show on TLC came up with only white noise. Because, frankly, that sort of ghost stuff doesn’t exist.”

The agent pauses and her cyborg smile shifts back on, as if her software has set her veneer back to sugary.

Her voice sweetens too, but she speaks, condescendingly, like a mother who just lashed out at a petulant child, “You see, this is what we refer to as a ‘distressed property,’ yes, but this is the only property for rent in this neighborhood. You said you wanted a house here for 6 months. You said you wanted to be near downtown. Well, this is it. If you aren’t interested, I understand, and I can show you a similar property. Buuuuut,” Susan winces at how the agent draws out that syllable, “it’s an hour farther from the city and twice as expensive. And I already have three other clients interested in this property, soooo, please, take a few minutes, talk amongst yourselves, look around a bit more if you’d like. I’ll be waiting outside.”

The agent’s smile grows so big and forced Susan worries it might explode the lady’s cheekbones. The agent turns and clicks off, her heels talking to the floor at an incongruous clip as she plucks out her phone from her black Fendi handbag and saunters away staring and swiping at the device.

Susan believes the device might be controlling the agent somehow, a digital overlord…

Jim nods his head, “Susan,” he says, speaking her name for the first time in what seems like years, not just calling her “you…”

“Susan, I can’t live in an apartment again. Even a big condo. I hate having people living on the other side of the wall. I hate smelling people’s food in the hallway. I can’t do it again. I can’t.”

Jim pans his gaze, toward the spacious dining room, the place still furnished with the previous owner’s belongings. The couple’s relative who’d inherited the property, while attempting, unsuccessfully to sell it, had decided to rent it, and had kept it furnished with the belongings of the slain family.

“But, Jim, it is… so… so… creepy. I mean, what happened here. It was a funeral home, and then… Ick, it’s… I mean, what if it really is haunted?”

Goosebumps run up Susan’s arms and she feels a chill splash over her, like she’s had a glass of ice water thrown at her.

“Do you believe in that crap? I don’t. I want a house. I want my space. I don’t want to drive four hours every day. It’s only 20 minutes from here to the office. We’re renting the place and moving in.”

And with that, the matter is settled. Jim’s big round eyes remind her of portholes on a sailing ship as he lumbers his massive frame out of the kitchen, through the house, to the verandah, on his way to speak with the agent and sign the lease.

 

Susan, her arms crossed over her chest, taps her foot impatiently, shakes her head and grimaces. She thinks back to when she was younger, working part-time as a cheerleader. That was when she met Jim, when he was a rookie in the NFL.

Like she often does, she thinks back to those days, but not nostalgically. Because sometimes, just sometimes, though increasingly often these days, she wishes she didn’t get pregnant then…

She wishes she’d stayed in college. She liked reading and studying, campus life… And she wishes she had started the clothing business she’d dreamed about. She’d had an idea for something like Lululemon, athleisure wear. But she’d never pursued it. And that haunts her… The missed window of opportunity. It hurts her, watching the Lululemon company raking in billions. Seeing every housewife, every lady in her neighborhood in yoga pants. And now, here she is, having lost all her money. Money she didn’t even earn. Money she’d married… Pathetic…  

Worse yet, though it makes her ashamed, her mind sinks further into regret, and sometimes… sometimes she wishes she’d not gotten pregnant. At all.  

She hates thinking she shouldn’t have had that kid, that first one. But she can’t help it. And there are times she regrets the others, too. She really can’t help thinking about what she could have been. Her son, her daughter, even her youngest son, just their faces, remind her of that missed time, missed opportunities, her unrealized dreams. Just their faces can be such cruel, cruel reminders.  

She loves her children and hates thinking like this. It makes her ugly, a hideous, terrible person, she knows, but the thoughts remain, appear in transit, like awful graffiti scrawled on a highway overpass…

All these thoughts flit through her mind as she stands there, defeated. Her youth gone. And now their fortune was nearly gone too. They had debts piling up after Jim’s business ventures went sour. They had to sell their mansion, most of their possessions, most of their cars, their cute speedboat. Like so many other NFL players, Jim had found his earnings squandered and vanished.

She should have stepped in. She should have done more. But she was busy, with the kids, with the charities.

She was just as guilty, too, she figures, having taken those retail therapy shopping trips, those European vacations, booking those first-class plane tickets, even for short flights, and those ridiculously fancy lunches and dinners, those afternoons of facials, Dead Sea mud wraps, manicures and pedicures, foot massages at the spa.

She knows her harsh reality. That this is what it is. That Jim must take on this project. She knows they could, theoretically, get by without it, get by on his healthy NFL pension, but if this project takes off, if it is a hit, they’ll be rich again. Really rich again, Jim says.  

She wants to believe it. She wants more than anything to be rich again. To not have to worry about money. To not have to deal with jerks like that leasing agent, the patronizing robotic bitch. That’s the best part of having fuck you money, she remembers, being able to say “fuck you.” Not having to take shit from anyone.

“Dammit, ugh, I guess we’ve got no choice,” she mutters to herself. She hangs her head low, draws in a deep breath. Then she exhales, suddenly finding herself sitting in the passenger seat of their car, the Porsche inching in reverse, rolling out of their new home’s tarmac-like driveway.