sometimes she feels so lost. she looks around the life she’s made for herself, and it’s everything she wanted when she was younger – home, family, career, and it’s all morphed even beyond that into a larger home, a bigger family that looks great in all the photos, and a very successful and lucrative career.
and she thinks about running away, and leaving her four really-not-so-perfect children, and her boring husband, and the mortgage payments and credit card debt and compulsive shopping, and too many drinks every damn night, and vicious dog-eat-dog work environment.
leave it all… and be who? who is she without all that? what would she do? she has to do something; that’s the way she was raised, taught in school, and college, and church, and her job.
she has to do something , she has to be someone.
and she is… well, she thinks she is… and she’s completely lost.
nothing brings her happiness… she still loves her children, and she guesses she loves her husband, but they’re joyless loves of expectation and duty, loves born of expectations she’s no longer sure she wants to give a shit about.
and she dreams of flying, wings beating furiously against the sky, two-ton weights tied to her feet.
it had been nine years since they’d last talked. they hadn’t parted on bad terms, he’d gone his way, his childhood friend another, and life got busy for both of them, and like always life tended to focus all their attention on what they could see six inches or feet or yards or miles in front of their faces, and out of sight, out of mind, and things had happened, life milestones, and each had thought of the other from time to time, and sworn to call, sworn to email, sworn to text… it was easy to swear, hard to actually do.
and then the police had dragged the lake, completely unrelated case, and found the car, and Harlan’s body, and Evan had heard from the cops first, and did he have contact information for Richard?
they’d sworn they’d never talk about the it, they night they’d watched Harlan die of alcohol poisoning, when they’d put him in his car, and rolled it into the lake.
and it was one hell of a non-reunion, Evan and Richard sitting in separate interrogation rooms, just a wall between them, each wondering if they other would remember a story concocted nine years before.
something spoke to me about the house. i could ignore its infamous past, and i thought the decor was… interesting. Madame Pantanay’s Frolic Society had been a high-end establishment, decorated in classic, gilded and opulent style, and once it was finally mine… well, mine and the bank’s… i’d decided to keep the themes, adapting them to decorations in rooms for other purposes.
my sewing room was the nursery, bright cartoon animals on the walls, and the over-sized crib to hold bolts of cloth and other sundries. i turned the dungeon into the guest bedroom, as my weird friends found the idea endlessly amusing. the doctor’s office became my library, a comfortable, but austere, chaise lounge replacing the examination table.
everyone’s living room needs a red velvet swing, and the former bar/parlor area obliged. i’ve taken to to listening to music while swinging… very relaxing.
a large kitchen is always a plus, and i opened the girls’s actual sleeping accommodations into storage, a guest bedroom, and music room for my piano.
victorian painted lady, former bordello, eclectic home… certainly not a suburban box like all the others.
i got lotsa friends… friends who think they’re comedians.
that was my first thought when my hungover brain focused through blood-shot eyes on the worn army duffle bag in the middle of my floor.
what had those schmucks done now?
the dead rat in my air vent had kept them laughing for weeks, and i had long ago made checking to see if sugar was really sugar and salt was really salt a standard procedure.
so… a duffle bag.
i tried to shake off the Jack Daniels fog and find my legs. not that i’m a cripple or nothin’, but me and Jack had talked for a long time the night before.
i hit the head, brushed my teeth with my finger, and debated coffee before unwelcome surprises.
good idea that.
coffee it was, and i was on my third cigarette when my eyes finally allowed me to read the tag on the bag – Jack Carlson, Private Investigator.
yeah, that was me, right apartment and everything.
$100,000 in large bills, and a dead midget wrapped in cellophane.
i don’t think this is the work of my funny friends.
listening to: “Porushka – Poraniya”, Kukuruza, “Gornitsa”
mood: productive, but getting hungry