NUT HOUSE

     

     "Come on - let's go in."  She must have sensed my hesitation or she wouldn't have said a word.  Bathed in moonlight her eyes looked magnificent; filled with promise and the reflection of new construction which lay feet behind me.  Perfect corpulent lips thinned to and enticing grin:  "What are you afraid of?"  She whispered while placing a hand on my chest then letting it trace down my stomach.  Her bravery had always been a turn on.  She loved to test mine.  But regardless of how courageous I carried myself I knew Michelle was the more valiant of our dynamic duo.

     The night was clear with a moon bright enough to cast our shadows long and lean against the fresh top coat of the driveway.  From the outside the house looked complete.  I expected the inside to be skeletal.  My father had passed us the tip after closing a deal on the property next door.  It wasn't that I was scared... just that the moon seemed to spotlight our every move.  If it weren't three in the morning and we hadn't spent the night out in Boston I may not have felt so sinister.  But Michelle insisted on checking it out now and I hated disappointing her.  So there we were;  my BMW parked crooked in the driveway like we already owned the place and I, determined to hide any trace that I wasn't the most fearless motherfucker on the planet, pulled up the garage door without an ounce of hesitation.  All the while saying a silent prayer the neighbors were deep asleep.

     Secured in the darkness I instinctively slid a hand into my jean pocket taking hold of my Beretta .25.  The smallest sidearm in my collection, it fit snug in the palm of my hand.  Rarely did I travel without this insurance policy.  Unknown to anyone I would flash my bar card each morning and breeze around courthouse metal detectors.  During family New Years eve trips to Times Square I stood ready to flip off the safety and defend my loved ones at he first sign of trouble.  The most powerful handgun in the world?  It was not.  Do you feel lucky punk?  You'd be luck to blow the head clean off a gecko with this thing.  In sub zero New York City I'd bet against a ordinary round penetrating the garb of a well layered perpetrator.  For this reason hollow points were my standard issue.

     Upstairs we found the electricity working and Michelle's love - first - sight exhilaration quelled my initial misgivings.  From the giant tiles of the stadium sized kitchen to the cathedral ceilings in the grand living room; bedrooms, baths, attic  to basement - all flawless in her eyes;  unfinished but awaiting Michelle's personal touch.  The problem was someone else had an offer pending.  After a little research I learned their agreement with the builder required proof of financing within forty-eight hours of any competing bid.   We had our pre-approval so I threw in an offer for a thousand more, we held our breath and  two days later were on our way to owning 3 Strawberry Hill Lane.

     And now that she was gone what was I supposed to do with it?  Outside mounds of dirt surrounded "Michelle's project;"  the worlds greatest in ground pool.   Inside every inch of the place screamed her name.  She'd selected the paint, wall paper, carpets - fuck!  Everything down to the goddam three-ply toilet paper.  I would look, touch,  but could breath in nothing but torment. nothing but MIchelle.  I thought I might try dropping by to pick up a few items.  Perhaps even push around some dust.   I found I could, but only after getting so high the sky looked up to me.   I walked by pictures without looking.  Blocked the urge to reach up in the closet for the videos... to see her laugh... just for a minute... you can handle that.. maybe after another line...

     Finally I realized living in this house was simply not possible.  To do so would be an invitation to compete insanity.  And it is exactly what I did for the next four years.