The Carving

Content Warning: Story contains violence

Irene felt excited as the sun started to set as she drove out of town. It had been a long couple of months, but relief was finally within her sight. It was hard being an account manager in a fast-paced office setting, plus the added difficulty of being a woman over a certain age. She was judged on first sight for the wrinkles that makeup couldn’t hide. She had her hair cut stylishly short but kept the gray color to project maximum confidence. Irene was tough and a fair boss, and her track record spoke for itself. Plus it wasn’t like she was just a manager. That was just one of the many faces she wore.

This new project was a big one, but she was more than up to the task. They were still in the experimental phase, and had found some early success. Still, there was no use celebrating early. Getting ahead of yourself never worked out in the end. 

She drove up to the site, felt the familiar tremor in the air as she drove through Caroline’s glamour. Anyone driving through the area would see the whimsical nursery and pumpkin patch, with hand-painted signs out front that read “Sold Out for the Season! Sorry!” Only those who knew what they were looking for could see the land for what it really was: dead and barren, rotted squashes littering the earth in messy rows. Irene excited her car, inhaling a large breath of the acrid air. It was good to be out of that office.

The office beckoned as she got out of her car, and she knew the girls would be inside making the final preparations. Sitting outside, kneeling in the dirt, were four women. All around the same age, and all staring straight ahead looking at nothing in particular. They made no movements as Irene approached them. She recognized the worn-down face of her former employee, Elle, sitting among them. That had been a hasty last-minute decision on her part. She hated losing a good employee at her “day” job, but another girl had fallen through so she’d had to improvise. A little messy finding a good fit, but they got what they needed. Irene allowed herself a genuine sympathetic moment for the woman. It would be worth it in the long run, for the both of them.

Anne and Caroline were inside working, both clad in flowing black robes. They looked up as Irene entered and bowed quickly as a sign of respect, then went back to writing the proper symbols on the walls. The only lights in the room were from the various candles, some placed on the floor while others hovered in the air. In the center of the room the children slept soundly in a circular formation. Irene did a quick count and confirmed there were eight. Not bad. “Everything is in order?” she asked, extending an arm. Another long black cloak flew out from somewhere and over her arms and back, covering her smart business attire.

Caroline nodded. “The little dears are out cold,” she reached out to stroke one of the child’s faces. “They won’t feel a thing.” Irene scoffed quietly. Being young, Caroline still had some of that pesky sympathy towards lesser, vulnerable beings. She’d grow out of that eventually, lest Irene would have to send her down the Styx. She turned to Anne. “The women appear properly sedated.”

Anne nodded appreciatively. Her face was softer than the others, but outside of her coffee shop there was a harshness to it. “Thank you Madam. The potions seem to be working sufficiently. I must compliment the work that both of you did on the last woman. Her soul was almost lost when I gave her the Final Latte; she couldn’t resist.”

“Desk jobs do that to most people,” Irene admitted with a tight frown on her face. “Just had to pretend she wasn’t good at it anymore. The corporate world is calling it “quiet firing.” Almost a pity really.”

Caroline snickered. “Well, just think of it as her transferring companies. You have a better position opening up for her.”

Anne turned to the younger woman. “Your work on the husband was particularly impressive. Hard to get the timing right from just one cider.” Caroline practically blushed. “I didn’t have time to really play with him, unfortunately. Rotting to death in his own basement, such a dull way to go. ”

Irene scowled. “Your playing around with the husbands is how we lost the last girl,” she reminded her subordinate. “I suggest you focus more on the tasks you’re given.” Caroline bowed her head in respect, her face reddening from the criticism. 

Irene circled the sleeping children. “Come,” she commanded the younger two. “I want this over sooner than later.” She didn’t like doing a rush job, but she was under pressure to get better results for her superiors; they’d done enough waiting. Anne waved a hand and all the candles extinguished at once. In the pitch black of darkness the three of them formed a circle around the kids.

If anyone were walking in the wooded area nearby they might have been able to hear some sinister chanting if they listened hard enough. Then they would have felt a slight chill, despite the lack of wind this evening. Something they couldn’t describe would have felt off and they would have had the desire to head home as fast as humanly possible. Their instincts would lead them far away from the abandoned compound.

No one would be around to witness three cloaked women exiting the office of the nursery, carrying eight bright orange pumpkins between them. Irene and the others placed the pumpkins deliberately in front of each of the dazed women in the yard. The women moved slightly, looking down at the pumpkins with the same blank expressions on their faces. The one named Elle looked down at her two pumpkins and stroked one of them gently. It had smooth orange skin, completely free of any gray patches. Someone she loved always said they hated those patches, but she couldn’t remember who that could have been.

Anne walked around to each of the dazed women and placed a sharp knife in their hands. “We have brought you some pumpkins to carve up.” Irene said in her crisp, commanding tone. “Clean them out and make a nice jack-o-lantern for us. Then you are…free to go.”

There was a pause, but then slowly the dazed women picked up their knives and stabbed into their pumpkins. Irene watched in satisfaction as three of the women hacked away at the tough skin, scooping out the innards with their bare hands. She could feel their souls leaving their bodies as they worked. It was the final step before converting new witches; an act of filicide to confirm their earthly souls were forever lost. The transformation had gone smoothly. The delicate bones of the children had liquified and shifted into the slimy orange insides. Their skin had reshaped and turned tough and orange, their spines shooting out and thickening into stems.

But one of the women hesitated. Irene looked at Elle, always a bright spot in the office, now a dazed woman with a knife poised over two pumpkins that she felt she couldn’t cut into. Her life had changed so radically in the last month; she’d been broken, but something lingered in her brain that kept begging her to pay attention. Her fingers continued to sadly caress the hide of her pumpkin.

Irene leaned over. “It’s okay, Elle,” she spoke softly in her “Irene” voice. “You can do this. I know you can.”

Hearing Irene’s voice sparked something in Elle’s memory. It was a familiar voice, one she’d spoken to thousands of times, one who recently started telling her she wasn’t good enough. Now she was here in a pumpkin patch, asking her to carve a pumpkin? Something was off. Something was very wrong.

Elle’s eyes grew wide as she plunged her knife into Irene’s neck. Caroline and Anne screamed in surprise, but Irene merely gasped. The pain was too much for her to keep her glamour in check; her skin turned gray and scars appeared all over it, her hands grew long and clawlike. Her usually well-groomed gray hair became ratty and long down her back. Those powerful eyes turned to milky pools of yellow. Her strength was still visible, but her earthly beauty had vanished.

“Silly bitch,” Irene seethed through wet, red teeth. She lunged forward and pinned Elle underneath her, digging her teeth hard into the side of her neck. Elle’s screams faded away as the hag gnawed away at her neck. Elle looked up at the night sky as her vision started to fade. She found it odd that she thought of the two pumpkins lying on the ground nearby. She died wondering why she felt as if she’d raised them.

When Elle stopped breathing, Irene rose and turned to her subordinates. “What happened?!?” she screeched. “How did she break free?”

Caroline and Anne cowered in fear. Caroline started stammering excuses. “I don’t know Madam, I was just in charge of the children and I took care of the husband so there were no loose ends on my part and I-”

Anne interrupted, slightly more composed. “I’m not sure either. Perhaps it was the lattes? We got her dependent on them but perhaps she just had too many? Maybe built up some sort of immunity from all that spice?”

Irene sighed, which almost looked comical in her monstrous form. “You try to take advantage of one craze and then it takes advantage of you. Interesting.” She looked over at the other three women, still carving their pumpkins with their eyes lifeless. Three new witches. Still not a bad result.

Irene waved her clawed hand and Elle’s corpse levitated off the ground. There was only a bit of her neck left so her head lobbed stupidly in the air. “I shall dine on her inside,” Irene declared as she pulled Elle’s knife from her neck with a grunt. “Since you two did mostly a good job I may let you have some when I am full.” The body floated inside the office as Irene followed. “Have the new recruits prepped and get those pumpkin innards jarred for next year’s syrups.” Anne nodded and went straight to work. Caroline hesitated where Elle’s untouched pumpkins still sat.

“Madam, what should we do with her pumpkins?”

Irene looked at them with disdain. Such a waste of a good employee, a decent husband, two children. She knew she should probably keep the pumpkins, have them made into syrup for the next batch of spice lattes. But these two were a reminder of her most recent failure, and she did not want that hanging over her.

“Roll them over the hill,” she shrugged, floating into the office. “They can rot like their father.”

This was part 3 of a “spooky” series for Halloween! Witches are having a “moment” right now and I wanted to just test myself with a genre I don’t normally write in. Parts one and two can be read here if you haven’t already.

November is National Novel Writing Month! The company is no longer around but I believe we can still do the work/fun and tackle a larger writing project for a month. I’m not attempting a novel this year; rather I plan to first draft a new short story every week in November (so four stories by the end, for you Mathletes). I encourage any and all writers to go for similar attempts. Remember you just have to get it out on the page; you’ll have months and years to go back and edit it later.

Join my email blast and I’ll let you know how I did this November. Also the holiday season is coming and you know what’s a great stocking stuffer? My book! You know I have to plug it!

Happy Halloween!

The Patch

Content Warning: Light reference to death/violence.

Cars were in and out of the dirt parking lot all day. Pumpkin season was the nursery’s second busiest time, right after Christmas tree season. The grounds were like a mini fall festival. Parents drove their children out there to pick the pumpkins they’ll carve up for Jack-O-Lanterns. Couples young and old came to sip cider and stroll among the fallen leaves covering the nature trails. It was a rustic experience for people that didn’t have access to that kind of thing, and that was definitely how it was marketed on their social media.

The most prominent worker, at least according to Instagram, was Miss Caroline. She was young and fresh out of college with an adorable smile and a great energy for all things outdoors and plant-related. She was a natural with children, and folks of all ages loved her sense of humor and the stories she told almost daily on social media. In a short time she had made herself an asset to the team, always front and center wearing her favorite dirt-smeared overalls with pride. The afternoon rush was expectedly hectic, and Caroline was in the thick of it all. She answered questions, helped children pick the perfect pumpkin, posed for selfies, and gave online shoutouts. Satisfied customers left with big smiles on their faces and bright orange pumpkins in their laps. During a slight lull in business, Caroline took the time to step inside the office. In private she could let her smile fall away, check a text on her phone, roll her eyes at the inane questions she was being sent. The work never stops. 

Another car pulled up while she was inside. A man and his two children, a boy and a girl, got out. The kids immediately began scampering around the grounds looking at pumpkins. Their father followed, looking a bit tired but contended enough to be here. Caroline watched them stroll between the rows for a few minutes before deciding she had better approach. Right before she left the office she took a deep breath and plastered a smile on her face, turning Miss Caroline back into “on” mode.

The gentle afternoon sun reflected off that smile as she approached. The kids recognized her from the nursery’s social media, and greeted her like they knew her. “And what are you guys looking for today?” she asked, the enthusiasm radiating from her very being. The kids answered that they were looking for pumpkins, as if Caroline had no idea why a family would come to a pumpkin patch in October. Their dad held back, amused, and didn’t interfere. Caroline showed them around the patch, told them where the “super special” pumpkins were that she didn’t let just anyone look at. The kids started inspecting the gourds, picking them up to feel the weight, passing over any that had those rough gray patches on them. Caroline eventually held back and let them search on their own, casually stepping away and circling back to their father.

“Homemade cider?” She offered him a cup and a smile. He smiled back and shook his head, muttered something about how he was the designated driver. She chuckled like she hadn’t heard that hundreds of times before. “I promise you the only thing it’s spiked with is a little nutmeg,” she reassured him. “It’s a nice little pick-me-up for the parents that need it.” She winked at him. It wasn’t exactly flirting, but it wasn’t chaste either. The father accepted the cup and thanked her. He took a sip of the sweet apple goodness and watched his kids scamper around.

“Mom couldn’t make it today?” Caroline asked. She normally wouldn’t pry into a customer’s life like that. After all, there could be many reasons why you wouldn't see a mother in a family. Maybe there was a separation, or he was a widower, or had a husband. But something behind his eyes told Caroline that this man had a wife who was very much in the picture, and for whatever reason she had not joined her family on their trip to the pumpkin patch. If the man was offended at the question then he didn’t let it show. “She wanted to be here, but she had to work. You know how that goes.” As a single young girl working in a pumpkin patch, Caroline wasn’t very familiar with the expectations of a soulless corporate job that could keep parents distant from their families. Lucky old her. Still she nodded sympathetically at the mother’s absence. “Yeah, I know it can be difficult sometimes. But you seem to be doing well, all things considered.”

A flash of disbelief crossed the father’s eyes as Miss Caroline walked away. He took another sip of his cider and started thinking to himself. Was he doing well? He couldn’t say with confidence whether his marriage was a good one or a bad one. It’s not like he had any serious complaints. Sure, their schedules could get a little hectic and they were tired all the time, but that was every marriage. He loved his wife, and he adored his kids. It was just that sometimes they couldn’t be in the same place at the same time. They both had jobs to do, sometimes hers just happened to hold her over late. And that’s how he winds up driving forty-five minutes out past Sticksville to go to a hokey pumpkin patch just so their kids can pick out pumpkins for carving. And who will most likely end up having to carve them, scraping out those disgusting smelly guts and seeds, and slicing cuts into his palms trying to make a damn toothy grin?

The father continued to stew over his cider as Miss Caroline talked to his children. They presented her with their pumpkins, and she complimented their choices. “Oh yes, there’s a strong stem on that one,” and “That’s a smooth skin, and the perfect shade of orange.” The children beamed at her praise. She smiled and guided them back to their father, who broke free of his train of thought. She cashed them out on her phone and watched them stroll happily back to their car, the dad’s shoulders slumping ever so slightly more than when they’d arrived. 

The sun had barely come up on the quiet street of houses. Families were moving around inside, getting ready for their busy days. The sidewalk was empty, except for Miss Caroline, who strode confidently down the street. She looked radiant, no longer in her trademark pumpkin patch overalls, but in a beautiful jade dress that clung to her slight figure. Nobody looking outside took much note of her in spite of her odd outfit, or the fact that a stranger was walking down the street so early in the morning. They just shrugged and went back to their coffees. Her brown hair, no longer tied up, bounced as she strode towards a certain front door. It was locked but opened for her without resistance when she turned the handle.

She found the father, Jake, sitting on the couch in a daze. He didn’t look up at her when she entered, showing no surprise that she was suddenly in his home. She smiled with pride; that spiked cider had worked like a charm. Her superiors would be pleased with her progress; it was hard to get the timing right on these things. She floated over behind the couch and placed a clean hand delicately on his shoulder. She crouched down so her lips were right next to his ear. “Is your wife home?”

He shook his head slightly. When he answered there was no inflection in his voice, like he was sleepwalking. “She left early.” Caroline tutted, and the sweetness in her voice vanished. “Seflish bitch.” She glanced upstairs. “Have you awakened the children yet?”

Again he shook his head. Caroline stood up. “That’s good.” She waved a hand dismissively towards him as she turned away. “Leave her a note that says you’re leaving her and taking the kids. When that’s done, go down to the basement and stay there until you die. Don’t make any noise if anyone comes home.” She felt him stand up and obediently head towards the kitchen to write the note. She climbed the stairs to the bedrooms, smiling and becoming Miss Caroline once more.

The children were just waking up as she opened their door. She stood in the doorway, smiling down at them. “Miss Caroline? What are you doing here?”

She batted that perfected smile and spoke with her sweetened tone. “We’re going to go somewhere special today, you guys. Your parents wanted to surprise you; it’s going to be super fun!” The kids smiled at her and leapt out of their beds. Their parents had told them to not go anywhere with strangers, but this was Miss Caroline. They knew her.

“Where are we going? What will we do? Will our parents be there?”

Caroline’s lips came together into a tight smile. “Maybe. Grab your coats.”

Thanks for reading! Part 3 will be out next Friday! Cuz Halloween! Part 1 can be read here.

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Sometimes It’s Hard

“We apologize for what you had to go through. I assure you we will do everything we can to make sure something like this never happens again.” Tim barely heard himself going through the “apologies” script for the tenth time that morning. He’d been fielding emails and phone calls all morning from clients who were not happy with the results his office had provided them last week. Tim apologized on behalf of his office, even though the reason for the shoddy work had nothing to do with him. But he was the one who answered the phones, so he had to give the apologies. He was sure his voice betrayed the fact that he actually didn’t care one way or the other.

Tim closed his eyes for just a few seconds after hanging up, tried to concentrate on his breathing. He’d read up on meditation and was trying to get into using it when he felt it was time to calm down. He barely made it into a third breath before a notification dinged on his computer. He had a meeting with his supervisor in five minutes. Ah yes, the day to “touch base” and share his thoughts and concerns. Not that any concerns had been remedied or addressed in all the years Tim had worked there.

His supervisor was sitting at her desk, face red and brow as furrowed as ever. She glanced up at Tim as he stood in her doorway, looking confused but then quickly remembering they had a meeting today. “Hi Tim, sit down,” she gestured at the chair on the other side of her desk. Her eyes glued back to her computer screen, probably trying to finish what she was doing before Tim “interrupted” with this mandatory meeting. He took a seat and began to wait.

The supervisor gave a deep sigh as she finished what she was doing. “I hate people,” she muttered, mostly to herself. Tim just nodded politely. This was a constant complaint around the office when dealing with customers, and sometimes even with other employees. Tim didn’t think that someone who would get into a management position should openly declare that they hate people.

She didn’t elaborate on what she meant by her comment, just started the meeting. It was as boring as always. She asked if Tim had anything he wanted to discuss. He didn’t, of course, because very little at work was worth thinking about, outside of “Can I please get a noticeable raise?” to which the answer was usually, “Awww we’d like to, but no.” So the meeting went on, the Supervisor went over Tim’s performance, which was fine. Went over a few rules and regulations, nothing he didn’t already know.

She surprised him by breaking the monotony with a surprise criticism: “Some people say you have a bad attitude.”

Tim shook his head, unsure if he’d heard her correctly. “What?” Tim barely spoke to his coworkers; the way their jobs were structured there was really no reason for them to chitchat, and if they did that would affect productivity, and heaven forbid that happen.

Yet his supervisor explained that when he did have to talk to his coworkers, some of them found him rude and aggressive. Tim was surprised to hear this; part of his job was reporting criticisms and offering suggestions, but he always tried to do it in a friendly and constructive way.

“Well nevertheless,” his supervisor said, “just something to be aware of. Maybe take a breath before you have to give bad news. We wouldn’t want to write you up or anything.” If she was kidding, Tim couldn’t tell. He began to suck on the inside of his cheek. He wanted to defend himself, say that he was a good worker and that people here didn’t take criticism very well. How silly to have them report him to his supervisor instead of just talking to him, another passive move in the ol’ office jungle.

But instead he just nodded, hoping the inside of his cheek wouldn’t start bleeding soon. He listened to her suggestions and pretended to be agreeable, and then was dismissed to return to his desk. Her eyes were already back on her computer before he left her office.

***

Tim went to one of his favorite spots for lunch. It was the kind of place that closed at 3pm but you could order their breakfast items at any time, and Tim loved that. On an average day he could make it there, eat in, and return to the office all within his lunch break. It was the ideal system.

The place was quite busy when he showed up and the line was moving slowly. He decided he would get his food as takeout; it would still take a while, but he would make it back to the office in time and he could eat at his desk. They liked it when people ate at their desks, that showed commitment to the “mission”. Don’t let a pesky thing like eating get in the way of your desk job.

An older woman walked right past the line of people and up to the counter. She wasn’t an old biddy or anything, but definitely of an age where she could be a grandmother. She looked around at the tables, the menu on the wall, and the counter with the cash register on it. She pointed down at the counter and asked the worker, “Is this where we order?” The worker politely informed her that, yes, this is where you order, and that line of people are already waiting. The woman nodded and went to the back of the line.

“I’ve never been here before!” Tim heard her explain to someone in line behind him. Bullshit, thought Tim. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been to a place before or not. You’re an adult, when you see a line of people standing in front of a counter you should assume that you need to join that line. He wondered at what age you forgot how to simply order food in a restaurant. He couldn’t imagine seeing a line full of people and thinking, “Well this can’t be where I have to go,” and pushing past them. People always just thought about themselves.

As he reached his turn in line Tim tried to put the woman out of his mind. Take more of those breaths he’d been hearing about. The worker behind the counter, a friendly girl who kept her positive demeanor in the busiest of rushes, greeted him politely. He tried to order a slice of quiche.

They were out of the quiche. Damn, but not unexpected considering the time of day.

He tried ordering a cinnamon bun. They sold out of those too. Damn.

A bagel breakfast sandwich. They were out of bagels.

A breakfast sandwich on a croissant. Non.

He found success with a club sandwich. He didn’t really like club sandwiches, but food was food and at this point he’ll just take whatever he can get. He got a bag of chips with it. Plain chips because, of course, they were out of barbeque.

He stood off to the side and waited while the kitchen prepared his order. He casually watched as customers ordered their food. Unlike him, everyone else was somehow able to get the first thing they ordered. The old woman from before got to the front of the line. She wasn’t ready. Again, Tim wondered what she thought was going to happen when she got to the front of the line. At her age there was no way this was her first time in a restaurant.

Everything about her annoyed Tim. The way it all confused her, as if the menu was written in code on the back of the Declaration of Independence. The way she spoke was annoying, asking all these questions but still with an air of entitlement. And how she was completely oblivious to how she was aggravating everyone else by holding up the line. When she finally made her order and asked for her eggs to be prepared “medium well,” it was all Tim could do to stop himself from asking her exactly what the hell that even means.

He finally got his sandwich in a little brown paper bag. Apologies for the wait. He drove back to the office and clocked back in, five minutes over his allotted lunch break. He’d hear about that at the next meeting. They loved bringing that up at meetings. He ate his sandwich while staring half-aware at his screen. It didn’t taste as good as he wanted it.

***

The drive home was full of assholes. Some drivers were too slow and took too long to turn. Others were too aggressive and weaved dangerously around others. Some honked their horns. Some gave the finger. Others yelled, shook their fists. Tim’s shoulders were tight, his jaw stuck in a clench. Just get home, goddamnit.

Upon getting home, goddamnit, he quickly said hello to his wife and went to the bathroom to take a shower. Showering off the day usually helped Tim relax. He felt it was possible to wash the “work” right out of your body. He quickly found there was no hot water and he cut his shower short because he hated showering cold, despite reading that it was better for you.

He put on sweatpants and an old t-shirt before rejoining his wife in the kitchen. Mentioned there was no hot water. That was her fault, she had gotten home just a few minutes before him and jumped in the shower. He sighed in frustration but didn’t say anything more. He busied himself sorting the bills on the kitchen table.

It was his wife’s night to cook dinner, and she asked what he wanted, spaghetti or stir fry. Tim said he didn’t care. She said she didn’t care either, just pick one. He didn’t care, just pick one, he didn’t care, just pick one.

“I said I don’t fucking care!”

His wife turned and looked at him in surprise. Her eyebrows were arched and she looked a little hurt and a little angry. After a pause she relaxed her face, took a deep breath, and said in a calm voice: “Something you need to talk about?”

Tim rubbed his temples angrily with his fists, feeling a headache forming right behind them. “I’m sorry, I just, I just…” he hesitated before finishing his sentence. “…hate people.”

The words hung there in the kitchen. Tim could feel that his face was red. He looked down at the table because he couldn’t look at his wife. She stared at him for a long time, studying his face, his body language. Then she let out a small chuckle. “Do you, Tim? Do you really hate people?”

He looked up at her, this beautiful woman he was absolutely in love with. He thought of her, then he thought of his parents, he thought of his friends. The ones who’d helped him move, the ones who listened to him bitch, the ones he took weekend trips with. He thought of the one coworker in the office he liked, the cashier at the market who always asked what he was going to cook this week. The stranger who let him cut in front of them when traffic was bad the other day.

He took another breath. This time when he exhaled he felt the tension in his chest loosen ever so slightly. His shoulders lowered just an inch. His face got a smidge cooler.

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t hate people. Sometimes it’s just hard.”

She nodded and gave him a hug. She made spaghetti for dinner. It was delicious.

Thanks for reading, please share if you liked it. You can subscribe to my email blast here, this week I talked a bit about the moments where being kind to people can do a world of good. Keep Trying!

You Couldn’t Make “The Golden Girls” Today, because Blanche is a Landlord.

Listen, nobody wants to see another revival/reboot of a classic sitcom anymore (Night Court? Does anyone care?). And, of course, no one would dream of trying to reboot The Golden Girls, one of the greatest sitcoms of all time. We could make so many points about how shows with live studio audiences don’t work anymore, as they now feel like actors just standing and delivering lines instead of actual characters. Or we could make the point that the chemistry of that original cast is impossible to recreate (Bea Arthur HATED Betty White, but could you tell?). But let’s get to the real reason why we couldn’t see a reboot of Golden Girls: it’s 2023 and Blanche is a shitty landlord.

Now we all love Blanche. She’s got that ridiculous Southern accent, she’s over-dramatic, she’s a proud slut. Many a young woman/gay man idolizes Blanche for her unashamed healthy sexuality. She’s the life of the party, someone who’s never afraid to have fun. There are plenty of things to love about Blanche. But there’s one giant flaw: she charges her best friends, her “sisters”, rent to live in her house.

Right from the get go, she promises the same room to Dorothy and Rose. When confronted about this, she shrugs and says “Whoops!”. Now if Dorothy and Rose were experienced renters in 2023 this serious lack of organization would be a giant red flag for their living situation. The landlord can’t keep track of her tenants? And she only has two? Run, girls.

Throughout the series Blanche shows more signs of shittiness. Threatening to raise the rent to win arguments, turning Rose’s heat off because she’s mad at her, having wicker furniture in the living room. Sure, she lives there too, so the house looks more presentable than just walls sloppily painted off-white and doors that don’t sit in their frames properly. Still, in the episode where the roof starts leaking and needs replaced, what happens? They all chip in. Hahahahaha, get the hell out of here, Blanche, that’s your responsibility.

It’s clear Blanche is renting her house to supplement her income, since she “Works herself like a dog twenty hours a week at that museum”. And, in theory, there’s nothing wrong with being a landlord as long as you are ready to treat it with the same level of care you would approach any other job. But ironically, despite being part of that alleged “greatest generation”, Blanche doesn’t want to work. But, of course, if you’re in a rough spot financially, it’s perfectly logical to rent out some rooms to help out a bit.

But here’s the thing…Blanche doesn’t need the money.

Every story from Blanche’s childhood that doesn’t involve sex usually mentions growing up in Hollingsworth Manor. Her family had money; they were probably “old money”, she was not a child who grew up poor like Dorothy or Rose or Sophia, who lived under a bridge in Sicily. The Hollingsworth’s were just straight up rich. Then she got married, and guess what? Her husband George was also rich. She had nannies taking care of her kids while she was a housewife. She openly admitted once that she married money. So now, at the time of the show, she has her family money AND her late husband’s money. There’s no reason she should need to rent her rooms.

There is no mention that maybe she’s squandered her money or has a gambling problem or anything like that. Yet she’s always needed to fill those rooms since her husband passed, if for no other reason than to avoid finding herself a real job. So she opens up her house (god forbid she finds a smaller place) to strangers, whom she once accidentally called “suckers”. And, sure, she grew to love the Girls as her own family. But at the end of the day she’s taking money from a substitute teacher, an unemployed 80-year old, and Rose, a woman who somehow manages to hold decent jobs despite being a nitwit.

To be blunt, Blanche is a monster. Blanche is just renting out her house for the sheer, powerful thrill of having people dependent on her. Sure, she probably wouldn’t throw the girls out on the street, she does love them. But she still has that dynamic, that threat she can whip out when they get on her nerves. What kind of sadist does that? Is that someone we really feel like rooting for these days, with tenants posting more and more often about the lack of attention from their landlords? Perhaps we would watch a gritty antihero reboot, a la Dexter, about a loveable slut who grifts everyone close to her. Blanche’s House, coming next spring in 2024.

That Old Man

He never plans his visits to the coffee shop, just goes when the mood strikes him. Keep a little spontaneity in his life, instead of walking the same trails every day. Today he brings his paper and gets his coffee, plain with a splash of cream, then the usual polite small talk with the owner before taking a table in the front where he can look out at the street. He’s retired, of course. Retired from a job he never truly enjoyed, but now he gets to enjoy his “golden years”. Whatever that means, whatever is left to enjoy at this age.

Most of the people coming into the coffee shop are young people on a break from their jobs. Often times they’re impatient. He remembers those days; got to have something to worry about. What is life if there’s no stress? A few fellow old-timers stop in as well, a few homeless looking for free coffee, the occasional student looking for a place to work on their computer. Always someone doing something. He’s not one of those old men that gather for McDonald’s breakfast every Tuesday and Thursday to solve the world’s problems. He keeps to himself, a loner, a hermit. He prefers it this way, he tells himself.

He reads his newspaper. He has a smartphone and knows how to read the news on it, but he thinks the newspaper really ties the “old man” look together. He judges the old men that drink their coffee and then read the news on their phones, brows furrowed in anger. Like they’re trying to look young. He’d rather flip through the newspaper. Nothing in it worth reading, of course, but at least it looks productive. He refuses to be a total stereotype and skips reading the obituaries. He never recognizes the names in there anyway.

As he skims over the Opinion section for anything intelligent, a young couple walks into the shop. They’re laughing with each other, with jokingly-linked arms as they walk. They aren’t terribly young, maybe mid-thirties. Definitely too old for that flirty, puppy love business. Their love must either be very new or very strong. A more outgoing old man would just ask them, but he wasn’t going to be that old man. He knows how to mind his business.

They giggle as they order their overly-complicated order, double espresso with skim milk and two pumps of some sugary syrup that negates getting skim milk in the first place. They should be annoying, but the owner finds them charming, makes little jokes as he rings them up. Their love is infectious.

The old man recalled being their age once. It was around the time people repeatedly started asking him when he’d get married, only a few short years before they gave up asking. He never had a good answer for them, as if falling in love were a choice one person makes alone, like getting a tattoo. It was a mutual thing, and he’d never found someone where the love had gone both ways. Love was usually unrequited. Sometimes he was the one unable to return the feelings. The stars just hadn’t aligned, despite others saying they would someday or “It will happen when you stop looking”. Such nice-sounding platitudes that he soon got tired of hearing.

He finishes his paper and leaves it on the table, a freebie for the next person who may want to flip through. He takes his to-go cup out into the street, starts to roam. Had to get out of there. Outside is better, can look at the clouds, look at the grass, look at the river. Not look at the young couple in love.

Love. The most wonderful feeling in the world. Whether it’s familial, platonic, romantic. Books are written about it, songs are sung about it, far too many movies get made about it. Sure, Valentine’s Day was invented to make money (what holiday wasn’t?), but the power of love is still a force to be reckoned with. But romantic love, agreed in unspoken words to be the most powerful kind, he’d never had the pleasure of experiencing. How had that happened?

On the other side of the street, he spotted a man in his fifties walking beside a young woman, maybe in her late twenties. She seemed to be wearing a sports bra as a top, and she was very visibly pregnant. They both looked miserable as they walked in silence. Was she his daughter? Younger wife? Mistress? Could be anything. But again, none of his business.

Perhaps he was looking to avoid a situation like that: a situation where you can tell two people are miserable together but they refuse to be alone. He never wanted to end up like that, trapped in his own home. He’d made himself as happy as he could, made money, had space. He had created his own life.

Memories kept coming back to him as he slowly made his way back to the house. Damn memories, a lot of them painful. Most men his age were getting senile, and he was almost jealous of them. He had to remember his past failures. He only remembered the hurt. Unrequited love. The rejection and embarrassment, how it kept him bedridden for weeks. But like with every bad feeling, it eventually stopped. He’d thought the end of the heartache meant that he had gotten over it. But after that time, he had never really pursued love again. One way to avoid getting hurt is to never try. Now, at this stage of his life, he wished he’d tried a little more.

He had gotten back to his house sooner than he’d realized. Maybe he was going senile after all. Something to look forward to, or perhaps not. He was proud of his house, of what he had done with it. There were lots of things to be proud of, still a lot of good things. No use getting cranky about the past. He goes inside to his favorite chair, puts his feet up, turns on the TV. It’s not a bad life, even at this age.

Tomorrow was Thursday. Maybe he’d get up early tomorrow, go to McDonald’s. Get a biscuit sandwich and see if the old men need any help solving the world’s problems. He could help with that, he really could.