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.

Karen Dies

“I’d like to speak to a manger.”

Charon looked up, in spite of themselves. This was a new one, not something many people said as they boarded the vessel to cross the River Styx. A few other souls were already sitting patiently in the little boat, accepting of their fate. The woman that stood defiantly before them, however, seemed very annoyed.

Usually by the time these souls made it to the edge of the river they were resigned to their fate. Sure, occasionally someone would try to plead with death, but when Charon is standing before you, an actual skeleton clad in a billowing black cloak, you eventually have to accept that your time on Earth is up. Charon had taken many forms over the centuries, but lately had stuck with the “cloaked skeleton” appearance. Most people seemed to instantly recognize that look, the Western classic.

Charon usually stayed mute, to match the “creepy Grim Reaper” vibe. If this woman found Charon intimidating, then she hid it extraordinarily well. She seemed unfazed by their appearance, so there was no other option but to speak.

“Excuse me?” they asked. Charon could hear their voice, deep and whispery, reverberating into the air. Usually hearing “death” speak would startle you, but again this woman seemed unaffected.

“Your manager.” She repeated. “I’d like to speak to who’s in charge here.”

Manager. Who did this woman think she was? Charon gestured with a skeletal hand to the dark, almost black river. “Ma’am, this is the River Styx. You’re being ferried to the afterlife.”

The woman huffed. “Well, I don’t think I should be here. You should double-check your records.”

If Charon still had eyes in their sockets they would have rolled them. Luckily all signs of skin, organs, and muscles had long faded away, so the woman couldn’t see their annoyance. Charon pulled out the scroll from beneath their robes and opened it.

“What’s it say?” she asked impatiently.

“It’s loading.” Charon replied coolly. Names and causes started appearing and disappearing on the scroll. They took their time to find her name, preferring to make her wait. They literally had all the time in the world. A few of the souls sitting in the boat shifted restlessly, but no one spoke up. Finally, a name popped up.

“Carolyn Johnson?” Charon asked.

“Yes, that’s me.”

Charon nodded. “Yeah, you’re dead.”

Carolyn shook her head in frustration. “No, no, I’m not dead. Someone messed up somewhere. I want to speak to who’s in charge.”

Charon groaned inwardly. This was going to be a process. “It’s not easy to get ahold of who’s “in charge” here. A lot of people want to get ahold of Them after they pass over, but it takes a long time. But to get to Them, you have to get on the boat.” They tapped their scythe against the floor of the boat for effect.

Carolyn shook her head defiantly. “I’m not getting on that boat. You let “Them” know I’m here and they can come talk to me. I can wait.”

Oh, she could wait alright. There was a strict policy on souls who choose to linger on the shore instead of crossing the River. It was frowned upon, to say the least.

Charon put on their customer service voice. “Unfortunately, that’s not really an option. I know you can’t really see through the fog or anything, but there is nothing outside of this shore. You can’t leave here; you won’t even be able to try.”

There was a flash of realization in Ms. Johnson’s eyes. Charon guessed she’d just thought of storming off the shore and then was surprised when her legs wouldn’t move. The feeling of no escape would usually do the trick, but still she strengthened her resolve.

“Well, I’ll stay on this shore, then.” She huffed. She strutted over and pointedly sat down on a large rock, one of the few landmarks on this ghostly shore. Charon clenched their skeletal hand discreetly under their sleeves. Deep breath, count to ten. The souls in the boat stirred restlessly again. One of them began to tap their fingers against the hull impatiently.

“One moment, please” Charon told them. No one reacted. Charon lifted their scythe into the air and levitated themselves out of the boat, gliding slowly over to Carolyn Johnson. In addition to looking cool, levitating also helped to keep sand out of Sharon’s feet and robes. They hated that. They stopped and hovered over Ms. Johnson, not close enough to intimidate her, but close enough she wouldn’t be able to ignore.

“I can’t force you to get into the boat” they confessed. “But the Managers won’t come here to you. They’ll send things after you that will drag you to the afterlife by force. Those things are a lot scarier than me, and the process is quite painful.” As scary as the journey looked, traveling with Charon was the first and easiest way of getting to the afterlife. What They sent changed depending on the soul in question: three-headed dogs, shadow demons, a sea monster from under the River. Made Charon’s little boat look like a luxury cruise.

Ms. Johnson’s eyebrows went up in shock. “Are you trying to intimidate me? Well that won’t work, and don’t think I won’t tell your superior about that.”

Oh no, please don’t cost me my luxurious job of ferrying dead people across the River for all of eternity. Charon thought bitterly. They didn’t enjoy their work, but there were much worse jobs to be had in the afterlife. Better try another approach.

“Ms. Johnson,” they said, “I understand this can be a hard time. But we’re like going to the Post Office: nobody really wants to be here, but if you’re here then you’re here for a reason. So why don’t we work together and solve the problem?”

The woman scoffed, pretended to inspect her nails. “The “problem” is you people think I’m dead and I’m telling you I’m not.”

“You are” Charon insisted. “Living souls can’t access the shores of the River Styx.”

She just shrugged. “Well how could I have died, then? I wasn’t sick, I don’t remember any sort of accident.”

Charon flicked open the scroll again and started speed-reading. “It looks you had some sort of stroke, apparently while you were sleeping. You were probably dead before you realized what was happening.”

Again Ms. Johnson scoffed. “Well, that’s ridiculous; I’m too young to have a stroke! That doesn’t even run in my family!”

“It is rare,” Charon agreed, scanning through the “additional notes” section of the scroll. “but it does happen. And it did.”

“Well either way, I’d like to contest it.” She crossed her arms in a bitchy way and just glared at Charon. Charon did their best attempt at a polite shrug.

“I’m afraid you can’t contest death. It’s…final.”

She shook her head stubbornly. “Then I’ll stay here. What is this, purgatory or something?”

Charon clenched their scythe a little in frustration. “It’s kind of purgatory, but not really.” Ms. Johnson didn’t seem to like that answer, so Charon kept going. “Look, everything gets better after we cross the River. I know it looks dreary, with the fog and the black water, but believe me, this is the worst part.”

Ms. Johnson peered off into the shoreline, even though she couldn’t see anything. “So, what, that’s like Heaven?”

“Ehhhh we don’t like to label it. Everyone has their idea of what death will be like: they have different names for it, different expectations. In the end it doesn’t really matter; everyone goes to the same place and it gets sorted out from there.”

The woman’s finely-groomed eyebrows shot up. “So, what? Do bad people go to bad places?”

“Not quite” Charon admitted, annoyed they had to explain this when this woman would get this spiel again at Orientation. “It’s more like, in death you’ll spend some time processing all the bad things you did in life and the regrets you had. And for some people that takes a long time, and for others it doesn’t. But, you have an infinite amount of time. And once you’ve dealt with those regrets, things get better.”

Ms. Johnson nodded slowly, her face starting to soften. “Death seems complicated.”

Charon nodded their hooded head. “Yes.” They admitted. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Carolyn Johnson looked over at the boat already full of souls They were all older than her, folks who knew their time was coming and had made peace with this fate. They looked so content, just sitting there waiting to go to the afterlife. A few of them looked in her direction with understanding pity. Tears welled up in Carolyn’s eyes. “I wanted more time.” It was practically a whisper.

Charon felt the tension go out of their bones. “I understand.”

“There were so many things I wanted to do, so many people I haven’t spoken to in…” her voice trailed off. Charon said nothing. They knew they didn’t have to. Carolyn laughed bitterly. “Guess I’m already working on my regrets, huh?”

Charon just nodded. Ms. Johnson got to her feet. “Alright, boatman, I guess we should go now.” Charon led the woman to the boat, to the empty seat waiting her. Once she was settled in, they pushed off the beach with their scythe and the boat began its usual journey across the deep black waters. The passengers were silent, as they always were during this part. Eventually Charon couldn’t pick Carolyn Johnson out from the rest of them. They hoped she’d find her peace soon enough.

This story was written from a prompt provided by this Writing Prompt Generator from Service Space.

For anyone interested, you can sign up to my email list and I’ll notify you when a new story/blog is posted, plus share a few fun facts or stories on what I’ve been up too lately. Welcome back!