The Pepto Bismal House
Who paints a house that shade of pink? I walked by it every day on my way to work. I couldn’t pass it without thinking about its similarity to the noxious liquid my mother made me drink when I had an upset tummy as a child. As if having that thick gunk sliding down my throat wouldn’t make me even more nauseated.
The only redeeming quality of the pink house was the wrought iron landings outside the tall windows.
If I lived there, I’d have a comfy chair to sit in and a little table for my coffee cup. I’d sit up there like a crow on a telephone wire and watch people walk by.
There was the man with the baseball hat, who walked to the corner shop every morning, returning ten minutes later eating a Snickers candy bar.
The woman pushing the double stroller always had a look of alarm on her face, as if she couldn’t believe she’d birthed not one, but two tiny human beings.
I’d get a good idea of where the homeless guy roamed after he hit me up for a few coins. I never made eye contact, never acknowledged his presence. I always thought he was dressed too well to actually be homeless. I figured he was too cheap to buy his own coffee and begged passersby for enough to fulfil his java fix. I could relate. What I couldn’t do was give him any of my precious money.
Unless I lived in that pink house. If I did toss the guy some money, I’d have to be rich as Elon Musk and wouldn’t have to slave away in a windowless office in the bowels of a downtown building. I’d even have someone to cook, clean, and bring me a refill of iced tea at my command.
And I’d definitely hire someone to paint the house a different color. Well, maybe I wouldn’t. Sometimes it’s good to be different.
