The House of Expectations (c) 2021

“There he is again,” the father said. “Just try to be peaceful and understanding,” his third wife said. They were responding to the doorbell ringing. “Maybe, we can just ignore him. He’ll go away.” “No matter what. He’s your son.” The father loudly sighed and rolled his eyes. 

 Why couldn’t his son be more like him? All the things that he had worked hard for. Things like the leased new Cadillac, and his wife’s pristine BMW and the five hundred thousand dollar two story house. The boy was weak minded; just like his mother; the father’s first wife. He was expected to be sensitive to the boy’s feelings. Like the way he cried that last Christmas because he didn’t get the same number of gifts as his stepchildren. The boy was in his late twenties-but hardly even close to being a real man.

 If worse came to worse, he could always turn on the sports channel on his huge high-definition flat screen television. That distraction would be great for the moments when the silence was so damningly loud. The father believed, lived by the dogma, that life ultimately didn’t need to be a touchy, feely thing. You just take action; and work hard for what you want-it’s that simple. The son looked through the stained glass of the front door. Then he realized, like so many times before, yet he never remembered that he couldn’t see through the glass. If someone opened the door, the door would hit him on his head. 

 The hallway is always long. Has very little lighting. There are doors on each side. Doors that are thought to be leading to different living spaces. Hallways that are a part of our psyche. Hallways that are seen in infinite visions. Visions? 

Think of, remember the movies, the books, that have a hallway scene. As thing created outside of the body are based on our bodies. Take the car, for instance, a car like the human body has a heart-the engine. The car has a brain that is all the electronic functions. The car has feet (the wheels). The eyes are the head lights.

 “All your weird thinking is getting you no where boy,” his father said very often. Like every time he saw him often. It would anger him. The boy would think to himself, “My father doesn’t want to understand me.” He would use those types of thoughts as a reason to be angry. As a reason to not be productive. “Well, I tried,” the son mumbled to himself as he felt in his pockets for comfort. 

The five minutes that it took for him to smoke that cigarette, would give him a short reprieve from his racing negative thoughts. And that half a joint would keep him high. “Will fuel my creativity.” When he finished his cigarette, he turned the ignition key of his car (a 1979 Vet), Chevrolet Chevette. 

 The father opened the door. Saw his son was in the car. The son didn’t notice him. Then the father quickly closed the door. “Well, I tried,” the father said. The son exited the affluent neighborhood. The neighborhood built only twenty years ago. The neighborhood where it seems like a requirement to drive at least a forty-thousand dollar car, have a fancy boat, and a manicured lawn.

 A lawn kept up by the poor. Or, that’s how the residents would view them. They egotistically had to show off that they were helping those “less fortunate.” The workers mostly seemed to be Black or Mexican. This was included in what the son took note. He’d mumble to himself somewhat humorously, “Slavery still exist.”

 He’d also take note of the cemetery on The Other Side of The Street from The Entrance. There’s A statue of Jesus that could be seen from far away-or at least, that was the son’s perception. “Should be a requirement,” the son uttered to himself as he did his drive through at a snail’s pace.