The American Dream

Imagine.


White Male.
Republican.
Old and graying with age, pushing the wrong side of 40.



He has three kids, complete with a wife half his age. The children, not hers.
His oldest a broody teenager that he suspects to be a homosexual. He never asks. He fears the answer, he'll never ask. The boy hates him, drowning out the father's words with a fresh riff from an electric guitar. The boy has a secret, he's not gay. He's an addict. Addicted to whatever for a time, can fix his fraying life. The father doesnt notice, his primary concern the sexuality of the son.

The other two both daughters and close in age. 14 and 15 respectively, too young he thinks to know of the world, too young to worry about. Innocence fading, he ignores the passing of time and fails to notice they idolize whores. Too ashamed by the image he sees in theirs face's of his ex-wife, a constant reminder of his guilt.

The wife hates him most. A blond beauty who dreams in vivid ambition. He doesn't see, cannot see past a perfect smile and young face. She bides her time, one meal at a time waiting for the inevitable. His heart is weak and she ensures he eats heartily. Death comes to him on a platter, one smile, one meal at a time. She hopes when he's gone, she'll have enough of her looks remaining to start over.

The house, a two-story Victorian rich in history. The prize jewel of another life, another family. Sold as they descended into ruin. The house is another trophy, a toy, a token of his wealth. All a lie, the family lives above their means, and only he knows it. The sad truth being he has no home, and he's the only one who doesn't know it.

This is the American dream, excuse me if I choose another. Move along, nothing to see here.