I stood there for a few minutes while I processed what I was seeing. It was by far the largest home I’d ever seen. Might be the largest structure, period? Although, granted, my experience was limited.
It had a red shingle roof, that same neutral colored stucco façade that the gate pillars were made out of, and it was covered in what appeared to be a structured vine system. The damn thing sprawled for days.
A large running fountain with a mermaid structure in the center of it coughed up an endless flow of water, and as I walked around it toward the massive wooden double doors, I had that same instinct from before overwhelming me.
This was a mistake.
Was I supposed to knock on these wooden doors? I didn’t have to think about that for too long, because apparently the giant who lived beyond the doors had seen fit to take pity on me.
Except when the two twelve-foot-high doors opened, it wasn’t a giant on the other side.
Just E.G.
He wore loose athletic pants and a Stanford t-shirt that had seen better days.
His feet were bare, his hair was sticking up at odd angles and he had the worst dark circles under his eyes I’d ever seen.
“I didn’t tell you to come,” he grumbled.
I held up the white plastic bag loaded with all the shit that had been recommended.
“You want me to take it back?”
“Come in,” he sighed, like I was the imposition of a lifetime. He pushed himself off the door and walked back into his…den, lair, cave?
Whatever it was, it wasn’t a home.
More like a museum with colorful intricate tile in the foyer that bled into a dark wood floor, which exploded into arches that led to the right and left. My head was on a swivel, but I couldn’t take it all in.
The library to the right, with a massive fireplace situated between bookshelves, with a façade that ran up the entire length of the wall.
“Is that a Picasso?” I gasped. I think I’d seen something similar when our junior year class had gone on a field trip to the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
“Duchamp,” he said, like I knew who that was. “But close, Flowers. Good eye.”
“I think I need to leave.”
“By all means,” he said, dryly. “Drop the bag and go.”
Then he started coughing. That I could focus on.
Not the awe of the room or the art or the light that seemed to filter in throughout the ceilings. He continued back through the various different archways and I followed him until we reached what I thought might be the kitchen.
Except, it was all this neutral beige. The cabinets, the walls. Nothing on the counter. A faucet and massive sink underneath it, might have been the only thing that resembled anything kitchen-like.
Except then he opened the wall, and it wasn’t a wall as much as it was a refrigerator.
He pulled a bottle of orange juice, and somehow, like the coughing, it helped me to focus.
Orange juice. Bad cough. E.G. Those were things I could relate to.
I set the bag on the counter and tried to keep my jaw shut.
“What is all that?”
“Stuff you need for a cold,” I said, spilling the contents of the bag. “Have you eaten anything this morning? You shouldn’t take this stuff on an empty stomach.”
“You didn’t need to come out here. It’s just a cold.”
