I’ll bet that the California sun emits invisible Carolina Reapers to squeeze the Pacific Ocean right out of our bodies and to bite our tongues, because this is what’s happening right now. Even a Chocolate Devotion ice cream from Cold Stone Creamery can’t compete with the California sun. I don’t even know why I chose to sit on the stoop across from the rundown, worn apartment where Mrs. Pauley’s lived for forty years. It was once a comfortable hippie apartment complex, boasting with the psychedelic colors of the seventies and ringing with the Coca Cola commercial song. Now the colors have faded. Some have already gone, and now Mrs. Pauley will go with the remaining colors.
She’s raised a family of six boys. To her, they’re just memories that sometimes flash again. When I was born, the sixth son was already married, and his wife had just found out that she was pregnant with identical triplets, but they turned out to be more like identical twins and a brother. I play with them often.
She’s remained faithful and loyal to her husband. Mr. Pauley. He’s gone too; he lost his battle to a severe case of pneumonia three months ago. He’s not yet a faded memory, because his death was so sudden. And the memory is too raw for Mrs. Pauley to bear. They weren’t prepared with life insurance. She couldn’t keep up with the rent. That’s why the very gangly-tall landlord, an antithesis of the typical landlord, has come to evict Mrs. Pauley from the apartment.
One by one, the household furniture, the faded patches of Mrs. Pauley’s home, come out of the door.
The apartment that no one lives in anymore since Mrs. Pauley got evicted shreds in a million pieces. One by one, they’re gone. Like that. Gone with the memories and psychedelic colors, gone with the Coca Cola commercial song.