It stuck out like a sore thumb, bleeding with fluorescent pink. I had never seen
another like it. It was used as a marker when people stopped to ask for directions. It was
like a lighthouse in a sea of homes. It was never referred to as anything but "the pink
Our neighborhood wasn't very wealthy. In fact, I'd say it was only about a half a
step up from a trailer park. The streets were lined with little one-story cottages and then
just around the corner, there it was, "the pink house". It must have been at least twenty
times larger than all the other houses on its block combined. The dog's house and playpen
were almost equivalent to the size of the next home.
Starting from the mailbox, there was a pathway shaped in a figure eight we called
the yellow brick road. It led around the dog, through all the gardens, and followed the
perimeter of the brook until it reached near the garage door and loops back around to
enclose the pool. The landscape was manicured three times a week, and there was never a
bare spot in the grass. The front entrance was a huge set of double doors. A great
American Condor's wingspan couldn't cover it. To each side of them spaced about
twenty feet away were gargantuan pillars as thick as mature redwood trees.
I walked through those fortress doors once. I was selling candy bars for a school
fundraiser and they bought the whole box. The people were nice, but I paid no attention
to them, I just starred at the house's beautiful interior. The cathedral ceiling could have
been painted by Da Vinci himself. The TV room was as big as a movie theater. Down the
first hall I could see nothing but rows of paintings and stuffed animal heads. I started to
walk down more to get a closer look and all I remember is feeling lightheaded like I had
just walked into the paint isle of a hardware store. Then ...