Game Show

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The red-lipped voice tells me that my dream life is behind the curtain. One of the curtains.

“But what is behind the other two?”

The sequined-breasts reply, “Behind one is death, behind the other is a lifetime supply of Frito’s.”

“Fat or skinny Frito’s? That’s an important detail that cannot be ignored.”

“Fat Frito’s. With bean dip.” Bedazzled elbow-length gloves sweep across the room. Pearly white teeth appear that aren’t coffee-stained like mine.

A clock ticks.  My flannel shirt falls from my waist. I forgot I was wearing it because I’ve been wearing it since 1994.

“Make a choice.”

I push a giant green button that passes the choice to the other contestant. He’s short and chooses curtain number 3. The Grim Reaper waves as he emerges from the red velveteen curtain and drags Mr. Short Contestant away. He doesn’t scream because he thinks it’s a joke. It’s not a joke. The Grim Reaper still has some soul on his chin from the last unfortunate-choosing contestant, and now he has my flannel shirt.

I really want the Frito’s because if my dream life is behind a curtain, what else is left to search for?

I pick number one. There’s nothing behind the purple satin curtain. Blond bouffant says, “Oh no. Where’s your dream life?” Six inch press-on nails pick up a piece of paper. “It left a note.” She holds up an index card for the audience to see.  Everyone’s silent as they wait to see what my dream life has to say. “Split. Had better things to do.” I choose the orange polyester curtain next.

So now I’m eating Frito’s and bean dip.

The Grim Reaper is getting his own reality show.

I really like Frito’s and bean dip.

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