Dragon’s Den
Why do I feel so much better after I clip my toenails? – Jeff Marshall
Maybe it’s because The Wife appreciates it so. I wiggled my toes, now light and airy, and scooped up the offending nails, tossing them into the fire. You could never be too safe with things like that. The Wife constantly reminds me to be careful, but she does admit to being terribly superstitious.
Necessary chore done, I saunter down the hall to the kitchen to see what we might have in the larder for a late-night snack. At my advanced age, you’d think my stomach would slow down, but no. It’s harder and harder to keep off the weight and I need to venture ever farther to get my workout in. The Wife worries about my evening forays, but so far, we’re rural enough that I don’t run into too much when out and about. After a last check of windows and doors, I sneak in to cuddle up against My Love. She turns in her sleep and sighs. So many years together and still she dazzles me. After a quick kiss, she smiles and dreams.
The autumn evenings are cool, so I have to push these old bones harder to warm up and exercise. The temptation to curl up in front of the fire and hibernate until spring pulls at me, sings a siren song of sloth. This is why you marry, so that you have someone to kick you out of the house for your own good. These long October nights do make it easier to stretch my boundaries discreetly. No one likes a stranger peeking in their windows.
Tonight, though, it seems I have followed the wrong road. There is a blaze of lights in the distance and music twists through the trees. It seems someone has built a new house out here in the middle of nowhere. I liked not having neighbors. No one needs to see an old fogey like me out for his nightly constitutional. Too late to turn back, I fetch up to a pair of imposing wrought iron gates standing open welcoming guests up a long circular drive. I can’t help it. I’m curious. Who chooses to build a mansion out here? The satellite internet is godawful and you need your own generator. I slip through the gates into a grove of trees that lead to the back of the house. At least they haven’t stripped the land completely. The Wife is going to kill me, but now, curiosity has bitten deep. New neighbors – who would have guessed?
They’ve got a bonfire roaring, music pouring from unseen speakers, and a table groaning under a BBQ spread. It seems it might be a housewarming party as a piece of wrapping paper blows past my feet. I can tell cocktails are in full swing as a fetching blonde stumbles her way to the flagstone seat wall around the patio. I glance up at the three-story stone mansion. These folks are not the usually hippy dippy back-to-the-land crowd we typically get up here. Well, shit, there goes the neighborhood. Nothing worse than yuppie gentrification. I try to slip back through the trees, only I trip over a branch, snapping it. At once, I’m running, snagging on broken stumps and thorny twigs until at last I barrel out the gates into the night.
The Wife is not happy with me as she bandages a cut. I had to tell her. She’d run across those people sooner rather than later and that’s not a good kind of surprise. She’s pacing the front room, worrying that the whole region is headed toward development which means more roads, more cars, more people. We chose this mountainside for its delightful remoteness. I tell her we have time. She wipes away a tear and mourns that we’ve been so happy here. I try to comfort her that gentrification takes years. She shrugs off my embrace and starts browsing real estate, full glass of red wine at her elbow.
Now I can’t resist spying on our new neighbors. I know, I know, bring them a batch of cookies and introduce yourself properly. Yeah…I’m too stuck in my comfortable habits to add new friends. I’m perfectly happy in my everyday rut of routine, but that doesn’t mean I’m not one curious cat. I want to know who buys up land and builds a mansion where there’s barely a paved road? Unfortunately, other than that screen of trees, there isn’t a shrub worth of landscaping around the house for even a child to hide in. Add a few megawatts of landscape lighting and no one is getting close enough to peek in those windows. After a few nights poking about, I bow to The Wife’s expertise at Google searches.
It seems Brooklyn Turner and his wife Catelynn are looking to develop the several hundred acres they purchased. Their house is the first in a planned rural development that would provide the comfort of the city with the charm of the mountains. The Wife and I are devastated. I married a smart woman, but in this case, I heartily wish she wasn’t right. More bright lights, loud music, and luxury SUVs clogging the roads. I thought we’d finally found our patch of paradise and now these people move in. Further searches reveal that the township isn’t thrilled either. There were meetings over in Knight’s End, the town whose zip code we claim. I told The Wife we should have paid more attention, but she shushed me and kept reading. It seems there was quite the kerfuffle at the last town meeting and people had to be escorted from the town hall. Humph. So, we weren’t the only ones upset. The Wife emailed the village president for more details.
The next day, we poured over the proposed plan that Bob Wakefield had sent over. Nice guy, Bob. I haven’t met him, but he got back to The Wife in record time. Evidently, he’s not a fan of the Turners’ new plan either. They’d bought half the mountain! Plus, they had done all their homework so the county and the state requirements were not only met, but exceeded. They submitted the plans to the village council, expecting a rubber stamp and threatening lawsuits if they didn’t get it. Council had voted in favor 5 to 4 after a session that turned into a brawl. The Wife looked at me. I observed that no one but outsiders wanted the Turners to develop the land. She regarded me steadily, her sherry-colored eyes unwavering. I sighed. As usual, she was right. There was only us to solve the problem.
We waited until the dark of the moon. We crept down the mountain, my bride and I, sticking to the shadows. The Turner’s mansion was lit like a beacon, but otherwise was quiet. Twin silver SUVs were parked by the garage and we could see the flicker of a large screen TV. We crept up to peer in the windows, wanting to be sure they both were home. Ah, yes, there’s the happy couple relaxing to a movie. Netflix and chill, indeed. That was all we needed to know. I let The Wife take the lead. Ladies, first, you know.
The fire department was politely mystified to the press the next morning. No one seemed to know how the Turner mansion caught fire and burned so hot and so fast that the unfortunate couple was caught in the blaze. It was uncanny how the heat of the flames melted even the stone work, leaving a scorched pile of smoldering rubble behind. The house safe was melted into slag, destroying the development contracts. Such a shame, everyone in town commented. You’d think developers like that would have kept their house up to code.
The Wife and I are curled by the fire, a glass of red wine at her side, a glass of whiskey at mine. I’ve skipped the nightly constitutional for now. Sometimes you need to spend some quality time with the love of your life, watching the flicker of flames dance across her ruby scales. A harsh wind is blowing out of the north tonight. I find comfort in the creaking of the sign on our mailbox down the lane. Yes, this is one cozy dragon’s den.