- November 23, 2024
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By now, Casa Cavaliere was supposed to be reality, bustling with dollfaces and babycakes.
For the past five months, I’ve been imagining the ultimate bachelor pad (as if you couldn’t already tell from the moose head on the wall and bear skin rug by the fireplace).
Sure, there are candles, but they’re shaped like dragons. And for décor, note the samurai swords and boxing posters. These prove to visitors that they’re dealing with someone dangerous, while the potpourri in the bathrooms show a softer, more sensitive side.
“Careful with that cactus, toots,” I tell the ladies, straightening the lapel on my velvet smoking jacket. “Them spines’ll poke ya.”
Since January, I’ve hunted some 50 houses, repeatedly coming up a day late and a dollar short sale. Lucky for me, though, my parents took me in after my apartment lease expired last month. And our arrangement? Talk about ideal!
I come home and dinner is made. I throw my clothes into a hamper and, like magic, they‘re folded in a stack in my bedroom when I return from work.
And don’t even get me started on the awe-inspiring power of our combined cereal collections.
So … that’s my life now. Instead of entertaining truckloads of sweetcheekses and hotlipses in a luxury loft, I’m typing in the same room where I used to play “Sonic the Hedgehog” 15 years ago.
And don’t call it a Rec Room. At 12, you have Game and Rec Rooms inside your parents’ house, equipped with everything excellent: TV, tape deck, Gushers.
But at 25, that room quickly transforms into a private Depression Chamber. It’s too real, like the giant burn ban signs outside, warning not to get too comfortable.
It’s bad out there. Companies are going under. We can’t buy a rainstorm. It’s budget — and election — season.
But, hey, I’ve got plans. Casa Cavaliere is still alive and well in my mind. Note the six-foot chandelier dangling in the entrance way. You couldn’t have missed the massage chair near the movie screen or the racquetball courts in back.
So head over to the mahogany wet bar on my poolside lanai. Make yourself a drink. Relax.
Some say moving back home sounds demoralizing, but soon, things will change. Soon, I’ll find a place. It’ll be mine and quiet and clean and nice.
Beyond the windows, the sky will be a constant rainbow ...
Aw, who am I kidding? Immediately after I sign a contact, fires will flare up and the Casa will promptly burn to cinders. It’s inevitable.
The manor at 100 Mike Cavaliere Way (I’ll have the address legally changed) will be Palm Coast’s only casualty. My editor will snicker as he forces me to write a news story about it. I’ll lose everything.
Well, maybe not everything. Blessed with the power of foresight, I’ll have already packed the important stuff. Flames can take my land but, by God, they’ll never take my cactus.
