The Beautiful House
Does this "Beautiful House" have a bathroom?
Pssshht, pssshhhhhht.
Steam releases in short bursts. The espresso machine hisses and gurgles behind the counter.
You take the first sip. The bitterness of the cortado hits first, ebbing into something almost sweet before dissolving back into nothing. You imagine freeze-framing the richness against your tongue.
The day stretches ahead with no schedule or thoughts clanging, except for maybe a welcoming one: Where will today take me?
“If you go south and keep going straight past The Beautiful House, you’ll find it, Jim. Second or maybe third storefront from where you turn in.”
You glance up. A woman at the next table is leaning towards the barista, her espresso cup half empty, a faint smudge of lipstick on the rim.
“Beautiful house?”
She looks at you. “Yup! You need a cobbler, too?”
“No. I’m curious what you mean by beautiful house. Is it just a nice-looking house?”
“Hah! You must not be from around here. The Beautiful House is a big deal.”
You chuckle. “Well, give it to me then.”
“People drive in from all over to see it. What do you think, Jim?”
The barista pauses, towel frozen on the counter. “It’s something. I mean, It’s…It just…” Jim trails off, blinking hard, “It changes some people, I’ve heard.” He turns swiftly, grabbing the towel to wipe the rest of the counter.
“Couldn’t have said it better,” the woman says. “If you’ve got the time, you should go.”
The drive there is short.
The roof of The Beautiful House catches the afternoon light both intensifying it and breaking it into fragments that dance across the windshield.
As you walk out, you see it’s all brick. No windows or doors.
Manicured bushes line the perimeter. A man in khaki work pants and a wide-brimmed straw hat moves along them with hand shears snipping.
He whistles a tune you swear you’ve heard before. Familiar but just out of reach, like trying to make sense of deja-vu.
Where have you heard that tune before? In that moment, the cortado from earlier hits your insides.
No time for that. Where’s the restroom?
You circle the house, moving just a little faster without making it obvious. Looking for the entrance, but the brick continues, unbroken; no door on the south. Maybe on the east? Nope.
You’re jogging now. Back to the north is…nothing. Around to the west—
Wait. You see a crowd. There’s a portable toilet and miraculously, not a single person in line.
You say your prayers and run in.
When you emerge, you take in the scene properly.
The west side of this building is different. A chalk mural covers the entire wall. Next to it, a wooden sign: “Local Artist’s Rendition of the Interior.”
People wait in line to take pictures. A professional photographer stands in the corner with a big camera, trying to catch eyes unsuccessfully. People use their phones instead. Some have these tiny cameras that let them zoom out to capture more of the mural.
You’re no artist, but the mural looks fairly unimpressive. It’s a chalk drawing, not a "drive from all over and stand in line” kind of attraction.
Of course, there’s a merch stand. A metal rack hung with t-shirts that read: “I SAW THE BEAUTIFUL HOUSE AND IT WAS BEAUTIFUL.”
…What? Are people really buying this crap?
You watch the people in their own worlds lining up, clicking, peace-signing.
These people are so sad.
Something tightens inside of your chest.
Not as Zen as you thought you were, huh? Stop judging. You’re not better than anyone here.
You’ve lost all desire to stick around.
Before making your exit, you take one last glance back. Two women pose in front of the mural. One lifts into tree pose—arms overhead, knee bent—and immediately loses her balance, grabbing her friend’s shoulder. The friend stumbles backward taking the t-shirt rack down with her.
The merchant shrieks.
“OH MY GOD…I am SO sorry!” Tree Pose Girl gasps.
She looks at her friend who’s doubled over. No sound, but her whole body is shaking with laughter. They’re both hysterical now, tears streaming from laughter.
You start giggling and walk over. “Want me to take your picture?”
Still red-faced and wiping her eyes, Tree Pose Girl’s friend says, “Sure. Let’s take one before we burn this place down.”
You snap a couple. They thank you and walk away, heads bent together, giggling conspiratorially.
The merchant flips the rack back upright, muttering. Suddenly, a sccccrrrrrtch reverberates around the property. A sound system you hadn’t noticed crackles to life.
A song comes on.
Everything’s back to normal, but you definitely feel different.
A few feet away, you spot a father and his child. The man crouches low, holding his infant son’s hand. The child’s other hand reaches outward. Grasping at the house or maybe nothing.
“Boo-ti-fuh.”
The father’s eyes never leave his son’s face, tenderly tracking every tiny movement. Funneling all of his light into those wide, unblinking eyes that are taking in the world.
“Yes, it is, honey.”
A lump forms in your throat. As you walk back to your car, the music softens, but your electrons are dancing.
You look down and see something glinting in the grass.
A key.
You hesitate a little before bending to pick it up. Feeling the cool against your palm, you slip it into your pocket and keep walking.
You get what you give 🔥