Someone buzzed me and the unmarked white van into the driveway. An older woman greeted me at the door. When she saw my toolbox, she pointed me to the spiral staircase, "Thanks for coming, it's upstairs on the right, through the master."
I took the long walk across the parlor. On the mantle, there was a photograph of a print, an oil painting by Derek Russell. Jay Z played on the sound system. I smelled the sweet aroma of fried chicken from the kitchen. I saw an oversized bowl of oversized fruit.
After I ascended the magnificent staircase, I banged a right. Went past an exercise room with a treadmill, a Peloton bike, and some weights. Everything had its place, a water dispenser, and some folded green and white towels.
The master bedroom seemed otherworldly, cathedral ceilings with a pair of skylights, and ivory painted walls. Modern art never did much for me. A silver frame on the mahogany dresser held a photo with a trophy and Bill Russell. A black and white still of a playground with a torn basketball net had a sign that read "Inglewood." Can a king-sized bed be oversized? On the nightstand there was an iPad and a tube of Aspercreme. An enormous pair of grey Nike slip-ons and some kicks neatly rested adjacent.
I walked into the bathroom. I had a job to do.
*This is entirely fiction.
