Monsters Under the Bed
For a child, I imagine the worst thing about a monster in the house is the deep silence under stuffy confines of a big blanket, powerless, waiting for something sharp or something slimy to grab a toe until sleep overcomes fear. For an adult though, for me in particular, the worst thing is that I can’t tell anyone without coming off as a complete nut bag, a future roommate of Miss Maclaine herself. It has occurred to me that at some point I did unwittingly purchase a ticket on the Looney Tunes express. No one would blame me, I’m sure. Dennis has been gone now for almost a year, the anniversary of his disappearance less than a week away. Considering his mystery, my new little visitor fits right in to a mentally fabricated reality. Besides, whom would I tell? I could call one of the kids, but what would they do about it? Craig would listen or at least let me speak. But then I could almost hear the platitudes, could almost write his script as he threw out his momisms about getting o