The House (standard:humor, 4710 words)
Author: Johnny Nys	Added: Jun 21 2004	Views/Reads: 3262/2161	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Steve had planned the victimless burglary at his best friend's house down to the finest detail. Nothing could possibly go wrong. Not, that is, until Johnny Nys decided to write his 4700-word THE HOUSE with an hilarious twist in the tail. Johnny perfectly

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

which maybe would teach him a lesson in dignity. 

But Maria was Dean's mother and she was okay. Friendly, always smiling,
bringing them hot chocolate whenever they had been working on a school 
assignment for several hours in Dean's bedroom. But she wasn't trying 
to buy his sympathy. Once she scolded him for not wiping his shoes and 
leaving a trail of mud throughout the house. She had taken off his 
shoes herself and thrown them through the window into the small pond 
behind the house. Steve had to drive home in his socks that day. 
Somebody trying to buy his sympathy would have kept silent and wiped 
the floor without his knowledge and not have denied him the small 
biscuit to eat with his cocoa. 

And above all that, she was a looker. 

There she was, now. Maria, bright as ever. She smiled to him through the
glass, then opened the door and stepped forward to hug him. 

Steve had no idea where this obsession with hugging came from. True, he
was a friend, having stopped by millions of times before. But she was 
still the mother of his pal, and parents usually didn't show this kind 
of affection. But then again, Maria could hardly be called a normal 
parent. And he certainly didn't mind when she hugged him. He loved the 
weight of her hands on his back and the way she felt under his. 
Sometimes, she hugged him so fiercely, he could feel her breasts being 
flattened against his chest. 

"Hi, Maria," Steve articulated well she could read his lips fluently.
"Is Dean around?" 

Maria made several gestures with her hands. Steve was trying very hard
to learn this strange language, but he was nowhere near passing an 
examination. He did pick up several expressions from Maria, connected 
the dots and deduced that Dean was in his room as always. 

Such a great house, such a great garden - such a great stepmom to hang
around with - and the boy insisted on staying in his room. Damn those 
computer and console games. They took the life out of a youngster. 

Steve loved baseball. Dean detested outdoor sports. Even indoor sports.
Except wrestling. And even then it was only a simulation. 

As Steve walked down the hall to Dean's room, he heard him shout:
"Piledriver! Take that, you disgusting piece of primordial soup!" 

Dean's insults were often lost on Steve. 

If his mother had been able to hear, Dean wouldn't sprout that kind of
language. That he engaged in it now, was also a sign his father wasn't 
home from work yet. That's good, Steve thought. Steve liked the father 
just as much as the son did. He was a grumpy old fart, always 
complaining about work. He never came home before 6:00pm as if to grant 
his family as little time with him as possible. Steve had no idea what 
Maria had ever seen in the guy. 

Grumpy as the man might be, he had succeeded in alluring two different
women in this world. The first one, Dean's real mother, Steve had never 
known. He always thought she'd have to have been some kind of barbarian 
to be able to live with a man like Dean's father. Curiously, Dean had 
never shown him any pictures of her. And then Maria had come along. 
Only five years ago. Much to the surprise of the two boys, but also to 
Steve's delight, for he secretly lusted for her. 

Steve pushed open the door. Loud rock music blared from the television's
speakers as both simulated wrestlers left the ring. "Did you win?" he 
asked. 

Dean looked up with a wry smile. "What do you think?" 

Steve laughed. "You're the king, baby!" 

"That's a fact!" 

Dean stood up, climbed onto his chair and let himself fall to the ground
while screaming: "He went down like that!" 

Steve picked him up. "You don't have to show me each time! If you keep
doing that you'll wind up in the basement someday." 

"Cool! That's where my bicycle is! I'll install a pole through the
floor, slide down it each morning to land on the saddle and pedal up 
the ramp I'll build over the stairs; right outside!" 

"That'll save some time," Steve said. "And then when you drive through
the pond, you won't even need to shower." 

"Great idea!" Dean laughed, stars sparkling in his eyes as he thought
about his plans. 

Steve settled onto the bed. He watched Dean taking the disc out of the
console and placing it between his other games on the shelf. "What are 
you here for, Steve? Need more help with your writing assignment?" 

"No, I got that covered. Finished it yesterday." 

"Final year, buddy. Don't screw it up." 

"I told you, it's done." 

"Then what?" 

"I just felt like going for a drive, thought I would drop by while I was
in the neighborhood." 

"Long drive, Steve," Dean said. "You'd wind up sooner in China than in
my neighborhood. What's up?" 

Steve sighed. "Alright. Dad threw me out." 

Dean nodded. It didn't come as a surprise to him. "Did he find the
stuff?" 

Steve stood up and pulled a wad out of his pocket. "Flushed it. I
salvaged some." 

"Don't tell me you went for a dive!" 

Steve sneered. "Don't be stupid! I split it up before. Had two different
stashes. He only found one." 

Dean laughed. "Stop it. We're starting to sound like a cheap cop show or
something. They're only baseball cards, remember?" 

"I know," Steve said. "But I saved them for ages. Spent a lot of money.
They don't come cheap." 

"Didn't he know that?" 

"He did, that's exactly why he flushed them. He wants me to learn the
value of money. He wants me to stop wasting it on what he calls stupid 
stuff. He wants me to save it. But I do. I save some. Aren't I allowed 
to have a little to spend on what I want?" 

Dean nodded. "Sure, buddy. But he's your dad. That's one step above
President of the States. When the President asks you something, you do 
it. There are guys throwing themselves into the line of fire to save 
that guy's life. He can launch a nuclear war with a flick of his 
finger. And then, on the next rung of The Ladder Of Misery, there's 
your dad." 

"Don't talk to me about my dad," Steve said. "Yours isn't exactly a
Mother Goose devotee either." 

"I know, that's why I like to pick on other people's parents ..." 

"I'm going to the john, be back in a sec." 

"Take your time, buddy. No pressure, remember?" 

"Shut up, Dean." 

Steve walked out of the room and skipped down the hall, anticipating the
wonderful release into the toilet bowl. He knocked on the door, once 
more forgetting that the woman of the house wouldn't have heard even 
had she been in there. He hit himself over the head when he remembered. 
He hesitated, not knowing what to do next. He bent over and peeked 
through the keyhole. He didn't see any light burning, so slowly he 
pushed down the handle. He pulled the door open a bit, preparing for an 
outburst of dismay. 

He sighed when he saw there was nobody inside. Relieved Maria wasn't in
there, but also a bit disappointed. 

He walked in and closed the door. There was no key to lock it. No doors
inside Dean's house had keys incase somebody needed some sort of help. 

He unzipped and waited for the water to come. He looked around, felt the
softness of the toilet paper with his free hand, glanced at himself in 
the mirror to check for any irregularities. Then he noticed the window 
above the bowl. 

It was open, yet only partly. Through the ten-inch crack, Steve saw the
trees next to the house and the sky above. 

A thought entered his head. He had no idea where it came from. He
shouldn't be thinking stuff like that. Then again, it might be exciting 
and fun. 

After he finished his business, he returned to Dean. "Guess what." 

"What?" 

"I know how to break into your house without leaving a trace." 

Dean stared at him with a blank face. "If your dad doesn't want you
collecting those trading cards, I don't think he'll be much more 
enthusiastic when you tell him about this kind of hobby. What are you 
talking about?" 

"Don't make fun of my cards!" Steve snapped. "Do you have any notion of
how cool they are?" 

"Well, I couldn't care less about them. Not much you can do with them." 

"That's because you have no imagination. Now come with me," Steve said
while he grabbed Dean by his arm and dragged him out of the room. A few 
seconds later, they were both staring at the window in the small 
cubicle. 

"Look at that. My guess is you guys leave that thing open all night,
right?" 

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. At least I don't close it or anything. I
don't think mom or dad do it, either." 

"So that's your point of entry," Steve smiled. "All you need is a ladder
to reach it from outside and a screwdriver to take out the screws 
holding up the hinges. Then the window will fall all the way open and 
you can crawl right inside. The door's unlocked, so you're free to go 
wherever you want. When you leave, you put the screws back and nobody's 
the wiser." 

"You thought of all that while taking a leak?" Dean asked. "Perhaps you
can solve world hunger when taking a dump. I'll put some laxative in 
your coke and tomorrow we can start experimenting with time travel." 

"I'm serious," Steve said. "This is a serious safety risk. You need to
close that window or else you're going to get your hands burned 
someday." 

"What kind of expression is that?" Dean asked. 

"One of mine, got a problem with it?" 

"I thought so, and no; problem free as far as I'm concerned. But I still
don't know what it means." 

"It means that open window will invite the burglars. You'll close it
tonight?" 

"Don't be so obsessed with it, I'll close it if it makes you feel
better. Dad's away on business for two days, but when he comes back and 
wakes up in the middle of the night with one of his regular attacks of 
diarrhea, fouling up the whole place, it goes right back to the open 
position." 

"I'll allow that," Steve laughed, but he didn't say he was planning on
checking up on Dean that same night. He wasn't in the mood to stay 
home, wake up and listen to his parents arguing about money when they 
came home in the middle of the night, his dad slamming doors and 
breaking glass, terrifying his mother but probably getting his ass 
whipped in return. Steve's mother was no kitten. 

Besides, it would be exhilarating to finally put one of his fantasized
burglary schemes into practice. 

"So, ready for some one-on-one?" Dean asked after they left the toilet. 

"If I must." 

"You must, and you'll love it!" Dean yelled as he dragged his friend
back to his bedroom to start another virtual wrestling match. 

Steve didn't drive home after the game. He parked on the other side of
the block and went into a small restaurant where he had dinner. His 
parents weren't expecting him home to eat, because they weren't home 
themselves. Late shift for both of them. 

Steve spent many a night home alone, contemplating his future and each
time letting go of the plan to burn the place down and move to 
Hollywood. He knew there was no more fame or riches to be found there 
than in any other town. 

Once again he envied Dean. The guy had no worries at all. He lived each
day without having to think about the future. He could play his games, 
hang around at his house, do whatever he wanted. He was a good student, 
would get into any university his dad wanted and he had Maria to stand 
by him, more a big sister than a stepmom. 

Steve had to be honest with himself. He loved the woman. He was
eighteen, raging with hormones and she had just turned thirty, a good 
twenty years younger than Dean's father and with the looks to prove it. 
He would give anything to be in Dean's shoes, living with her day after 
day, going to her every time he needed somebody to lift his spirits. 

At home, he often felt like nothing more than a tenant, someone renting
a room in the house, eating the food, using the appliances and with the 
only option for paying it back getting good grades, going to college 
and getting a degree which opened doors to a good job. 

He didn't want the same kind of life his parents had. He didn't want a
boring desk job, irregular hours, bosses asking for overtime, different 
shifts and all that stuff. He wanted to do something artistic, 
something special. Perhaps journalism. He loved writing, so why not 
make a living out of it? But then again, would he have something 
interesting to say? Who would read what he wrote? 

College was only a few months away. At the moment he wasn't even sure he
would be going at all. A year on the road sounded far more appealing. 
Moving from town to town, doing handyman jobs in exchange for some room 
and board, learning the ways of the world. What you learned in college 
was theory only. The practical side of life had to be learned by 
living, not by sitting at a desk in a small room for three years. 

The restaurant was about to close, so he left. He strolled down the
street to a bar. As kids, Dean and he had tried to sneak inside several 
times, anxious to know what went on. They never had much luck, being 
only kids. At eighteen, Steve had already acquired some signs of age so 
he decided to try his luck again. He should be able to bridge three 
years easily. 

He pushed the door open. The combined smell of cigarettes and beer
welcomed him, as did the clutch of drunkards hanging over the center 
table engaging in what appeared to be an international arm-wrestling 
contest. Quickly, he headed for a table at the back wall. A waitress 
followed him, but when she opened her mouth to ask what he wanted the 
drink, he couldn't hear a syllable of it as a cheer rose from the 
arm-wrestling crowd. 

"A coke", he shouted, assuming she would be able to read his lips and
recognize the word so many customers spoke each day. 

Apparently she didn't, because when she came back she put a beer in
front of him. At least she didn't ask his age. He picked up the glass 
and gradually emptied it. Followed by another. And another. And so on. 

Steve was no stranger to drinking. Many a night, sitting home alone, he
searched the liquor cabinets for something to make him drowsy. A sip 
here and there was never noticed by his parents. But he had never 
gotten completely drunk. 

In the bar, he got more than drunk and when he finally tried to grab the
waitress from behind as she brought back his change, the bartender left 
his post to throw him out. 

He hit the pavement hard, but didn't feel it since his entire body was
numb with alcohol. He crawled upright and spat in the direction of the 
door, only getting far enough to land a gob on his own left shoe. He 
looked around himself, stood up and waved his way back to the car. 

He wasn't planning on driving it. He might be crazy but not stupid. His
plan hadn't left his head. He knew exactly what he was going to do. He 
opened the trunk and took out a small toolkit. He chose a screwdriver 
and put in his back pocket. Then he walked all the way to Dean's house, 
leaving his car parked at the restaurant. 

It was late enough for his plan to be put into action. The street, with
several lights malfunctioning, was dark enough for Steve to walk into a 
signpost for a bus stop, although his intoxicated brain might have 
something to do with it. 

When he neared the house, he bent over and hurried to the other side of
the front hedge, so he wouldn't be seen from the street. He followed 
the hedge to the corner of the house. He glanced around it and saw 
several windows. He knew the first two were to the master bedroom. The 
smaller one, set higher in the wall, was the toilet. 

He dropped onto his stomach and slid below the big windows. No doubt
Dean's parents were fast asleep. Maria wouldn't be able to hear him 
anyway and he had the idea that the father took that as an excuse to 
snore as loud as he wanted. But you never knew. They could still be up 
at this hour, enjoying each other's company. Steve shriveled when he 
thought of the possibility, completely forgetting that Dean had told 
him his dad was away on business. 

He reached the small window, where he could stand fully erect again. As
he had foreseen, it was still standing open. Too bad he wasn't carrying 
a ladder, but he was sure he could find some other means to reach the 
window. 

He moved to the back of the house, no longer wary of any eyes watching
him. There was some lawn furniture standing under the penthouse of the 
garage. He took a wooden chair with him and returned to the small 
window. With a lot of effort, he succeeded in climbing on top of the 
chair's back, holding on to the sill with one hand and working the 
screwdriver with the other. 

He could feel the screws very clearly and had no problem sliding the
driver into their slits. He turned it until it was loose enough to 
wriggle it out with his fingers. He caught it before it could fall on 
the floor inside and pocketed it. He did the same with the other screw. 


This proved to be a little more difficult, for now he had to steady the
window itself, making sure it wouldn't shatter when both hinges were 
free and it fell against the inside wall. The chair wobbled dangerously 
and it took him a little longer, but after a minute or two he had the 
second screw in his hand, the window in his other and supporting 
himself on his elbows. 

The chair beneath him started shaking as he tried to pull himself up and
through the window. He looked for purchase against the wall with his 
left foot, pushed the chair away with his right, and landed with his 
knees on the sill. He leaned forward to keep his balance, but seemed to 
have forgotten he was still holding on to the windowpane. The weight of 
it tipped him off and he fell inside, on top of the bowl. 

Quickly, he jumped up and flushed. He hoped anybody awoken would think
some other member of the family had gone to take care of some business 
and accidentally dropped the lid. Those things happened. He hoped the 
bang hadn't sounded too loud to be interpreted as something else. 

He checked the windowpane, which he had dropped during his descent, for
cracks. It was still in one piece. He turned to the door and opened it 
as quietly as he could. He peeked through the gap into complete 
darkness. He waited a while to adjust to the dim light. When he could 
discern shapes, he stepped out of the toilet. 

Suddenly, a light went on further down the hall. He hurried back inside
the toilet, too late realizing his poor choice of hiding place. He 
started to climb the toilet bowl with the intention of crawling back 
out through the window, until he heard a door shut nearby. Whoever it 
was roaming the house had gone to the kitchen. 

Quickly, for the person could still be heading for the toilet
afterwards, Steve left the cubicle. Now he could see the walls of the 
hallway, but everything was still in a blurry haze. All the excitement 
hadn't sobered him and he was swinging from left to right. He 
recognized some of the pictures on the walls, although he couldn't make 
out the subjects. It seemed to take him forever to move through the 
hallway. 

Finally, he reached a door. According to his calculations, this had to
be Dean's room. He sneaked inside and saw the outline of a bed. Someone 
lying on top. So it hadn't been Dean going to the kitchen. 

Steve sat down near the door, watching the shapes. He felt tired. His
eyes drooped, his head seemed to float and he heard all kinds of small 
sounds he couldn't identify. Voices too, until he realized he was 
listening to himself, whispering, and he quickly put a hand over his 
mouth. 

Luckily he hadn't been loud, for no movement occurred in the bed. Steve
thought of Dean's face when he would wake him up in a few minutes. He 
had to bite down into his little finger to stifle a laugh. 

The time had come. On hands and knees he crawled to the foot of the bed.
He peeked over, not seeing any more details than from his position by 
the door. 

He tried to come up with the best way to shock Dean awake. Should he
jump on top of him? No, too dangerous. Pull away the covers and expose 
him to the cold? Yes, much better. 

He grabbed the covers with both hands, braced his feet against the board
of the bed and jettisoned himself backwards, taking the covers with 
him, hurtling them over his head, in a jump that landed him against the 
wall. 

He heard a lot of noise, but no screams or shouts of surprise. Someone
jumping out of bed, stumbling against a nightstand, running across the 
wooden floor, clicking a light switch. He heard a loud scrape, then 
nothing more. He tried to crawl out from under the covers, but was 
stopped in his attempts when something hit him at the side of the head. 
The protection of the covers prevented him from passing out. It hurt a 
bit, but not as much if he hadn't been drinking that night. Finally he 
succeeded in peeping out. His attacker had turned on the lights and was 
now standing by the door, ready to dash outside at any sign of danger, 
holding a nightlight upside-down in his hands as a club. 

It wasn't Dean. 

"Who are you?" Steve yelled at him. "Am I in the wrong house or
something?" 

Suddenly the bedroom door opened and Maria was standing there in a red
negligee, revealing a little more than he had ever hoped for to see of 
her. 

"Maria?" Steve asked. "Who is this guy?" 

Maria, of course, couldn't answer, but the man, about Maria's age and
looking as if he belonged on the cast of Baywatch immediately turned to 
her as if he owned the place. "Maria, you know this kid?" he whispered. 


Maria nodded, wide-eyed, looking from her stepson's friend to the man
who wasn't her husband. Suddenly, she was pushed forward by her son, 
woken up by all the ruckus and coming to see what was going on. The 
first thing he noticed was Steve, standing in a pile of linen. 

"Steve! What the fuck are you doing here in the middle of the night?" 

Then he noticed the half-naked man standing beside Maria. "Mom? Who's
that?" 

THE END


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