A Recipe for Money
Matthew Ryan Fischer
Steven and Jane were tasked with cleaning out the house of Mrs. Kanowsky
after she passed. Fountain Valley Village was a retirement community providing twenty-four-hour
care to its residents. But the owners had found it increasingly difficult to
raise their profits. There was only so much service you could reduce and the
dying only had so much in savings and so much medicare. The board had the
brilliant idea to convert the surrounding neighborhood into halfway homes, open
to people who only needed partial or part-time care. Soon the entire neighborhood
was full of retirees. Fountain Valley Village was very happy. But there was
only so much land and so many homes they could afford to invest in. Then needed
more customers, but more profitable ones as well.
Steven and Jane were not in charge and were blissfully unaware of
the struggles of management. They were happy to help the customers, driving
them to the store, helping with their cooking and cleaning and setting out pills
for the next day. They didn’t have to do too much and weren’t medically
certified to provide the more difficult tasks. So, cleaning up homes of the
recently dead became one of their more common duties.
“Seems a shame. Such a nice lady.”
“Yep.”
“And friend Sheila Kane died just this summer.”
“Yep. Real shame.”
“Yeah.”
Jane thought it curious the sudden spurt of deaths. It seemed sad
that so many friends were going so close together. Steven didn’t notice such
things and didn’t think it was all that interesting.
“Just bad luck.” He might as well have said, “shit happens.”
Fountain Valley Village would find new residents. They had a wait-list. There was always someone new. Someone to pay their deposit and monthly.
Someone who was slightly younger and healthier and didn’t need quite as much
attention.
“Anyone tell her daughter?”
“She had a daughter?”
“You!? You don’t even listen when they talk to us. Of course she
had a daughter.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m sure she’ll want to collect the possessions.”
“This stuff? I don’t know that anybody would want this stuff.”
“Don’t be so negative.”
“Sorry.”
“This was someone’s life. Her daughter will want this. You’ll see.”
Steven nodded and continued boxing. Old broken furniture and porcelain nicknacks. No one was going to want this stuff.
“I bet Fountain Valley sells everything and keeps the money.”
“No. That’s now how this works.”
“Has to work somehow. Bosses get better cars. I’ve never seen one
of the residents get a nice car.”
“You’re sick and being morbid.”
“Yep. Sorry.”
Steven wondered just how much Fountain Valley was making off the
dead. Sick and morbid, maybe, but it seemed like a racket to him.
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