The last will and testament

Pleasant Valley Addiction Center, is located at the corner of Simpson and Brine, naked with nowhere to hide. At one point the location had been a popular bowling alley, to boot with bar and grill. In 2012, when the owner known as Old Man Kiefer was alone in his office working late, he was blown to smithereens via a propane gas explosion. Upon the news, his relations deliberated about their intended insurance windfall, and the distance to an alternative nearby bowling alley. Some townsfolk surmised foul play, a conspiracy of sorts, whispers flying like cuckoo such as from Betty Lou, “I’ll bet his kids are happy he’s dead, those lazy good fer nuttun ingrates. Who knows? Maybe one of them had a hand in his death.” It was well known that Old Man Kiefer was quite generous, lavishing his offspring with homes and automobiles, but not planes.

And from Angus Gene, “It was probably that wicked grandson Sidney. I heard he liked the wacky weed, and Lord knows what else he was sniffin, snortin, shootin; what else is it those crazy druggie types do? There’s just too damn many of ’em poppin up all over da place, like wildfires. Maybe Sidney owed money to da pimp man, I mean da pusher man. Did I get that lingo right?”

And from Helga Beth, “Somebody told me that Suzie Kiefer was having wild lesbian affairs. Maybe her lady lovers wanted Old Man out of the way for the money. Sexy-time lady orgies don’t come cheap, I suppose.”

Perhaps if Mable, Old Man’s first wife, God rest her soul, hadn’t died of Dropsy of the brain, right after dropping her fourth rug rat, things at the Kiefer compound might have been different. Water retention aside, Mable was of good stock, and in the department of mothers, undoubtedly she overshadowed Old Man’s second wife Suzie, to say the least. Old Man was just called Kief back then, because he had yet to become old. Nobody doubted that Suzie married for money, even Kief. Quite frankly, no beating around the bush, Suzie was quite the looker, and even the best of men can become weak at the knees for a hot tamale.

Old Man Kiefer, was mostly unknown by his given name, Fletcher, and he had preferred it that way. With a name like Fletcher, he accepted and considered Old Man as the term of endearment it was. His funeral was attended by more townsfolk than those present for the Christmas Tree lighting and Firemen’s Day Parade combined. There was not a dry eye in the house when little Maggie Meehan sang Amazing Grace, accompanied by her disabled veteran brother Henry on the organ. Fletcher, as head and treasurer of the VFW post 619, was responsible for procuring a top of the line wheel chair for Henry and organized volunteers to install a handicapped ramp at their home, all supplies donated by Kiefer Enterprise, Inc. But that was just a drop in the trout pond. Old Man sponsored the little league, midget football, the garden club and donated all the funds for a new playground at the town center, equipped with a jungle jim, swings, see-saws, tennis and basketball courts. The park committee erected a sign, paid for with remaining Kiefer Enterprise, Inc. funds that said. “This park is dedicated to the F. Kiefer family. 2007.” He liked the that they only went as far as the F, and never minded including his ingrate family in the glory. Heck, if it was up to him, he’d do without any glory at all, but that was not the way the Pleasant Valley people did business, so he would be humbly gracious of their praise.

There was one, God Bless his soul that did not weild a drop of ingrate blood and homogeneously resembled Fletcher; looks, brains and heart. The townsfolk didn’t know much about the grandson named Cyrus, who was birthed from his ingrate daughter Milicent, Fletcher’s first born, and her deadbeat husband Lance. Old Man had high hopes early on about Milicent, but those high hopes slipped down the slope, that is until redemption was hers at the birth of Cyrus. Sometimes, rightfully if so, genes may skip a generation. Cyrus was just about all Old Man, the two of them close to identical; quiet, passive, kind souls, as the humble often are. Townsfolk would tend to forget about Cyrus as a separate and individual relation of Old Man, not just because it was only Old Man writing the checks, but also because the subsequent generations of ingrates took up so much of the breathable air. Occasionally townies might take notice and remember him, ever so briefly seen behind his grandfather out and about at a parade or at the bowling alley, happy to be in the shadow of a man that also preferred the shadows. Cyrus loved Old Man more than his own shallow breath. Shallow, not because he was unassertive, but because he was born asthmatic, an affliction that never stopped him from working toe to toe with his beloved GF. Old Man liked being called GF by Cyrus, because all the others, the spawns of the ingrates, siblings and cousins of Cyrus, called him Gramps Fletch. GF, was Old Man’s and Cyrus’ secret cryptonym alone.

After the funeral, all the ingrates started punching their greedy grubby fingertips on their phone screens, messaging each other lustfully, wondering just when they would be notified of the much aticipated reading of the will. Milicent, as the first born, was harassed to the point of a full head of split hairs. It was she that would notify them, sending out one mass text which read:

READING OF THE WILL: CONFERENCE ROOM

VFW MARCH 13TH 2012, 2 PM

She choose 2 pm, well, because ingrates like to sleep in. She didn’t have to ask for help, not that any of them would. Of course it was Cyrus that set up the chairs, coffee and donuts for the group of some forty ingrates. Milicent knew of the safety deposit box holding the last will and testament, and was proud of herself that she honored her father’s wishes in keeping that to herself, but was clueless as to the holder of the key. Should she have been surprised that it was none other than Cyrus? Ever unassuming, even she would tend to forget about her 25 year old first born son. Knowing her father’s penchant for detail, she never doubted the key would find her upon his death, and when that time came, Cyrus gently placed it in her hand.

The top of the envelop read: Milicent, do not open until the Kiefer family is assembled in entirety, and then please read. Again, Milicent was proud of herself for honoring Old Man, even though it was a rather small feat of wills to gather the lazy ingrates for this particular event.

When the last of them had arrived, she stood before all of them, with shaky greedy grubby fingers ripping open the envelop. For a second she thought she might pass out, and it was her son Cyrus, no surprise, not her husband Lance, no surprise, that noticed, running to her side with water and a chair. She composed herself quickly, fueled by pleonexia, somewhat pushing Cyrus aside. On top of the legal papers was a letter, written in Fletcher’s hand.

It read: Dear family. I haved loved you all very much, even when I have not felt your love in return, having been generous with my heart and purse strings. Each and everyone of you has benefited and lives a comfortable existence and I look for no thanks in writing this, but do remember to always thank the patronages of Pleasant Valley. I mention this now, as it is my final wish for all of you to grasp the concept of gratitude upon my death. This assesment applies to each and everyone of you, bar Cyrus. Cyrus eats, lives and breathes gratitude and he will be the one to continue my legacy. Please consider claiming gratitude for yourselves as a parting gift to me, since in life not once have I asked anything else of you. There is no parting gift from me to you, well because you have all already received more than you have deserved, bar Cyrus. Cyrus and I have discussed how we could best serve the community upon my death and I have made the decision to put 100% of any and all of my assets into a much needed rehabilitation and addiction center. Cyrus will oversee it’s location, finance, and construction as I hereby name him as CEO. None of you should be concerned about rebuilding the bowling alley. A man can only do so much bowling in his lifetime. There comes a time when the greater good becomes a priority. Go forward in love.

And so that’s how it went. All the ingrates went home dejected, but not before they fought over the leftover donuts.

And Cyrus went on as planned and built the addiction center, overseeing the entire project, including the construction of his unostentatious office, equipped with diminutive modest living quarters, where he planned to live out his days honoring his beloved GF. There was a secret between grandfather and grandson that they shared beyond the cryptonym. This secret, without a shadow of a doubt, Cyrus planned on taking to his grave. You see Old Man liked to gamble. He really really liked to gamble, so he had set up a legal gaming system at the VFW for his amusement, but of course not for his amusement alone. It had become quite popular and profitable throughout the years, and as all the townsfolk completely trusted his leadership as treasurer, no one ever questioned any of the deposits. Throughout the years, no one suspected it was their own gambling money that supplied the comfortable lifestyle of the ingrates and the little league, and all his other philanthropic ways. Old Man didn’t see the harm since the townies were having fun, and they were taking care of their community in doing so. Perhaps his behavior was his own addiction of sorts talking. Oh, the bowling alley and grill? That broke even, but could have never supported all the ingrates and necessary good needed for all of them to live in a sweet place like Pleasant Valley. In the end, it was Cyrus himself that had lit the match igniting the propane one fine evening knowing his beloved GF was in the bowling alley alone. Someone had to stop the madness, and as much as it pained Cyrus he knew it was part of his future legacy to do the right thing. GF had taught him well. In setting up the programs for the center, Cyrus was sure to institute gamblers anonymous, and intense therapy sessions for kleptomania that he would personally oversee and attend. After all, he was a chip off the Old Man block.