24TH STREET, OMAHA, CIRCA 2012

DREAM HOUSE

   Dream House

Barbara

   Millicent

      Roberts

has not a leg to stand on, so

   there she lies,

at yet another curb of

her oh so concrete life with

face down to the gutter.

And there in a box by her side,

you will find

a swim suit,

  a ball gown,

     a wedding dress.

And some would like to think

that this was all a woman

   would ever need,

and of course there might be

   some    truth in that.

But then again,

such an assumption

could be part of    the problem.

It was shortly after

she hooked up with Ken

that the fateful accident occurred.

As a couple, she and Ken

were once seen by many

as the ultimate of romance;

the pinnacle   of amour.

At least by      girls anyway.

Odd then that she

never took Ken's

last name of   Carson.

Oh, not that she didn't want to get married,

for indeed it seemed that she and Ken

were perpetually on the verge

  of wedding bliss.

So why not take the man’s name?

I mean, it wasn't like many

knew of her as Barbara Millicent Roberts.

No, in those uber-chic days

of glamour and haute couture,

one's nom de plume was best kept

at its most basic guttural utterance.

Cher, Bono, Madonna...

I guess you know

you have arrived

when the world knows you

by your trademark self-simple-syllabic

  Fabio fabrication.

Ah, fame.

The limelight.

That freeze frame turn

at the end of the catwalk,

with a barrage of searing strobes

irradiating your skin.

Lock that pose,

vogue a la mode,

   and then

with a twist of the hip,

   it's gone.

      All gone.

Without   a leg   to stand on.

The way the little girl tells it,

Barbie lost her leg in a

drunk driving accident.

An intoxicated Ken

there at the wheel of Barbie's car,

plowing into some bridge abutment 

   and there sending

a once perfect paradigm 

through the windshield.

At least that's one version of the story.

The little girl's

older brother   tells another.

That in a drunken stupor,

Barbie once spent the night on the lawn,

only to wake to the brutal fact that

the family dog had

chewed off one of her legs.

Well, okay.

One extreme trauma,

relative     to another.

Misfortune.

Misadventure.

Mistaken.

Mislaid plans.

That Ken's face

was marred from that accident,

   or alternatively,

given a malicious full-face tattoo

by a certain malcontent brother

with a felt tip pen...

I mean, was it really any wonder

that Ken had taken to drinking so heavily?

And let's face it.

No matter how much he drank,

he was never going to be

a     man's man.

His parent company "Mattel"

had pretty much seen to that.

Emasculation humiliation

at his very moment of creation.

Anatomically incorrect,

he loses that precious pair of cajones

he never had in the first place.

And he loses his job.

And he finds an unforgiving bridge pylon.

And she loses her leg.

And she will not    walk again.

And she will not    ever forgive.

And the two of them

   fabricate stories

in a vain effort

to survive each other—

to at least survive

the end of their dream.

Yes well, Barbie did have her dream house,

and I suppose if there was any

concrete consistency

to cling to in this

"Made by Mattel" existence,

it would be that Barbie would

   always

have her dream house.

Food, clothing and... shelter.

Pink plastic    and pastel perfection.

A paragon parcel of paradise

purveyed and pooped forth

for her pleasured perusal.

Your pleasured perusal. 

Yes,

its everything you ever wanted.

Her dream house.

Your dream house.

Our dream house.

Everything you ever wanted.

And of course there’s no doubt

that we can afford it.

That is, right up until that

moment we actually can't.

And a home

   becomes a house

       becomes

a vacant cavity.

And things left behind

   end up at the curb.

A plastic doll with a missing leg.

Another with blackened face.

Someone's precious dream house

as seen through the tears

of a little girl

as she gazes back

through a

fractured

   rearview

      mirror.

Ó2012 Jack Hubbell