[ WP ] A lonely , old lady keeps misdialing and ends up calling you to talk nearly everyday . You are Satan .

Stella ’ s son, Jared was a wall street executive who saw himself as an unstoppable force. He was as adamant as an unacknowledged ledge collecting dust. 
 
 Even the most prized housekeeper misses this ledge that Jared used to build himself upon. The dust laid restful, accumulating for years, ultimately caking into an impressive portfolio for my eyes only. 
 
 Stella typically called Jared every Sunday from her home on Long Island, the very same home she raised her family in as a single mother. 
 
 Jared didn ’ t hear from his mother in months, and had not realized until one day when he ceased everything and asked himself, “ why do I feel so happy? ” 
 
 A moral obligation met shame and remorse at the stoop of Jared ’ s high rise apartment one afternoon in an effort to stifle this infectious emotion billowing inside him. Jared began his ascent to the top floor of his building. 
 
 The elevator operator already knew his floor. After all, they shared this precise elevator ride each day with not even a brief exchange of words.This afternoon was especially unsatisfactory as Jared ’ s mind began to race. 
 
 The elevator climbed passionately as though it ’ s lot in life was content fulfilling its purpose of moving on a vertical plane until nature consumes everything. Jared ’ s mind raced the elevator to unique aspects of existence. 
 
 In his mind, Jared thought his worst thoughts. He mustered up the image of his mother dying in her sleep and her lifeless corpse lying there for days before smell of rotting flesh seeps from underneath the door into the hallway; the neighbors knock, unbeknownst to them that the horrid smell is not Stella trying a new cooking recipe. 
 
 Jared ’ s head manifested a funeral that, somehow along the trail of time, he wasn ’ t invited to. 
 
 Jared, still trying to keep his mouth shut, impulsively pushed out the words, “ Those motherfuckers! ” from his face. 
 
 The elevator operator turned to him and said, “ pardon, sir? ” He engorged his own curiosity. 
 
 Jared didn ’ t respond. To this day, I ’ m not even sure if he heard the elevator operator ’ s inquiry, but that will forever be the closest thing to a conversation between them. 
 
 Those motherfuckers Jared was referring to were his five siblings who have all made the ubiquitous decision many years ago to keep Jared out of their lives. 
 
 It ’ s important to note that Jared wasn ’ t mad at the idea of posthumously searching for his mother ’ s grave. No, he went saturated with miserable hatred at the idea of his own family deliberately avoiding to speak with him about the passing of his own mother. 
 
 The elevator door slid open. Without missing a beat, Jared scrambled to his door. The elevator operator stayed within the confines of the vertically moving box for his next death-defying mission. 
 
 His fingers seemed to have lost the memories of what key opened the apartment door. Subsequently, his fingers really wondered why Jared had so many keys at all, seeming that he only uses at large, maybe two of the fourteen keys on the keychain. 
 
 The fingers shrugged their non-existent shoulders and continued with their mission for the right key. 
 
 Once found, he slid the key in as crisp, metallic sounds crunched out in syncopations that made enough sense for the door to open. As the door swung, Jared ’ s apartment displayed itself to the hallway. 
 
 The wall was truly magnificent only to him. A visitor would become nauseated at the sight of Jared ’ s walls, plastered with modern art bad enough to make Gertrude Stein rethink her entire life and take up accounting. 
 
 Next was the view of Manhattan which might have been the most disgraceful covered casket of what was once intrepid swamplands. 
 
 The apartment was considered by most to be the American Dream. 
 
 Jared moved for his phone which sat on the hook in his living room and when he approached it, he saw the phone ’ s cord had been cut. 
 
 ***
