Page 2 of Trailer Park Billionaire
“Oh, yes. Well, that can wait. First, you need to tell me what you did over the weekend! And spare me absolutely no details!” she threatens again.
We enter the grand atrium with its soaring columns and vaulted ceilings. One of Elaine’s first acts as the director was toadd a bunch of chairs, tables, couches, bean bags, and even beds in here to make the museum feel less sterile and more inviting, to turn it into a place people want to spend time in. I take my usual seat at the table that allows for the best view of the art. She sits beside me so we can both admire the paintings from across the space.
“I prepared an escape room,” I answer briefly, not really in the mood to share more about my weekend, knowing full well that I don’t actually have a choice.
Elaine puts the brown paper bag in front of me, opens it up and makes sure I catch a whiff of the sandwich inside. They’re from a little deli shop across the street, aptly named ‘The Art of the Sandwich’. They’re my favorite and she knows it. This is what people mean when they say knowledge is power.
“Oh, is it time again?” she asks nonchalantly, pulling the bag toward herself, waiting for me to answer.
“Yep.”
I look at her. She looks at me. Then her eyebrows lift as her head tilts to the side and bobs encouragingly as if to ask, ‘What did I just say about the no details part?’
When I don’t elaborate, she continues. “Well, go on. Tell me everything and then some. I can see you want to. You’re just hiding how excited you are. And you’re not getting any of this,” she rustles the paper bag, “until you start singing.”
Like I said, I know I don’t have a choice and, to be fair, she isn’t wrong. I am excited about the escape room, or at least as excited as it is physically possible for me. But if she received confirmation of that excitement, I fear she herself would get so excited that she’d turn this entire museum into an escape room. One that I might not be allowed to leave.
“I am the appropriate amount of excited at the prospect of creating an escape room for my grandfather’s birthday,” I explain matter-of-fact.
“So… extremely excited. Got it. What’s the theme this year?”
“Prison.”
“Oh, that sounds… like a bold choice considering his history. And your history… but what could go wrong? Who doesn’t love a bit of PTSD on their birthday?” My blackmailer and lunch supplier finally reaches into the bag, retrieves two subs, and slides one over to me.
Without wasting time, I open it up and take a big bite. “I think he’ll love it, actually,” I answer after swallowing. “His old cellmate just got released, and I thought it to be fitting for him to play the part of the murderer. Which should be fun. The old gang back together.”
“Wait, wait, is he actually a murderer?” Elaine’s voice rises with worry, then drops back down when she wonders out loud whether escape rooms actually have murderers, before her pitch shoots back up again. “Is he actually a murderer, Helena?”
I swallow my second bite. “Well, it’s half escape room, half murder mystery dinner. The dinner consists of just the finest Chi Chi.”
My boss narrows her eyes in annoyance, still waiting for an answer to whether I associate with actual murderers.
“Ah, you’re wondering what Chi Chi is,” I string her along as payback. “It’s a staple comfort food made by incarcerated people using ingredients purchased from the commissary or smuggled in. The base is usually ramen noodles, and then you add whatever you can get your hands on. Chips, cheese curls, jerky, peanut butter, candy, all mixed together and heated with, usually, improvised tools.” I wait another moment before putting her out of her misery. “And no, he is not a murderer. He got booked for some run-of-the-mill fraud.”
She sighs with relief, processing the information. “Oh, well, fraud is fine, I guess.”
I shrug. “So is murder… depending on the victim.”
To inform me of her disapproval, Elaine elbows my side. I groan in response and continue eating, hoping that her thirst for information is quenched for now and we can?—
“How is he doing, anyway?” She smothers the glint of hope I had and motions to the jacket I’m wearing. “He painted that, didn’t he?”
I nod and turn to the side to give her a better view. “It’s an original Edward Frame.”
She reads the text on it out loud, “Catch Me If You Can.” Her fingers trace the outline of the plane underneath it. “Just Kidding, Please Don’t.” Elaine laughs. “That was definitely custom-made for you. He’s very talented. It certainly runs in the family. Are you guys doing your annual birthday mug shot paintings as well?”
I try to ignore her compliment. “As is tradition, of course. And, yeah, he’s doing reasonably okay, I guess.” Another bite of my sandwich almost gets stuck in my throat. I cough and take a sip from a water bottle that Elaine produces from her purse. “Of course, his poor hearing doesn’t help. Or the bad hip. Or the fatty liver. Or the diabetes. Or the arthritis that makes it hard for him to hold a paintbrush for longer periods of time. But on the bright side, things are going great with his girlfriend, Robyn.”
“Go gramps! I told you moving him into that community would be a good idea. Social connections at that age are absolutely vital.” Elaine pauses and shoots me a meaningful side-eye. “So are physical connections, by the way. And not just at that age.”
“If this is your not-so-subtle segue into convincing me to attend one of those tantra classes, then I’m leaving—and I’m taking the food with me.” I try to get up, but am quickly pulled back down into my seat.
Elaine checks her watch. “It’s not. Don’t worry. If that was my goal, I would have prepared a much more elaborate ruse.I was, however, just about to trick you into taking care of the job I mentioned earlier, but that won’t require nearly as much finesse.”
A low grumble rumbles from my throat as I finish the last of my lunch. “Do I have a choice?”
“Well, technically, I suppose so. But realistically? No. I do sign your paychecks, after all. I think. I’ve never signed any actual paychecks, but that’s a thing people say when they let the power get to their heads, isn’t it?”
