Free Banjo of Destiny by Cary Fagan

1
    The House Built from Floss

    JEREMIAH BIRNBAUM lived in a house that looked like a medieval castle. It was surrounded by a moat and ten acres of grounds. Swans and flamingos floated serenely on the water in the moat.
    Inside, the house was anything but medieval. There were nine bathrooms, a games room with antique pinball machines, a fully equipped exercise room with an oval track, an indoor pool with a water slide and a hot tub. There was an art gallery with paintings from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries, a movie theater, a bowling alley. The floors were heated in the winter and cooled in the summer. Hidden sensors turned on the lights when someone entered a room.
    Jeremiah’s bedroom suite was on the third floor. It had a grand entertainment center, private bathroom with a lion’s-foot bathtub and a separate marble shower stall with stereo speakers built in. There was a refrigerator stocked with drinks, and three walk-in closets (one for casual wear, one for formal attire, and one for toys). The desk where he did his homework would have suited the president of a bank.
    From his private turret Jeremiah could look down at the artificial waterfall that fed into the moat. His father had stocked the moat with trout. That way Jeremiah could enjoy the experience of fishing without the disappointment of not catching anything.
    Jeremiah’s house was built from floss —dental floss. His parents had made their fortune from a dental-floss dispenser that mounted on the bathroom wall. The dispenser used laser light rays and a miniature computer to measure a person’s mouth and dispense the precise length of floss required. The deluxe model let a person choose a flavor, such as mint, raspberry, chocolate pecan, heavenly hash or banana smoothie.
    It was something nobody knew they needed — until the television and billboard and internet advertisements told them they did.
    And if you don’t have one in your house yet, well, don’t worry. You will soon.
    Jeremiah had absolutely everything he could want. He was a very lucky boy, as his parents reminded him every day.
    â€œNot many kids have what you have, Jeremiah,” his father would say. “The most advanced home computer available. A miniature electric Rolls-Royce that you can drive yourself. A tennis court with a robot opponent you can always beat. Do you know how lucky you are?”
    â€œYes, I do,” Jeremiah said.
    He meant it, too. What could a kid like Jeremiah have to complain about?
    Absolutely nothing.
    â€¢â€¢â€¢
    THIS WAS Jeremiah.
    Curly red hair.
    Freckles.
    Pale skin that burned easily in the sun. (His mother made him wear sunscreen even in the winter.)
    A slouch when he walked, even though his father told him to stand up straight. (“Remember, you’re a Birnbaum .”)
    Hands that were always fiddling with restaurant menus, gum wrappers, wax from a dining-room candle.
    A total lack of interest in the international dental-floss market.
    Jeremiah understood that his parents wanted to give him everything because they themselves had once had nothing. His father, Albert, had worked as a store window cleaner, moving down the street with his long-handled squeegee and his bucket of soapy water. He began work early and he finished late, but he barely made enough to survive. At night, exhausted, he would look up at the cracked ceiling from the narrow bed in his rented room and dream about finding some way to make his life better.
    Jeremiah’s mother, Abigail, ran a hotdog cart. She didn’t own the cart. She just worked for the man who did, Mr. Smerge. Mr. Smerge complained if her customers used up the condiments. “Too many pickles, too little profit!” he scolded.
    At the end of each week, Albert would treat himself to a hotdog for dinner, loading it with pickles, onions, hot peppers and sauerkraut. He thought Abigail had a nice smile, but he was too shy to start up a conversation.