The Red Sauce Diaries

To his left, a bedroom house community lined with communication utility poles equipped with cable television capabilities, along with refrigerators filled with leftovers, perfect for late-night snacking. Turning head right, C Allbright read the directional sign announcing “Crystal Manor: An Enchanting Mansion,” straight ahead. Taking a bite of an apple, the showman monitored the two draft horses pasture grazing, summoning late afternoon energy, check the puppets sleeping inside the travelling stage cabin.

Rural tranquil silence found itself invaded as an automobile flashed along the paved road, disappearing within a few seconds. “I wonder where that teenager is going?” C Allbright pondered taking another chomp.

Earlier, Paul Carter strutted down the high school hallway, “it is Friday, I am going out, spin my wheels,” he announced making sure the cheerleader contingent heard the independent declaration.

“Going where?” One spirited club member acknowledged, digesting an all-American maturing academic goal, proclaiming weekend plans.

“Crystal Manor,” giggled another athletic supporter, “The Enchanting Mansion.”

Flipping car keys Paul Carter disappeared, commencing a ‘happy hour blue plate special nourishment mission’.

Madame Manhegotme, Crystal Manor’s proprietor, managed the property with her two beautiful gypsy daughters, Wendy and Samantha. During their development years, the duet toured under the stage name ‘The Marionette Sisters’, singing songs while Madame Manhegotme ivories tickled. Marketed as ‘home style fixings served up with an aroma that would make any night out enchanting’, the family entertainment business gimmick grossed enough profit that the trio retired, returning to the hospitality lifestyle.’

While hanging laundry, drying all the wetness, conjuring mother nature’s natural humidity, Wendy saw the visitor approach, “We have a guest at the mansion,” she yelled.

“Well, who could it be?” Madame Manhegotme replied.

“A boy man,” Wendy answered.

“A man boy,” Samantha corrected.

“Hello,” Paul Carter introduced.

“How can we help you? Young gentleman,” Madame Manhegotme responded.

“I would like to sample the blue plate special,” Paul Carter requested.

“Isn’t it too close to your family dinner obligations?” Madame Manhegotme parentally guided.

“Tonight is Friday who eats at the table,” Paul Carter surmised watching the luring lasses, shrug shoulders.

Wendy and Samantha continued taunting their tease full looks, proudly escorting Paul Carter, “we have an excellent entree,” Madame Manhegotme prepared, “then some nice theater”

“That sounds wonderful,” Paul Carter agreed noticing a truck pulling out advertising, ‘Microwavable Studio Catering’.

Not allowing the expensive screen door facade, quickly swing closed; the group assembled and heard a few vital thoughts before entering the dining room.

“Do you like manicotti?” Wendy asked.

“Mama, loves manicotti,” Samantha added.

“Very cheesy,” Madame Manhegotme hinted.

“That sounds great,” the youthful adolescent guard dropped, observing the girls, flaunting kindness.

“I will get the food,” Wendy offered.

“And I will help,” Samantha’s two cents counted.

“Come join me son,” Madame Manhegotme beckoned and soon the two were at opposite sides, “what do you want to do with the rest of your life?”

“I like to keep my cards hidden,” Paul Carter spoke, “until I am ready to discard.”

Laughing Madame Manhegotme pondered the unique strategy, until her daughters emerged, “Is Coca Cola okay?” Wendy investigated.

“We do not have Pepsi,” Samantha clarified, “sorry.”

Once the Italian dishes arrived, not a word came from anyone’s mouth, clanking sounds replaced conversational dialogue as the selected audience serenade. Soon, only red sauce occupied the fine China and Madame Manhegotme made the first bread move, “we must clean up the mess,” the authority figure buttered the biscuit applying the margarine as a cleanser.

Ensured, everything was kosher, watching Samantha and Wendy mop up any foodie evidence, Paul Carter quietly finished off his duties before sitting back in the chair.

“Do not relax too much, Paul Carter,” Madame Manhegotme remarked, “it is almost showtime.”

Smiling, Samantha and Wendy added, “it’s our favorite part.”

“Well. Let's go,” Paul Carter issued the command, and everyone found the living room, overpowering an instrument with keys.

“Paul Carter, you go sit there,” Madame Manhegotme pointed, assigning the couch seating section, a perfect area to administer the theatrical hypnotic treatment.

Soothing vocals relaxed Paul Carter, until distracted, noticing a tape playing, carefully he watched the siblings' lips move, despite no sound. When the number wrapped Paul Carter cheered, “Bravo recording artists.”

Hearing the comment boiled the group’s stomach whose eyes glared and stared, “what did he call us?” Samantha requested.

“Recording artists,” Wendy confirmed.

“Are you saying we are faking it? Mr. Paul Carter,” Madame Manhegotme interjected making the student sweat things out.

“Do you know why Pepsi is not in our house?” Samantha tested.

“We are the real thing,” Wendy showed monstrous fangs.

Well, after midnight the VCR automatically clicked, triggering the rewinding humming noise, waking the youthful viewer. Peering at the sapphire bowl, no longer holding Italian red sauce, Paul Carter burped then stumbled towards his sleeping quarters.

Around the noon hour, Paul Carter drove through the scholastic parking lot, slowing down, seeing the cheerleader's workshop new routines. “How was your night? Paul Carter,” they laughed.

“Did you catch your tori?” One kidded.

“Did you tear me or sue ending the evening with a sweet sensation?”

Laughing Paul Carter let it slide until noticing C Allbright roaming exhibition, seize open space, revealing a portable stage. “Time to come out Wendy,” the Director announced, “you too Samantha.”

Seeing life size mannequin figurines receiving mouth to mouth resuscitation turned Paul Carter’s enjoyable attitude into a fearful expression when the loudspeaker blared, “it’s lunchtime.”