I want to live in a Monopoly house. A tiny green one is fine. I don't need to live in a huge, garish hotel, or anywhere fancy, like Boardwalk or Park Place. Something sensible and mid-range would do, like Illinois Avenue or Marvin Gardens. Heck, New York Avenue is good enough for me. I'm not particular.

I could have a dog, an iron terrier as big as my house and hire a Mr. Belvedere-type to pick up the giant poop. I'd call him Mr. Belvedere, no matter what his name really was. He couldn't live with me, of course. He'd have to traipse across the board from Baltic or Mediterranean Avenue, like all the other immigrants slogging hopefully past Chance and Community Chest six days a week.

On good days, like when I've been elected Chairman of the Board or won second prize in a beauty contest or something, I'll offer Mr. Belvedere a glass of lemonade or sherry. I won't make it a habit, though. We are all lonely people after all, and it would not do for him to get too familiar.

Everything will be fine, until there are problems. There are always problems, even in little green Monopoly houses. I could land in the wrong place at the wrong time, and end up in jail. Or, I could collect fifty dollars from everyone to buy opera tickets, but get assessed for street repairs before I can find the ticket office. So I'd spend the money on that instead, and the scandal and lack of funds would cost me the next election for Chairman of the Board. People would stop coming by and I wouldn't be able to collect rent. Doctor's fees and luxury, income, and school taxes would pile up, and I'd be forced to let Mr. Belvedere go. There'd be no one to pick up the giant dog poop and my property value would decrease as rents increase across the board. There wouldn't be enough bank errors in my favor to prevent the inevitable.

So I'd mortgage everything and take a ride on the Reading, leaving my tiny house, Mr. Belvedere, and the giant poop behind.

It will be nice while it lasts, though. It's always nice until a bad roll of the dice sends everything — pets, property, servants, bankers — flying in an unorchestrated frenzy of chance.

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First published at samizDADA on October 5th, 2006