Life’s Little Choices

The first time Patrick found himself on the show, he was a senior in high school.

A hundred young adult faces grinned up at him from the dozens of brochures spread across the kitchen table. “Join us!” they seemed to say. “Sign the loan application, and four years of happiness can be yours!”

Patrick wasn’t sure about college. Despite the supposed advantages and promises of joy, it seemed like a bad idea when he considered the cost. Maybe if he knew what he wanted in a career, jumping straight to undergrad next year would make sense. But Patrick hadn’t even made up his mind about what to ask his mother for breakfast that morning, let alone what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

That’s when the man appeared, dressed in a sharp suit. “Welcome to another exciting episode of Life’s Little Choices!” he purred into a microphone straight out of The Price is Right.

“Woah!” Patrick put his hands up, though the man had no apparent weapon. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m your host, Ron Ripley.”

A tumultuous bout of cheering nearly knocked Patrick out of his chair. Was there a peewee baseball game being played in the field down the street? He didn’t think so, it being 7am on a school day.

“On today’s show, we’re joined by Patrick Tanner, who is stuck on a little choice,” said Ron Ripley.

Patrick bolted. “Mom!” he yelled as he scrambled up the steps to her bedroom. “There’s a strange man in the kitchen!” She wasn’t there. Nor was she in the bathroom. Patrick searched every room in the house, but couldn’t find his mom anywhere. Maybe she’d left for work without saying goodbye. He checked his phone to see if she’d texted. The lone notification said “emergency calls only,” which turned out to be a lie. Dialing 9-1-1 didn’t even get him a “your call cannot be completed as dialed.”

Patrick needed to get out of the house before he was kidnapped. He made a thorough escape attempt, but every exit was inexplicably sealed shut. He even tried breaking a window with his mom’s ten-pound bowling ball (go PINteresting Ladies!) to no avail.

A bad dream. That’s all this was, right? How could it be anything else? He performed several tests to be sure. Pinching himself hurt. He saw himself clearly in a mirror. His lungs begged for air after a minute of breath-holding.

Not a dream, then.

The only exit he hadn’t tried was the kitchen door. If he was fast, maybe he could reach it before the man grabbed him.

When Patrick mustered his courage and returned to the kitchen, Ron was still there, smiling amicably. Those shiny teeth could have blinded a pilot at thirty thousand feet. Patrick shielded his eyes against Ron’s grin and ran to the door. He pulled the knob for all he was worth. Though it was unlocked, it didn’t budge.

“Well, Pat? Are you ready to play?” asked Ron.

Patrick gripped the table and managed, quite heroically, to keep himself from passing out. This was how countless horror movies started. “P…play what?”

There was a small ripple of laughter from what might have been several people. Only, there were no people. He was alone with this strange man.

Ron waved his hand grandly over the college brochures. “You have a choice to make, Pat. A little choice that will affect the rest of your life. It shouldn’t be as difficult as you’re making it, seeing as you’re only seventeen. It’s why you were selected to be a contestant on our show.”

“What show?”

The host chuckled as if Patrick had made a joke. “I think he’s ready, folks. Let’s lay out the choice!”

A melodious 90s-style gameshow beeping sounded (beep-bap-boop-bap-boooop) as the college brochures arranged themselves into neat piles. Ron gestured towards the chair and Patrick, flabbergasted by the otherworldliness of it all, sat.

“The choice is simple,” Ron said. His gaze swept over the kitchen as he spoke. Patrick swore he was making eye contact with the appliances. “Take out a loan for college, or head straight into the workforce. Say it with me, Studio Audience. It’s time to—”

WEIGH! YOUR! OPTIONNNNS!

This time, Patrick did fall out of his chair. A boisterous, invisible mob of people had invaded his kitchen. There was no other explanation.

“I still don’t know what’s happening,” Patrick whined as he climbed back into the chair.

The host’s smile slipped. “Nobody knows, Pat. Not really.” Quicker than it had vanished, his grin returned. “You have sixty seconds to make this choice. Go ahead and reason it out.”

A comically loud clicking came from the oven clock, which ticked down in green, digital numbers.

“What if I don’t?” Patrick asked.

Ron bent his neck sideways at a ninety-degree angle, smiling all the wider, like some demon from The Exorcist.

Patrick, a horror film enthusiast of moderate renown (three hundred subscribers to his YouTube channel, Cinemonsters: Boo! Or Booooo…) had an inkling of what that head tilt implied. Ron Ripley may have appeared human, but he was something else entirely. So, using the knowledge a teenager gains from years of watching scary movies past his bedtime, Patrick played Ron’s game.

He reasoned, though the choice was anything but simple.

Everyone he knew was going to college. Society was shoving his generation towards higher education. Even so, Patrick felt uneasy about it. He wasn’t a risktaker. And college was a risky route, despite all the alleged benefits.

“Thirty seconds, Pat,” Ron cooed.

However, most jobs required a bachelor’s degree at minimum. If Patrick joined the workforce without one, his value would come from his labor. He’d have to work long hours in hospitality or retail, like his mom. A dubious prospect.

Though she hid it well, his mom was unhappy. “I didn’t choose this,” she often said, and Patrick knew it was true. Her anxiety spiked even when faced with a decision about what to make him for breakfast. She floated through life, letting the current take her because, she reasoned, “what if I make things worse?”

“Ten seconds,” said Ron.

Patrick looked up. In one hand, the host held a loan application over a paper shredder (no idea where that had come from). In the other; a pen.

NINE! EIGHT! SEVEN!

The Studio Audience’s countdown drowned out Patrick’s thoughts. He didn’t know what he wanted, but he had to decide.

SIX! FIVE! FOUR!

Patrick snatched the pen and application from Ron’s hands, then signed his name on the bottom.

The Studio Audience broke into raucous cheering.

Ron beamed. “There’s no going back now! Tell him what he’s won, Bill.”

“Connnn-gratulations, Patrick!” said a deep, sultry voice from the ceiling. “You’ll spend the next twenty years paying off a debt of roughly thirty-five thousand dollars. After attaining your degree, you’ll fall into a stable career that has nothing to do with your major. Best of all, your choice today will lead you to Rebecca, the love of your life!”

“Amazing!” said Ron. He clapped Patrick on the shoulder. “Good choice. Well done, Pat. Thanks for playing. And we’ll see you next time on—”

LIFE’S! LITTLE! CHOICES!

Patrick whipped his head around at the sound of his mother’s footsteps tapping upon the kitchen floor. He tried to point out Ron Ripley and explain about the Studio Audience, but the gameshow host was gone.

#

The next time he saw Ron Ripley, Patrick was fifty years old.

He was alone for the first time in as long as he could remember. The kids were all away at college. Rebecca was visiting her sister in San Francisco for a few weeks. Patrick had a surplus of free time, with which he had no idea what to do.

It was disconcerting.

Patrick thought he’d appreciate the solitude, but without Rebecca, he struggled to find any real enjoyment. He missed the way she grabbed his free hand while he was driving; their impromptu (and admittedly dissonant) karaoke sessions; the little chocolate candies she hid in his office.

He’d been standing in the shed for hours, staring at the lawnmower, debating whether he should spend the day doing chores or plant himself on the couch. It had been years since he’d had the time to sit through a movie. Perhaps he’d start with something dark, but not too scary, like The Dark Crystal. Then he’d make his way through the Insidious franchise—

“Welcome to another exciting episode of Life’s Little Choices!”

Patrick flinched at the familiar voice.

The host stepped out from behind a stack of bagged mulch. “I’m your host, Ron Ripley.”

This time, Patrick was ready for the Studio Audience’s applause. “Not again,” he groaned.

“On today’s show, we’re joined by Patrick Tanner, a returning champion, who is stuck on another little choice.”

“You are a figment of my imagination!” Patrick shouted. “A coping mechanism triggered by highly stressful situations!” That’s what the therapist had told him.

Ron chuckled good-naturedly along with the Studio Audience. “Are you feeling stressed?”

He wasn’t. It was just choring.

“Whatever you may think, there is still a choice to make, Pat. A little choice that will affect the rest of your life. It shouldn’t be as difficult as you’re making it, seeing as you’re a grown man.”

“This is ridiculous,” Patrick said.

“He’s ready to play, folks! Let’s lay out the choice!”

Beep-bap-boop-bap-boooop!

“The choice is simple,” said Ron. “Mow the lawn, or go inside and binge some movies. You know what time it is, Studio Audience. It’s time to—”

WEIGH! YOUR! OPTIONNNNS!

Patrick’s smartwatch buzzed against his wrist, having begun a countdown from sixty. “I still don’t understand,” he said. “What’s the point of all this?”

Ron’s smile faded; his gameshow host mask slipping off. “Nobody knows, Pat. Not really.” As quickly as they’d vanished behind his lips, Ron’s teeth reappeared. Patrick was grateful he’d splurged on transition lenses.

“And supposing I don’t choose?” Patrick asked.

The host gave him the demonic, head-cocked-to-one-side smile that haunted Patrick’s nightmares.

Yeah. Probably better not to find out. So, instead, Patrick considered.

Lately, the home owner’s association had been pestering Patrick and Rebecca about their home’s appearance. They weren’t lazy people by any stretch. Quite the opposite. They both worked long hours trying to conquer their debts: the kids’ college loans; car payments; medical bills; the mortgage. Understandably, keeping the grass below three inches wasn’t high on their list of concerns.

“Forty seconds, Pat,” said Ron.

Not that life was all bad. He had his hockey beer league. The kids made a point to have weekly family get-togethers over Zoom. And Rebecca and he played a game she’d made up which never failed to brighten Patrick’s mood. It was a daily competition to see who could surprise the other with more unexpected kisses. Patrick’s strategy was to get Rebecca while she was talking on the phone (to which she would respond with an exaggerated eyeroll). She’d often get him while he was baking, and always woke him with a fat kiss on the lips to start the day up one-nothing. Unfailingly, Patrick went to bed happy, looking forward to the next morning’s kiss.

“Thirty seconds,” Ron crooned.

Still, Patrick was exhausted; the kind of tired you get from years of working all day, only to come home and spend what free time you have left focused on other peoples’ needs. Helping the kids with their homework. Chauffeuring them to their various extracurriculars. Cooking, cleaning, doctor appointments, home maintenance, car repairs. Patrick and Rebecca thought they’d reclaim some time for themselves once their youngest left for college, but now Patrick’s mom, in her twilight years, needed daily care. With neither siblings nor the money to pay for a home health aide, that, too, fell on Patrick and Rebecca. It was a miracle they could (barely) keep up with the H.O.A.’s stringent demands in between everything else.

“Fifteen!”

To Hell with the H.O.A. They’d earned a weekend of leisure, hadn’t they? Rebecca deserved a few weeks on the beach. Patrick was going to take a weekend to rekindle his love of horror films.

And yet…the H.O.A.’s last notice was threatening, albeit cordial. They couldn’t afford a fine. Worse, once the first penalty came, Patrick had a gut feeling things would snowball from there. You could shoot a depressing documentary about what happened to people who ignored their H.O.A.’s warnings.

Patrick sighed and reached for the lawnmower before the Studio Audience could begin a countdown from ten.

It took him an hour to cut the grass, thanks to the lawnmower’s insistence on constantly breaking down. All the while, the Studio Audience cheered him on.

MOW! THAT! LAWN!

MOW! THAT! LAWN!

When Patrick finished, Ron clapped him on the shoulder. “There’s no going back now. Tell him what he’s won, Bill.”

Bill’s sultry voice boomed seemingly from the sky itself. “Connnn-gratulations, Patrick! By choosing to mow your lawn, you’ve avoided a hefty fine and wedged yourself back into the H.O.A.’s good graces. But that’s not all! Get ready for an approving nod from that neighbor whose respect is harder to win than a 50-50 raffle at a basketball game!”

“Incredible!” said Ron. “Well done, Pat, and thanks for playing. We’ll see you next time on—”

LIFE’S! LITTLE! CHOICES!

#

The final time Patrick saw the host, he was lying in bed.

He couldn’t get up. Something was wrong with his body, though he could still move his arms and head with some effort. His phone was on the nightstand next to him. If he reached, Patrick could pick it up and call an ambulance. Yet, he remained still, arms crossed vampirically over his chest.

“Welcome to another exciting episode of Life’s Little Choices!”

Patrick smiled as his old friend stepped out of the closet and stood beside his bed.

“I’m your host, Ron Ripley, and we are making history today, folks. For the first time ever, we have a contestant coming back to play for a third time. Come on and give it up for Patrick Tanner!”

The Studio Audience’s fervent applause filled the entire house.

“Hey, Ron. Glad to be back.” Patrick was surprised to realize he meant it. “What decision do I need to make this time?”

Beep-bap-boop-bap-boooop!

“The choice is simple,” said Ron. “Call for help, or pass on to the next world. I hope you’re ready, Pat, because it’s time to—”

WEIGH! YOUR! OPTIONNNNS!

Without hesitation, Patrick pushed his phone off the nightstand.

Gasps of shock from the Studio Audience. Murmurs of confusion. The timer hadn’t even begun to tick down. Then the Studio Audience broke into riotous cheering.

“A new record!” Ron’s grin wasn’t as shiny as Patrick remembered. But then, Patrick’s eyesight wasn’t what it once was. “There’s no going back now. Tell him what he’s won, Bill.”

“Connnn-gratulations, Patrick!” said the voiceover from the bedroom ceiling. “By knocking your phone out of reach, you’ve ensured your passing on to the next world – whatever that entails!”

“Stupendous!” said Ron. “Well done, Pat, and thanks for playing. We’ll see you next time on—”

LIFE’S! LITTLE! CHOICES!

Patrick felt the Studio Audience shuffle out of the room. He closed his eyes, ready to be at peace.

“Pat?” Ron Ripley sat at the bottom of his bed, no longer smiling. His eyebrows arranged themselves to meet high upon his forehead. The host looked…troubled. “I don’t usually do this, but I must know; why didn’t you weigh your options?”

“I did,” Patrick said. “Long before today.” He pulled the blanket further up to fend off a sudden chill. The bed had been cold in the years since Rebecca’s passing. Patrick missed her horrible singing, and the little chocolates, and their kissing game most of all. “I’m ninety years old, Ron.”

“But you could have lived another few years.” Ron frowned. Had he ever done that before?

With every breath, Patrick felt his time slipping away. If his life were a movie, the credits would be rolling. Sure, he could have chosen differently. Could have called for help; added a bonus scene for anyone who’d stuck around hoping for a few extra minutes with their favorite characters. To what end? The kids were all grown and raising families of their own. They took care of him now, as he’d taken care of his mother in her old age. He didn’t want to burden them anymore.

No. There would be no bonus scene. Patrick always found them self-indulgent, anyway.

He reached out to his wife’s side of the bed, feeling its emptiness like a hole in his heart. “There comes a time you choose to let go,” he said, and rested a hand on Rebecca’s pillow.

The host nodded his understanding.

He let out a shaky sigh. “Did I make the right choices, Ron? Would I have still lived a good life if I’d chosen otherwise?”

“Nobody knows, Pat,” Ron answered smoothly. “Not really.”

But Patrick thought he knew, even if the host couldn’t answer. Life was made of so many little choices that led down countless paths. Yet, the choices themselves were not important. They’d merely carried him to Rebecca and the life they’d built together.

What mattered was that Patrick hadn’t floated through life; he’d paddled.

“I’m glad I never let the timer run out on any of my decisions, Ron,” Patrick said.

The host bent his neck sideways, smiling demonically. “Me too, Pat.” With that, he began to dissipate, evaporating like the final images of a dream.

Patrick stared at the ceiling and remembered the day he’d painted it. Rebecca had insisted that it be blue. Something she’d read in a magazine about keeping out evil.

Moments later, Patrick Tanner had no more of life’s little choices left to make.