I walk into an underground bank vault where my parents have planned a dinner party. There is a long oak table with 3 chairs on both of the long sides of the table. On the table there are 5 mannequin heads and in front of the heads is a pile of wigs. There is only one couple who are seated staring at the faces, figuring out which wig would go best on each head. My mother then comes into the room, stirring a martini, “You should get a baby, renovate that baby, then sell that baby. Flip that baby. I’d be happy with that.” She sits down in the third chair, in front of the heads, as I leave the room. I go around the corner to a wall of security deposit boxes. I pull one out and it hits me in the chest, and the top flips open, revealing that it is filled with crushed tomatoes. I grab as much as I can in two cupped hands, carry it back to the main room, and slam down the sloppy mush onto the table.
