The Executrix of Paul's Estate

Maya Erickson, still missing the late Paul Erickson, one-time King of Vegas, likes to hit the gym before the sun comes up. In part the tendency of an aging widow and part due to the symphony of messaging apps letting her know a new one is waiting, she can’t stay in bed past 440am, not even with the help of Xanax. A global network of friends and rivals, plaintiffs and defendants, lovers and really good lovers; constantly stay in touch and usually get a reply.

Born across the world in a different desert, one by the sea in Israel; no one in her family expected her to be waking up amongst such grandeur, everyone is wildly jealous of her lot. She doesn’t want to open her eyes but she does want to open her WhatsApp to see the usual “Good Morning” meme of flowers and champagne from a Tinder date she met in New York, the guy from India who owns the shops in London. She likes when he gets drunk and texts her soft-porn and silly jokes, it’s a pleasant escape and he asked her permission on their first date.

Rolling out of bed with heavy eyes from the THC candies the night before, she throws open the curtains of her second floor bedroom over-looking one of the most prized golf course views in the town. The Moon lightens the trees and hills to the West while her television has been glowing all night with 'Good Morning America' boasting how wonderful the day should be; she can’t sleep without the background noise.

Fridays are special even though everyday feels like the weekend, like a holiday is coming on Tortoise Beach Ln and has since 2007. Her home is a gluttons’ paradise with a constant flow of traffic; every walk of life, every color, religion, orientation, everyone is welcome. All can confirm, helping someone in need and knowing she has zero chance of getting the favor returned is something she does without flinching. She has the means to help anyone get of or a jam, jail or collections because she just helps them.

She’s also an enabler, supporting drug dealers, gamblers, degens and gypsies in all their glory and all their random ‘emergencies.’ She even brought one to rehab, picked him up the following week with some homemade chicken soup, brought him home and he got a fifth DUI that night. Part of her likes it this way, she likes being the hero and fixing others problems but she wishes just once they would wait a few weeks before fucking her over.

She hasn’t heard from ‘Mike number one’ since she bailed him out of jail, while dancing with her Tinder date at a wedding in New York; he called her from jail asking for $2500, six months ago. Every time she calls 'Mike number two' because her internet connection (that he setup after getting stoned off her purple kush) keeps crashing, he eats and drinks and smokes again then invoices her more than the last time she forgot her password. Victor, her former trainer, former boxer, former occasional body-guard, former time-share salesman, former MLM faithful and currently late on his car note by three months; asked the night before to keep his car in her garage for a few weeks, again.

But over the years, she got most of what she needed from them all, she made the good and bad balance out, until she met the gypsy, or Ben Zona as she saved his name in her iPhone. If she gets started on the gypsy story after a few drinks, comprehending the full story becomes impossible even for the most sympathetic audience. If the reader is not a believer in curses, spells, voodoo or magic, this story will get boring very soon.

But if all-things mysterious interest you and things that can't be easily explained turn you on, then listening to our friend Mayas' life story may help unlock some secrets, answer some questions, discover the meaning of life, why are we here, what is this all about? Or maybe you'll get a few laughs and find refreshing how at sixty-three, Maya is writing her own script with no regrets, well maybe one regret; after two hundred and fifty thousand, the gypsy still hasn't eaten her pussy.