The 55-Plus Millionaires' Club-188 pages, Fiction-is the tale of Frank Lessings, a charming 61-year-old senior citizen who enjoys a modest life with Francine, his lovely wife of 40 years. One morning, he suffers a near-death experience, the cause of which soon reveals a legendary tale rooted deeply in American history. The Lessings, along with six other seniors, embark on a rewarding journey to find that the legend is reality; the end result endowing each of them with millions of dollars worth of hidden treasure.
Yet the blessing of wisdom that comes with age is lost by the group after the money and the glamour it brings adversely affects them all. Their riches begin to ruin their lives; a veridical portrait of the power with which great wealth can dominate even the meekest of humanity. Can they once again find that wisdom and right all that has gone so horribly wrong before it's too late?
Here is a excerpt from The 55-Plus Millionaires' Club:
The sun rose in a cloudless, washed-out blue sky on Monday's ante meridiem. Frank awoke to the stove top-warmed aroma of breakfast-though it not a familiar one. Puzzled, he entered the bathroom, took a pee, washed his hands, and shuffled his way to the kitchen in old, holey house slippers and even holier red plaid boxers.
“Good morning, dear. Hungry?” Francine asked in a rather chipper way.
“Of course!” he replied, taking his usual seat at the table. “But-.”
She placed a bowl and a plate down in front of him. The bowl contained his accustomed oatmeal, though the pat of butter was paper-thin; more like a sliver, and already disintegrated-the brown sugar was totally absent. Even the oats themselves appeared different; they were fat and looked as if a thousand hard chews wouldn't tame them. On the plate next to the bowl sat two hard boiled eggs, sliced; a half grapefruit; two flat, dry turkey bacon slices the same color as the inside of his mouth and three small tomato disks besprinkled with pepper, but no salt-the shaker was no longer on the table, either. And still no basil.
“Uhh . . . what the heck is this?” he asked.
It wasn't that the food didn't look good or edible; it just wasn't the “Frank Special!” He didn't move, hoping that his wife had accidentally placed her own meal before him or that she was playing a practical joke on him and would laugh as she revealed a piping hot plate of the “Special” from behind her back in due course. But it wasn't April 1st.
“Well I thought a little change might do you good,” she remarked.
A little change? He shouldn't have been much surprised. His near-death encounter a mere four days prior would have encouraged any wife to be concerned and health-conscious enough to amend their beloveds' diet habits. He still didn't move-only staring blankly at her offering with a slightly wrinkled mien. He felt like mortality itself were staring at him in return from that plate.
“Well it won't kill ya to eat a bit healthier!” she insisted.
He sighed heavily, stabbing the elliptical slice of boiled egg with his fork and raising it to his clenching, unhappy lips. He knew better than to press his wife. She did have a point. He also knew once the scare from his choking eventually and inevitably died down, the “Special” would make its way back to the table, the same as before. After his lean and uninspiring breakfast, he showered and dressed.