Greg Brady always struck me as the kind of guy who meant well. Who’d mean well his entire life. Who’d end up travelling, a salesman hocking gourmet microwave meals or specialist stationery, meaning well until he hated himself for it.
Then one bright day poor Greg would be found dead in a Motel 6, the victim of an auto-erotic sex-act gone awry.
And the rest of the Bradys would never discuss how he was found.
The lipstick-smeared grin.
The floral-print dress askew.
The tears having run his thick, black mascara.
And, on hearing the news, Marsha would pour herself her mid-morning G&T, pop another Valium, and staring out at her perfect lawn would say absolutely nothing at all.
