When the bottling plant cut John’s hours, Julie came up with the idea of holding a garage sale. Like most people, they had collected quite a bit of clutter over the years, and Julie was a firm believer in the maxim that one man’s junk was another man’s treasure. In this case, the one man was Julie’s husband, and the junk was all his stuff in their garage. Julie broached the subject gently one evening after they finished watching the latest iteration of tv talent show. It was still early in the season, so most of the episode featured contestants whose dreams exceeded their abilities. The last performer, however, was a blind orphan with the voice of an angel.
“I hope the orphan wins.” Julie said to John. She sat next to him on their living room couch with her head resting on his shoulder.
“I liked cancer guy from last week.” John replied. “All he wants to do is pay off his mother’s mortgage before he dies.”
Julie thought back to the prior week’s episode. They had wheeled that poor man onto the stage in a hospital gurney. He was connected to scary-looking machines and had tubes sticking out all over his body. It was impossible not to feel sorry for him.
“The cancer guy was good too.” Julie agreed. “I hope they both win.”
John laughed.
“You can’t have two winners.”
“Sure you can.” Julie protested. “It’s like The Hunger Games. They can make whatever rules they want.”
As the show neared its conclusion, the superstar hosts announced the blind orphan would be advancing to the next round. The stars converged upon the girl and enveloped her in hugs. Everyone was crying tears of joy.
“I wish I had a beautiful voice.” Julie moaned.
“I’m glad you don’t.” John said. “If you did, you’d be married to some famous rock star instead of me.” Julie tittered with pleasure and snuggled up a little closer to him.
The closing credits rolled. John flicked off the tv, and they cuddled on the couch, bathed in the faint residue of illumination from the darkened screen.
“Honey?” Julie asked after a while.
“Uh huh.” John answered.
“There’s a lot of things in the garage we never use.”
“Uh huh.” John answered again. He wasn’t sure where Julie was going, but he was sufficiently content not to care.
“Why don’t we hold a garage sale?” Julie suggested.
“Sounds like more trouble than it’s worth.” John murmured. “Bunch of strangers pawing through our stuff. Offering us pennies on the dollar.”
“I know, but I’ve been wanting to organize the garage. This way, we clean it out and make a little extra spending money at the same time.”
“Fine with me.” John wasn’t crazy about spending his weekend on a garage sale, but it seemed important to Julie, so he gave in. He usually did.
* * *
That Friday, Julie posted signs for the garage sale around the neighborhood. She taped one to the streetlamp at the end of their block, another to the bulletin board at the community center, and a third to the traffic light near the Safeway. The next day, she shook John awake at the crack of dawn, and they hauled their surplus possessions out of the garage and onto the driveway. There were a few skirmishes over items John wanted to keep, but Julie navigated the issue with sensitivity. She deferred to him on anything with arguable sentimental value and appealed to avarice with respect to the rest. “If this garage sale is going to be worthwhile,” she told John, “we’ve got to sell things people will buy. The more you want to keep something, the more money somebody else will pay for it.”
Julie had chosen a pleasant day to hold a garage sale. The rising sun peeked through the leafy elms that lined their quiet street, and the sky was a clear, celestial blue mottled with tiny ribbons of cirrus clouds. John and Julie were still setting up folding tables on their front lawn when their first customer arrived. He was an older gentleman wearing a tweed coat, khaki trousers, and white sneakers. He crept slowly and methodically amongst their belongings, eyeing the items like a heron stalking minnows. Although the man didn’t buy much, John enjoyed haggling with him, and it started the day off on the right foot.
Later in the morning, the neighbors came out to visit. There was more gossip than commerce, but it made John and Julie feel like they had achieved a certain standing in their community, which was its own form of compensation. Plus, the man who lived on the corner paid $200 for John’s bandsaw. Business slowed in the afternoon, although they continued to receive sporadic visits from curious passersby. By that point, John had lost interest in selling and sat on a lawn chair watching a ballgame on his cellphone. This suited Julie fine, as it allowed her to accept any offer, no matter how low, without being second guessed.
Around 4 p.m., Julie declared the garage sale a success. They had earned $800 and sold all the larger items. They were just starting to gather the leftover merchandise when a long, black limousine turned onto their street. The limousine was electric powered and moved with a disconcertingly silent whir. To John and Julie’s surprise, it pulled up right in front of their home. Two men in dark suits exited the vehicle. One was the driver, and the other—judging from his size—was a bodyguard. The bodyguard scanned John and Julie from behind polarized sunglasses while the driver opened the limousine’s rear passenger door. A little man with a shiny, bald head emerged.
“Good day,” the little bald man said. “I’m Owen Mink.”
John laughed.
“You mean like the world’s richest man?”
“That’s right.” The little, bald man said. “I’m the world’s richest man.”
“Oh my God,” Julie stammered. “It really is Owen Mink. I’ve seen his picture in the magazines at the nail salon.”
“How can we help you, Mr. Mink?” Rich people made John nervous, and he was worried he may have offended Mink when he had laughed a moment earlier.
“I’m here for the garage sale.” Mink said.
“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” Julie gestured as cheerfully as she could at the remaining goods. Everything left was pure rubbish.
“I don’t want to buy any of your personal effects. I want to buy your garage.”
“You want to buy our house?” John asked.
“Not your house. Your garage.”
“I don’t understand.” John said.
“I’ll give you $50,000 for the garage. You can keep the rest of the house.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone buying just a garage.” Julie remarked.
“The garage is all I need.” Mink said. “Besides, I’d like to retain the property’s local character.”
“What are you going to use our garage for?” John asked.
“I haven’t decided yet, but I’m smitten by the location, and one of the luxuries of wealth is that I can indulge even my slightest inclinations.”
Julie was awash in misgivings, but John still felt the lingering effects of a day spent bargaining.
“$150,000.” John countered. “It’s a very nice garage.”
“$100,000.” The little bald man replied. “And I’ll throw in a storage unit for your backyard.”
Julie tugged on John’s arm, pulling him to the side.
“Maybe we should think this over.” She said to him.
“It’s a great price, Jules.” John whispered. “The whole house is only worth $200,000, and we’re getting $100,000 for the garage. We won’t even have to move.”
“If you’re not sure,” Mink interjected, “I can look elsewhere. I want partners who can create synergies on this project.”
“I don’t know what that means.” Julie said to John.
“It means he’s going to improve our lives.” John explained. “With synergies.”
“But what if he turns the garage into something noisy and obnoxious?”
“He can’t do that. There are laws against that sort of thing. Trust me, honey. This is going to work out great.”
“I guess so.” Julie said, but she didn’t really guess so.
“You’ve got a deal.” John told the little bald man.
“Fantastic.” Mink said. The driver stepped forward with a stack of documents. “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing the paperwork.”
* * *
On Monday morning, John and Julie awoke to the sound of clanging. John stumbled groggily out of their bedroom and into the living room. Through the bay windows, he could see a construction crew in the driveway. He opened his front door to get a better look but found himself staring at wrought iron posts. Someone had built a fence on his front porch right in front of his doorway!
“Hey,” John called to the construction crew. “What do you idiots think you’re doing?”
“Perhaps I can explain.” A tall man in his early fifties stepped onto the porch and spoke to John through the fence. “I’m Robert Wakefield, Mr. Mink’s attorney.”
Wakefield had chiseled features, broad shoulders, sparkling teeth, and robust waves of dark hair. John could almost see his life story etched upon his handsome face: dean’s list, captain of the football team, editor-in-chief of the Law Review. This was a man for whom success had always been a certainty.
“Those, uh, guys blocked my door by mistake.” John said to Wakefield, gesticulating in the direction of the construction crew.
“It’s not a mistake. It’s right here in the contract.” Wakefield handed John a document through the fenceposts. “I’ve highlighted the relevant language in section 12, paragraph (g).”
“I’m not following you.” John said. “The grant deed you signed transfers to Mr. Mink all title and interest in the garage and ‘any pavement appurtenant thereto.’ This porch is part of the appurtenant pavement.”
John stared at the document in his hands. He had no idea what “appurtenant” meant, but it didn’t sound good.
“Mr. Mink is committed to running a socially responsible business.” Wakefield continued. “And I think we can all agree that building fences is a responsible thing to do. As they say, ‘good fences make good neighbors.’”
Wakefield headed back toward the garage.
“Hey, wait.” John called out after him. “How are we supposed to leave the house?”
“I’m sorry.” Wakefield answered. “Your egress is beyond the scope of my representation.”
Before John could say anything else, Wakefield vanished into the throng of construction workers. John turned to find Julie lurking at his elbow.
“What are we going to do?” She asked.
“I’ll sort everything out.” John assured her. “I promise.”
Julie got dressed for work, and John helped her out one of the front windows. After a few phone calls, John was able to schedule a meeting with a lawyer who was the uncle of one of his coworkers. All morning, John listened to the construction crew banging away. He couldn’t tell what they were building, but he saw the workers unload a stove, refrigerator, and dishwasher from a delivery truck and haul them into the garage.
In the early afternoon, John climbed out his living room window and drove to meet his friend’s uncle. The meeting did not go well. The lawyer described the documents John and Julie signed as “ironclad.” “There’s nothing I can do after you’ve already signed a contract,” the lawyer scolded. “Next time come to me before you sign anything.”
John returned home disheartened, but his distress was quickly replaced by confusion. As John pulled onto his street, he saw a huge crowd of people swarming around his home. John couldn’t find anywhere to park and swore under his breath. He hadn’t thought about parking when he sold their garage. John drove to the next block, found a spot, and walked home. He picked his way through the crowd until he got close enough to see a large, stylishly crafted sign hanging above his garage. It read: “Carte Blanche.”
John accosted a young couple standing in what looked like a line. The boy wore a studded leather jacket and a pleated skirt, and his greenish-blue hair arched high above his head in a colorful pompadour. He reminded John of a cockatoo. The girl wore a black turtleneck, black slacks, and black boots. Her sickly, white face was framed by straight, raven hair, and she was so rail thin that she appeared almost androgynous.
“What is this place?” John asked the couple.
“It’s Anton Rabelais’ new pop-up restaurant.” The boy responded excitedly.
“Who is Anton Rabblesauce?” Pronouncing foreign words had never been John’s strong suit.
“He’s brilliant.” The girl interposed. “He’s a culinary genius who’s not afraid to challenge the capitalist hegemony. He’s not just an artist. He’s a provocateur.”
“You’ve got to try his deconstructed pizza.” The boy added. He spread out one of his hands like an imaginary plate. “Garlic-infused flat bread. Thinly sliced cherry tomatoes. Shaved parmesan. Sprig of basil.”
“It’s called, ‘The Aristocracy Dismembered.’” The girl chimed in.
“It’s best to taste everything together,” the boy advised. “That way you can experience all the flavors at once.”
“It’s positively orgasmic.” The girl gushed.
“There’s also the Bourgeoisie Burger.” The boy said. “A5 Wagyu beef on a brioche bun sprinkled with flakes of real gold.”
“It’s visionary.” The girl boasted. “The proletariat literally consumes the bourgeoisie and replaces it. It’s a gastronomic revolution.”
“I disagree.” The boy countered. “The hamburger costs $50. He’s arguing the masses are complicit in today’s neo-capitalist oppression.”
“No, it’s playful.” The girl snapped back. “He’s highlighting the fact that global corporatization has become so ubiquitous that the workers can overcome it only by acquiring the means of production for themselves.”
“It’s an imperfect metaphor.” The boy insisted. “Marx would never have countenanced participating in the capitalist hierarchy, even as a means of destroying it. If Rabelais meant to be ironic, he should have called it a ‘Death to the Bourgeoisie Burger.’”
“That would be too on the nose.” The girl snorted in derision. “The whole installation is an exercise in irony. It may seem like the corporatists have carte blanche, but the true reins of power reside in the wage workers. This isn’t a restaurant. It’s a call to arms. That’s why it’s located in a garage. It’s the humblest room of the humblest, proletariat home in the humblest, most anonymous neighborhood.”
“But paying $50 for a gold-plated hamburger feels like a return to the gilded age.”
“That’s exactly his point. God, you are so obtuse sometimes.”
“I’m obtuse?” The boy fumed. “You’re the one who thought Dean Pelfrey would leave his wife and children for you.”
“I made a mistake. All right.” The girl snarled. “You’ve got to stop bludgeoning me with it.”
“It’s not just me you betrayed.” The boy admonished. “You betrayed the movement. You hopped into bed with our capitalist overlords.”
“I have never wavered.” The girl seethed. “Not like you. You’re a phony. You’re Daddy’s little trust fund boy.”
“At least I don’t call myself a revolutionary and then spread my legs for anyone with grey hair and spectacles.”
John cast a sideways glance down the line, hoping to extricate himself from the increasingly awkward conversation. He was surprised to catch a glimpse of Julie through the crowd. He mumbled something to the squabbling couple about finding his wife and pushed his way in Julie’s direction. When he reached her, she was deep in conversation with a man wearing a chef’s hat, a double-breasted coat, an apron, and loose-fitting, checkered pants.
“John!” Julie squealed when she saw her husband. “This is our new neighbor, Anton Rabelais. Can you believe we live next door to a celebrity?”
“Madame is too kind.” Rabelais responded in a thick, French accent. “I am no celebrity. I cook merely to nourish.”
John studied Rabelais carefully. He had beady eyes, ruddy cheeks, and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. John disliked him immediately.
“Anton invited me to eat at his restaurant.” Julie crowed.
“Any time, mon ange.” Rabelais offered.
“Anton also said I don’t have to climb in and out of the window anymore. I can go through his restaurant.”
“It is nothing.” Rabelais waved a hand dismissively. “A woman should not be forced to climb out the window of her own home. In France, it is the men who climb out the windows, not the women.”
Julie and Rabelais laughed, although John was confident Julie had no idea what Rabelais meant. John wasn’t entirely sure himself.
“Thank you, Mr. Rabblesauce.” John said. “We really appreciate your letting us use the garage.”
“Ah, but the invitation is only for madame.” Rabelais said regretfully. “The health inspectors place strict limits on the number of persons allowed in the kitchen.”
“Then how come Jules is allowed in there?”
“Because no one—not even the most wretched of health inspectors—would ever tell such a beautiful woman to leave.”
Julie and Rabelais laughed again.
“Alas,” Rabelais said, glancing at the line. “I must return to my trade. Will madame allow me to show her the passage into her home?”
“Oui, monsieur.” Julie giggled. Rabelais bowed, kissed Julie’s fingers, and led her by the hand into the restaurant.
“I’ll see you inside, John.” Julie called out.
“So long, Tom.” Rabelais added with a smirk.
* * *
That evening, John and Julie fought like they had never fought before. Julie adored living next to Rabelais’ restaurant. She said it was elegant and would bring a touch of much-needed class to the neighborhood. John complained the only thing the restaurant would bring to the neighborhood was rats, and that included pretty boy Rabblesauce. Julie accused John of being jealous and hinted he could learn a thing or two about how to treat a woman from Rabelais. John accused Julie of acting like a silly, little schoolgirl. At that point, the fight reached a natural intermission. The two climbed into bed and fell asleep facing opposite directions.
In the morning, they resumed their bout. John forbade Julie from leaving through the restaurant, and Julie told John in no uncertain terms that she would not be climbing out the window any longer. It was unladylike. John declared it would be better for her to climb out the window than to spend any more time with that dandy frog Rabblesauce. In a theatrical attempt to have the last word, John flung open one of their living room windows and hurled himself through it. Only instead of landing triumphantly on his front lawn, as John imagined, he found himself crumpled into a pile of tangled limbs on the floor of his living room.
John picked himself up, brushed himself off, and examined the window. It had been covered with thick plexiglass, much like the kind one might find at an aquarium.
“Good luck with the window.” Julie chortled. “I prefer the garage.” She opened the garage door to reveal Rabelais, Wakefield, and various restaurant staff.
“Ah, madame.” Rabelais said to Julie. “Allow me to escort you through the premises.”
“Why certainly, kind sir.” Julie replied, taking his hand and stepping down into the restaurant.
John pursued them in a blind fury, but Wakefield blocked his path. Wakefield was smiling, and his gleaming teeth had a distracting, hypnotic effect.
“I see you’ve discovered the plexiglass.” Wakefield said. “It’s amazing work. You can hardly see it.”
“Yes, but why is it there?” John demanded.
“Some of the neighbors complained about the crowd blocking the sidewalk.” Wakefield explained. “To ease the congestion, we condemned your front yard and converted it into a public park. Naturally, we had to separate the park from the adjacent properties. I’ve gathered all the official notices for your files along with a check to compensate you for the fair market value of that portion of your property subject to eminent domain.”
John glanced at the check. It was in the amount of $8,142.
“How am I going to get in and out of my home?” John asked.
“I’m sorry,” Wakefield responded. “I cannot advise you on such matters. There would be a conflict of interest.”
Still smiling, Wakefield shut the garage door in John’s face. John tried the doorknob but discovered the door had been locked from the other side. Frustrated, John pounded his fist on his dining room table. As he rubbed his smarting knuckles, he had an idea. He called the County Planning Department.
“Code Enforcement hotline,” answered the operator. “What type of violation are you calling about?”
“I’d like to report my neighbor.” John said. “He’s running a restaurant out of his garage.”
“That does sound highly irregular.” The operator replied. “Can I get the address of the offending property owner?”
John gave the operator his address. He could hear her typing it into a computer.
“I’m sorry, sir.” The operator said after a short pause. “The address you gave me is not located within County limits.”
“That’s impossible.” John exclaimed. “I’ve lived here my entire life.”
“This address is in the Latimer Creek Improvement District.”
“What’s that?”
“The County established the District as an autonomous economic zone. It has its own municipal government outside the County’s jurisdiction.”
“So who do I call to complain about the restaurant?”
John could hear the operator typing again on her computer.
“It looks like the District is governed by a three-member Board of Supervisors.”
“Who are they?”
“Owen Mink, Robert Wakefield, and Anton Rabelais.”
John hung up the phone in disgust. Unfortunately, he did not have time to dwell on the bad news. He was running late for work. He went into his backyard and peered over the fence. The only way out was through his neighbors’ yards. He hopped the fence and traversed the first yard without incident. In the second yard, however, he was greeted by a patrol of dachshunds. The vicious little monsters chased him across the lawn, nipping at his ankles like tiny badgers. In the third yard, John surprised an elderly man tending a garden. The man shouted obscenities and sprayed John with a hose. From his car, John tried calling Julie, but she did not answer.
At the end of his shift, John visited his co-worker’s uncle a second time. “Condemnation law is a nightmare for homeowners.” The lawyer explained. “Municipalities can pretty much do anything they want.” After reviewing the paperwork, the lawyer concluded that John was “completely screwed.” He could challenge the amount of money he received, but he was never going to get his front yard back. John returned home and ran the gauntlet of his neighbor’s yards a second time. The house was empty, although John could hear noisy laughter and conversation coming from the restaurant next door. He made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and tended to the nasty bites on his ankles. Afterwards, he watched tv until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He fell asleep on his living room couch, still waiting for Julie to come home.
* * *
The next morning, John awoke to a sea of disembodied voices. At first, John thought he was dreaming, but as he slowly came to his senses, he realized he was sitting on his living room couch, and there were dozens of people staring at him through his bay windows. He leapt to his feet in horror.
“Good morning, honey. I cooked you breakfast.”
Julie stood in the kitchen with a newspaper in one hand and a plate of bacon and eggs in the other. Although Julie was dressed in a bathrobe, her hair was perfectly done, and she wore a lot more makeup than usual. Julie set the plate down on the kitchen table.
“What’s going on?” John yelped.
“Welcome to the Museum of the American Family.” Julie said. It felt like she was speaking more to the crowd than to John.
“Come again?” John asked.
“We are the American family, and this is the museum of our lives.”
As Julie spoke, she made a sweeping motion with her arms as if she were displaying the grand prize on a tv game show. The audience broke into applause, and John was momentarily blinded by the flashes of cellphone cameras.
“This isn’t a museum.” John sputtered. “It’s our home.”
“I knew you’d say that.” Julie turned away dramatically. “He’s never supported me.” She said to the audience at the windows. “You can’t imagine the depths of my quiet desperation.”
John couldn’t tell if Julie was serious or if she’d just finished taking a correspondence course from the William Shatner School of Acting.
“What are you talking about?”
Julie slammed her hands down on the kitchen table like a detective confronting an evasive suspect on a police procedural.
“I’m talking about dreams.” She hissed. “You’ve never given a moment’s thought to what I want out of life.” She spoke to the windows again. “Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to be an actress. I’ve always felt the siren song of the stage.”
“You volunteered as an usher at the community theater.” John interrupted, trying to get Julie’s attention. “You never said anything about acting.”
“You don’t understand me, John.” Julie gestured toward the people at the window. “This audience is as much a part of my life as this table or that couch.” Julie moved her hands distractingly in small circles. It looked like she was juggling invisible balls. “An actress cannot exist apart from, uh…” Julie glanced down at the newspaper in her hand. “An actress cannot exist apart from the affirmation of her audience.”
“Are you reading a script?”
Julie shot John a look of daggers.
“These people are my life.” Julie said icily. “You need to accept who I am.” She was talking to the windows now. “I don’t know how much more I can take. The subversion. The zeitgeist.” She glanced down at the newspaper again. “The oppression.”
John had enough.
“You can do whatever you want,” he said to Julie. “But I’m not living in a fishbowl.”
John escaped to their bedroom. For the rest of the day, Julie performed soliloquies for the audience at the windows. When she finished, she exited through the garage door.
* * *
John hardly spoke to Julie the rest of the week. In the mornings, she cooked breakfast for no one and washed dishes they’d never used. In the afternoons, she ironed clothes they hadn’t worn and dusted furniture without any dust. In the evenings, she painted her freshly painted nails and carried on phone conversations with imaginary friends. All the while, Julie recited dialogue written by someone else. John loved Julie, but even he could see she was a terrible actress. He couldn’t understand what had gotten into her.
John attempted to coax Julie into the bedroom, so they could speak privately, but she refused. Eventually, John left the bedroom and tried talking to her in the living room. All their conversations were the same. She brought up events that never happened, accused him of “diminishing” her, and referred to him insultingly as her “prison sentence.” John despised his role in the play his life had become. From what he could tell, the writers of this nonsense viewed him as an irredeemable oaf. No matter what John said or did, Julie had nothing but criticism. What’s worse, she left every evening through the garage door.
On Friday, Julie was waiting for John at the kitchen table. She had done her hair up and wore a fashionable dress. John tried once again to get Julie to come into the bedroom, but she made it clear he would have to come to her. When he finally entered the living room, the audience at the windows burst into rapturous applause.
“John, we need to talk.” Julie said, motioning for him to join her at the table.
“I don’t really feel comfortable talking in front of all these people.” John replied. “Isn’t there any way we can go to the bedroom?”
“I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching.” Julie acted as if John hadn’t spoken. “I’m not happy in this marriage. We’re headed in different directions.”
“Everything was fine until the garage sale.” John shot back. “And I’m truly sorry for that. It was all my fault. I got greedy.”
Julie handed John the Arts Section from the Times. The front page read: “Meta Masterpiece in the Suburbs.”
“I took a chance.” Julie said. “I bet on myself. Now, look what’s happened. The Times adores my performance. They’re calling it ‘a charming parody of acting.’”
“We can sell the house and start over.” John suggested. “Everything will go back to the way it was.”
“I’m never going back. I’m the next big thing. There’s talk of a pilot. And I’ve been invited to walk the runway in Milan and Paris.”
“But you don’t know anything about acting. And you aren’t”—John chose his next words carefully—“angular enough to be a model.”
“You see,” Julie said to the audience. “He doesn’t believe in me.”
“I do believe in you,” John said. “That’s why I don’t want you to be treated like an object of ridicule.”
Julie’s eyes burned with bright fire.
“The industry wants real women now, not some man’s phony idea of what a woman should be. I can do anything I put my mind to. I can be the best parody in the history of parodies.”
It was obvious Julie had no idea what a parody was.
“Jules, baby, give me another chance.” John pleaded. “We’ll be fine once we get out of this damned aquarium.”
“I can be happy.” Julie responded. “But I can’t be happy with you, John. This is our closing night.”
Julie rose from the table. For the first time, John noticed a piece of luggage sitting on the floor beside her.
“Anton,” Julie called out. “I’m ready to go.”
The garage door opened. For a moment, Rabelais stood in silhouette in the doorway. He looked like a man who’d just won a game of high-stakes poker. John finally understood exactly what was happening.
“Jules, no.” He fell at her feet and clutched helplessly at her arm.
“To grovel like this,” Anton scoffed. “It is so unbecoming.”
“He’s right, John.” Julie said. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“You can’t leave.” John begged.
“You must take this like a man.” Anton said.
“Yes, John.” Julie repeated. “Be a man.”
“Don’t go.” John bawled. “I can make you happy again.”
“I felt like I was in My Fair Lady,” Julie said to the audience at the windows. “The difference was I realized I could do a whole lot better than that smarmy, old professor Grace Kelly ended up with!”
Julie tore herself from John’s grip and glided out the garage door, leaving John on his knees. Anton gathered Julie’s luggage and followed her, closing the garage door behind him. The audience erupted into rousing cheers. Someone yelled, “Bravo!” John sat stunned on his living room floor. After a few minutes, he made his way to the liquor cabinet. John swept aside Julie’s pitiful collection of wines and snatched a bottle of cheap bourbon he had gotten as a white elephant gift at the bottling plant’s Christmas party. He retired to his bedroom to drink and curse until he was no longer able to do either.
* * *
The next morning, John awoke in a haze to the sound of clattering pans and the smell of bacon. He stumbled out of bed, very much the worse for wear from the prior night’s misadventures. The crowd was back at the windows. They applauded when he emerged from the bedroom.
“It’s about time you came out for breakfast, sleepyhead.” A strange woman in a white bathrobe stood at his stove. She had a roundish figure with blond hair and a pleasant face.
“Who the hell are you?” John sputtered.
“Daddy, language.”
John nearly jumped out of his pajamas. Glancing downward, he saw a little girl in pigtails standing beside him. As John tried to formulate what to say next, he spotted Wakefield waving at him from the garage door.
“Uh, just a minute.” John mumbled to the strange woman and child and made a beeline to the garage.
“What the hell is going on?” John blurted out to the lawyer.
“I’m not going to lie.” Wakefield began. “We were deeply disappointed by Julie’s departure from the project. It’s had quite a deleterious effect on ticket sales. We’ve hired some professional actors, at least until you can find a suitable replacement.”
“You can’t let random people wander around inside my home.”
“Technically, they’ve been granted a prescriptive easement for an artistic performance. It’s all perfectly legal.”
“I’m sure it is,” John replied mockingly. “Look, I’m tired of playing games. You win, and I lose, okay? I’ll sell you the rest of the house. How much will you pay for it?”
“I don’t think it would make sense for Mr. Mink to make an offer at this time given all the unpaid property taxes.”
“What?” John bleated.
Wakefield handed John a tax bill.
“$250,000!”
“The Improvement District reassessed your property to reflect the increase in its value attributable to the recent development in the economic zone.”
“That’s it, you slimy piece of shit.”
John threw the tax bill to the floor and slammed the garage door in Wakefield’s face.
“Get out of here.” He shouted at the woman and girl. “You’re nothing but faithless, actress whores.” The woman gasped in shock, and the little girl started to cry. The audience booed and hissed.
“What’s wrong with you?” John yelled at the people at the windows. “Don’t you have anything better to do than watch other people’s heartbreak? Are your own lives that pathetic?” John stormed into his bedroom and stayed there until everyone had gone.
That evening, John sat down at his kitchen table with Julie’s laptop. He wasn’t much of a writer, but he felt a sudden clarity. John wrote what he really thought about everyone. He started with God, then the government, and then his corporate overlords. He wrote about Julie, his father, disappointment, betrayal, parking enforcement officers, and the fact that there was never, ever enough jelly in the center of jelly doughnuts. When he finished, he had written over 200 pages. The sun shone brightly through his living room windows. John could see the audience gathering outside again.
“I will not slink whimpering into the night.” John proclaimed to them. “I will unmask the evils of our age.” John ripped off his shirt and pounded his bare chest. “I am a prophet for this lost generation.” John found Mink’s social media site on the laptop. He set up an account and uploaded his manifesto for the whole world to read. Then, he staggered into his bedroom, collapsed onto his bed, and sunk into a deep and satisfying sleep.
* * *
John lost track of time. Days passed into weeks, and weeks passed into months. After Julie’s departure, John missed a few days of work, and the bottling plant fired him. He had nowhere to go, so he stayed home. He moved around mostly at night to avoid the prying eyes at his windows. He lived off vegetables from a garden he planted in his backyard and scavenged scraps from the restaurant next door. Occasionally, he trapped a squirrel.
John could leave his house, but it required a great deal of effort. His neighbors had erected unscalable fences in every direction. To get out, John had to climb a tree in his backyard, hop onto the roof, and lower himself onto the restaurant’s dumpster. To return, he had to stand on the dumpster and pull himself back onto the roof. From time to time, Wakefield delivered notices through the garage door. John used them as kindling. The only constant was the audience at the windows. Somehow, the crowds had grown larger, even as John avoided them. John could hear them chanting throughout the day. If he stepped into their line of sight for even a second, they erupted into madness.
Then, one day, it was all over. Sheriff’s deputies burst into his bedroom, dragged him out of bed, and hauled him into his living room. The audience thundered at the sight of him. John seized upon the distraction and slipped away from the deputies. He grabbed onto his kitchen table and refused to let go. Try as they might, the deputies could not pry him loose.
One of the deputies addressed him.
“You are being evicted.”
The audience howled.
“You can’t stay here any longer.”
The audience screeched.
“If you do not come peaceably, we will have no choice but to use force.”
The audience roared. John held steadfastly to the table.
“He’s refusing to comply.” A deputy said.
“Light him up,” said another.
John’s entire body went limp. It felt like angry bees were crawling under his skin and shrieking eagles were clawing at his back. His brain rattled around his head like a jellybean inside an empty jar. When he regained his senses, he found himself in the deputies’ grasp once more. All John could think about was his soaking, wet pants. He had pissed himself. He hadn’t pissed himself since he was a little boy. The deputies carried John through the garage, which was now somebody else’s kitchen. They carried him down the driveway, which was now filled with somebody else’s tables and chairs. They deposited him roughly onto the front lawn, which was now somebody else’s park. The sunlight hurt John’s eyes. Deputies were everywhere, straining to hold back the rowdy crowd.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” It was Wakefield. “The Latimer Creek Improvement District has foreclosed on your home due to unpaid property taxes. We will be refurbishing the property for use as a municipal building.”
The crowd was deafening, but somehow in the middle of all the clamor, John could hear a familiar voice.
“I can’t believe I married him.” The voice said. “Just look at what he’s become.”
John found the speaker in the crowd. She stood near a kiosk on what used to be their front lawn. She was unrecognizable to him. She had tiny sticks for legs and giant circles for breasts. Her face was puffy and filled with features that didn’t seem right. It looked as if she’d been assembled by a mad scientist trying to create a replica of a woman.
“Oh, God no.” John shouted. “It’s mine!”
“I belong to no man.” The woman replied indignantly.
“Not you.” John croaked. He crawled across the lawn toward the kiosk. He could see a book on a display case. It was called The Feral Man’s Manifesto. On the cover, there was a blurry picture of John taken from a security camera. He was eating scraps from a dumpster. Beneath his picture, it read: “The
* * *1 Bestseller.”
“How is this possible?” John cried.
“I can answer that.” Owen Mink stood flanked by deputies at the end of what used to be John’s driveway. “Anything posted on my social media site belongs to me.” Mink said. “It’s stated clearly in the terms of service.”
“You thieving bastard!”
John charged Mink like a demon unleashed from hell. He made it three paces before a taser hit him. He stumbled another couple of paces before half a dozen deputies pounced on him. He was screaming at Mink at the top of his lungs with a deputy’s knee pressed into the base of his skull when he finally blacked out.
* * *
John awoke on his couch in the living room. The house looked the same as before, except there were metal bars separating the living room from the kitchen. A deputy sat behind a desk near the garage door. Above the deputy hung a sign that read: “Latimer Creek Municipal Jail.” The audience was back at the windows.
“Why are you staring at me?” John shouted at them. “You should be rioting in the streets. They steal our labor. They steal our homes. They steal our privacy. They even steal the words out of our mouths.”
John was pacing, muttering to himself.
“They fill the heads of our wives and children with impossible dreams. They make us detestable to everyone. They make us detestable to ourselves. Are any of you happy? Does anyone even know how to be happy anymore?”
John told the audience everything that was wrong with the world, starting with God, the government, and his corporate overlords. They listened with rapt attention. The Feral Man was the hottest ticket in town. It cost $1,000 a seat. And it was the perfect day to see the show. The star was electric, unhinged, and melancholy; the restaurant next door was buzzing; and The Feral Man’s Manifesto was flying off the shelves of the souvenir shop.