《Terrence and Emily》


 Ch. 1 - Back when things were still o.k.

    It was one of those glorious late spring mornings, when the sun pours things on so thick one can hardly see, and the outside world beckons with an inexplicable allure it was lacking just two weeks (and twenty degrees) ago.


    Through the open sliding doors dividing an elegant hi-rise hotel room from its attached balcony, overlooking the cool blue of the Pacific Ocean, one could observe a man asleep in bed, immune to the morning¡¯s allure.


    The man¡¯s arms and legs were awkwardly splayed out from his body, taking up the entire mattress.  He looked like an octopus having a good stretch after crawling out of a bottle it had been cooped up in for quite some time.


    Next to the bed sat a small nightstand.  On its top lay an alarm clock and a cellular phone.  The clock was emitting a high-pitched sound, and the cell phone was vibrating violently on the hard surface, registering an incoming call.


    The occupant of the bed wasn¡¯t bothered.  He slept on.


    The cell phone eventually stopped vibrating, and the caller was sent to voicemail.  It shortly thereafter resumed its vibration, then once again stopped, then started vibrating yet again.


    This third attempt on the caller¡¯s part to reach the sleeping man seemed to work some magic. He stirred.  Squinting through one eye at the clock on the nightstand, he emitted a sound of mild disgust.  It was only ten in the morning.


    Much too early.


    He rolled over and covered his head with a pillow, letting the alarm clock continue its pitiful wail.


    Suddenly the man¡¯s eyes flew open.  He gaped at the clock with a panicked expression.  He sat up and switched off the alarm. Picking up his cell phone, he cleared his throat and answered the (now) fourth attempted call.


    ¡°Hello?¡±


    ¡°Are you just waking up?  Please tell me you¡¯re not just waking up.¡±


    The caller was a woman.  Her voice had a desperate tone.


    ¡°No,¡± the man lied, springing to his feet.


    ¡°Then why haven¡¯t you been answering my calls?  Your ride will be there in five minutes, and the schedule is tight.¡±


    ¡°I was practicing my speech,¡± the man once again lied, for he had no honor before coffee.


    ¡°O.k.  I¡¯m going to text you the driver info.  Wait out front for him,¡± she grumbled, only partially appeased.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    ¡°Will do!  I¡¯ll be down in no time.¡±


    The call abruptly ended, and the man frowned.  Then he sprinted to the bathroom to take a brief shower.


    But perhaps I have been remiss, for I haven¡¯t been completely forthcoming about the man¡¯s identity.  You see, I was that man.


    Or rather, I should say, I am that man.  And I was that man.  But that doesn¡¯t sound right.  How does one express this sort of thing again?


    Anyway, I was supposed to be on my way to a press conference being held to announce that I had won the Grensfeld Industries Great Worldwide Sweepstakes.  My role at the event was to deliver a short speech to the gathered media.  As usual, I was running so late that I was in danger of being a no-show.


    My mission, in the speech, was:


    <ul>


    <li>to paint an absurdly rosy picture of my future labors in the salt mines, serving at the behest of the Grensfeld Industries marketing department, and</li>


    <li>to appear grateful that I had been given all the money which the customers had been overpaying Grensfeld, so the company could accumulate the sweepstakes payout.</li>


    </ul>


    How can I possibly explain the chain of events that could have compelled me to do such a hideous thing?


    You see, roughly this time last year, during a period when I was bivouacking for free on a dusty little patch of government land in Utah, a man showed up at my camper door out of the blue ¡ª a complete stranger mind you ¡ª and began to verbally accost me about why I never check my email.


    I protested that the man¡¯s accusation was unjust, feeling deeply offended.  I told him that I do, in fact, check my inbox, at least once annually.  If he had been sending me emails and had simply waited, there was a nonzero chance that I might have responded to him within the calendar year.


    My words did not meet with a positive response.  A number of additional words and suggestions (unworthy of inclusion in a story by a reputable author) were then exchanged in quick succession between us.


    With our mutual outrage temporarily exhausted, the man took advantage of the pause and told me his name.  It was Fred.


    Of course he already knew my name for some reason, since he had been emailing me.


    Following this rocky introduction, I learned that the man was a lawyer.  It would seem that he had been repeatedly sending me email messages containing instructions on how I could claim my sweepstakes winnings.


    Yes, you read that right: sweepstakes winnings.  The man had shown up to give me cash.  Millions of dollars.


    After I came to that realization, my working relationship with Fred improved dramatically.  I invited him into my camper for some celebratory Pepsi and Doritos, but he declined, showing a bit too much horror at the thought for my taste.  He couldn¡¯t hide it.  The man¡¯s face was a billboard for every emotion that passed through him.  Right now, his face was advertising, ¡°I could get tetanus just walking into that place.  And it smells of old socks.¡±


    Now, I¡¯m not asserting that my new friend Fred was wrong about either the tetanus or the socks, but it was indelicate of him to reveal that the place I called home so revolted him.  One wears a dignified mask in these situations.


    I signed several forms and agreed to meet Fred again at his law firm¡¯s office in Los Angeles, on Wednesday of the following week, to complete the remaining paperwork and to review the terms of the sweepstakes agreement.


    I then secured a small loan from Fred, borrowed against my winnings, sufficient to power my wobbly home on wheels down the long desert highway to LA.  This required some firmness, and sadly some further paperwork.  I sensed that my new friend Fred did not implicitly trust me to pay the money back.  It wounded me.


    The proceedings concluded, Fred hopped in his car and drove off.  I watched the dust cloud raised in his vehicle¡¯s wake fading off into the distant desert.  Then I went inside to have those Doritos.

 Ch. 2 - Fred Frustrates

    Having something happen to them as wonderful as winning a substantial cash prize knocks some people off kilter. In the excitement of meeting with such tremendous good fortune, they neglect to seek out the inevitable downside. But that is not me. I believe in the universal law of ¡®Conservation of Luck.¡¯ For every good thing that happens to you, an equal and opposite bad thing will happen too. It¡¯s science.


    I¡¯ve never been one of those ¡®life is like a box of chocolates¡¯ types. You see, I would genuinely enjoy eating a box of chocolates, maybe even two boxes. Life isn¡¯t like that. Life is more like a box of spinach. It¡¯s something to be endured.


    It was thus that I found my state of mind happy, but suspicious, as I pressed the button marked ¡®Visitor¡¯ at the main entrance to the offices of Fred¡¯s law firm, midway up a sleek downtown high rise in Los Angeles.


    I entered, offered my name and a brief defense of my existence to the receptionist, and took a seat.


    It was the sort of modern office that resembled an x-ray image of a traditional office. Every vertical surface ¡ª save for the restrooms and a supply closet ¡ª was made of glass. It created one of those ¡°everybody can see everybody else¡± situations so popular with today¡¯s managers, and goldfish.


    The receptionist typed something on her computer, and I saw Fred rise from his desk, just on the other side of the conference room. I watched him approach, coming to fetch me.


    I greeted him with my warmest smile, which I cannot say was reciprocated. He led me silently back into the crystal labyrinth of hallways and offices, like a helpful Minotaur.


    As we approached his office, I noticed that there were two other people already sitting inside. Had Fred botched his schedule and overlapped me with another appointment?


    We entered and sat down. I greeted the strangers, hoping to understand why they were in the meeting.


    ¡°Hello, hello, everyone,¡± I said. ¡°And who are you?¡±


    They didn¡¯t respond. They just stared at me blankly, then simultaneously turned their heads to look at Fred.


    Their reaction wasn¡¯t simply rude. It was downright creepy.


    It was the closest I had ever gotten to real-life zombies.


    Fred got right down to business, producing a pile of legal forms. He handed me a printout of the terms and conditions to which I had agreed upon entering the sweepstakes. I gave them a careful read.


    ¡°Do I have this straight, Fred? I get fifty million dollars, no strings attached, save for making some public appearances? That is to say, every so often I must allow Grensfeld Industries to show me off like some prize pig, and that¡¯s it?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s technically correct. No strings are attached by the terms you just reviewed.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s terrific!¡±


    ¡°But there are still strings attached to the money, just not by the contest. It gets complicated.¡±


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    The law of ¡®Conservation of Luck¡¯ was at work. I knew it.


    Strings. I hate strings.


    ¡°Did you bring the identification I requested?¡±


    I handed Fred a folder I had brought with me. He reviewed the documents inside, then closed it. He eyed me as if studying me. I didn¡¯t like it. Then he spoke.


    ¡°Can I ask you a question?¡±


    ¡°Will it help me get my money?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Then ask away, Freddy.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t call me Freddy.¡±


    ¡°Whoops!¡±


    Fred¡¯s face reddened, revealing his growing irritation with me. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a folder of his own.


    ¡°So you really are Terrence Winkworth, huh? Son of Darren and Amelie Winkworth?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I replied, for that was ¡ª or rather is ¡ª my name, and those are my parents¡¯ names.


    Fred reached into the folder and pulled out an aerial photograph of a large East Coast estate.


    ¡°And is this where you grew up?¡± Fred asked.


    I was shocked and swept away by nostalgia.


    ¡°Wow, where on earth did you find that photo? It¡¯s quite old. That was taken before my parents built the third guest house.¡±


    ¡°Guest house? You mean those gigantic things south of the mansion are guest houses?¡±


    ¡°Yep,¡± I replied.


    Fred paused.


    ¡°So your parents are on the Forbes magazine list of the richest people in the world, and I found you out in the desert, living in a ratty camper¡­¡±


    ¡°Hey!¡± I interrupted sharply, wounded by the description.


    ¡°I apologize. I only mean to say that you were living in a camper, which did not appear overly luxurious when I found you. Why? Aren¡¯t you rich already, even before your sweepstakes winnings?¡±


    ¡°Sadly, my parents and I are estranged. They offer me no financial support, and I have been struck from their will. They do not approve of my way of life and I do not approve of their small-minded nature.¡±


    ¡°What is your way of life?¡±


    ¡°Sleeping, mostly. I also enjoy surfing the Internet. That¡¯s just not something my parents will accept. You see, my father believes that idle hands are the devil¡¯s plaything. Only, he is the devil in question. The one thing in life that bothers him is the idea that someone, somewhere isn¡¯t working hard enough to make him money, especially if that someone is me.¡±


    ¡°But you went to Yale.¡± Fred continued, sounding perplexed.


    ¡°Class of 2016.¡±


    ¡°Why? What for?¡± Fred pressed. ¡°Why are you wasting your life this way?¡±


    I stared at him, annoyed. I felt we were on the verge of exchanging unprintable words again. I paused to regain my composure.


    ¡°I believe you lured me here today under the pretense that I would be offered a large sum of money,¡± I proceeded coldly. ¡°Can I please have it?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps I should interject,¡± a voice to my side suddenly spoke. It was one of the zombies who had rebuffed my greeting earlier.


    They could speak! Or, at least one of them could speak.


    The zombie addressing me was a middle-aged man who looked like one of those people you see photographed in advertisements, but not like a fashion model, more like someone who is supposed to represent the everyman, someone magnificently average. The perfect five out of ten.


    ¡°I¡¯m Roger Penrose, esquire. I am here on behalf of your parents.¡±


    I recoiled in horror.


    ¡°With me is Emily Waters, who is here on behalf of the court.¡±


    ¡°Hello,¡± zombie number two spoke.


    ¡°Nice to meet you,¡± I replied, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster under the circumstances, which was very little, at all.


    Zombie Two was tall and thin, with a resting facial expression like a sphinx, making her utterly inscrutable. Combined with her unblinking stare, she was definitely giving off ¡®tough cookie¡¯ vibes.


    ¡°What on earth do my parents have to do with any of this?¡± I demanded of zombie number one¡­old what¡¯s-his-face, esquire. ¡°How do they even know?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid they learned that information from me, Terrence,¡± Fred confessed. ¡°You are a very difficult man to track down. You don¡¯t have an address, you don¡¯t have a phone, and you don¡¯t check your email¡­¡±


    ¡°I do!¡±


    ¡°O.k., well, you don¡¯t check your email often enough to be found when you are being searched for. So I ran a background check, and contacted your parents to learn your whereabouts.¡±


    My eyes grew wide.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t tell my parents about the sweepstakes,¡± I gasped, in horror. ¡°Please tell me you didn¡¯t.¡±


    There was an awkward moment of silence.


    Then the esquire spoke.


    ¡°Terrence, have you ever heard of a conservatorship?¡±

 Ch. 3 - It’s Gone

    I sat reeling as it was explained to me that, though I had won the sweepstakes money, and it was truly mine, I couldn¡¯t spend any of it without getting someone¡¯s permission. I had been placed in a conservatorship.


    ¡°How is this possible?¡± I shouted. ¡°How could a judge listen to my lunatic, controlling parents without even speaking with me?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure the judge would have liked to speak with you, Terrence, if only you could have been found,¡± the esquire observed.


    ¡°But there is no reason whatsoever for any of this,¡± I raised my voice. ¡°This is absolutely ridiculous. I refuse¡­¡±


    ¡°Interestingly, you mentioned ¡®sleeping¡¯ as your way of life earlier,¡± the esquire spoke, interrupting my diatribe. ¡°Your sleeping disorder was considered by the judge in granting the conservatorship.¡±


    ¡°Sleeping disorder?¡± I protested. ¡°I don¡¯t have a sleeping disorder.


    ¡°Tell me, Terrence. Did you once spend an entire week trying to set the world record for consecutive naps?¡±


    He knew about that?


    ¡°Yes, but the records committee refused to accept my¡­¡±


    ¡°Based on the evidence presented at the hearing, Dr. Tariq Murabahi, an expert witness, was able to diagnose you with Acute Supine Attachment Syndrome.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not a thing,¡± I scoffed.


    ¡°If a judge thinks it¡¯s a thing, it¡¯s a thing, I¡¯m afraid. And then there¡¯s the question of your competence to handle your finances.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I growled indignantly. ¡°Who says that I can¡¯t¡­¡±


    ¡°Did you once ask your father for two hundred thousand dollars to start a political organization?¡± the esquire inquired.


    Warily, I confessed that I had.


    The esquire nodded to Fred, and Fred pulled out a sheet of paper from the folder on his desk. He held it up for all to see.


    ¡°Was that the charter of your organization?¡± the esquire prodded.


    I examined the paper in Fred¡¯s hands.


    I could see that it was indeed the charter. It had our letterhead right at the top. It read, ¡°The Society for the Preservation of Dial-Up Internet.¡±


    ¡°Did you spend two hundred thousand dollars lobbying Congress to preserve dial-up Internet access? In the year 2019?¡±


    I nodded.


    ¡°Our efforts were somewhat unsuccessful,¡± I admitted.


    ¡°And on another occasion, did you invest one hundred fifty thousand dollars into a company building a resort tailored to introverts?¡±


    ¡°I did,¡± I replied sheepishly.


    ¡°And how did that investment pan out? Was the resort a financial success?¡±


    ¡°No, nobody came to stay,¡± I sighed.


    ¡°Why do you think that was?¡± the esquire prodded.


    I looked down at my feet, embarrassed.


    ¡°It turns out, introverts prefer to be alone.¡±


    ¡°Ahhh, yes. Introverts prefer to be alone,¡± the esquire observed, smugly. ¡°Do you think that fact should have been recognized before investing so much into a place for them to gather? Wouldn¡¯t that be the action of a person who is responsible with his money?¡±


    I gave him a withering look. I had shown up to get cash, not to be insulted.


    ¡°O.k. That does it,¡± I announced. ¡°I¡¯m done with this. You can keep your money. I don¡¯t want it.¡±


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    And with that, I stood up and began to walk out of the office.


    ¡°Are you seriously walking away from fifty million dollars, Terrence?¡± Fred called out.


    ¡°I¡¯ve walked away from more money before, Freddy,¡± I replied. And it was true.


    At that moment, all I wanted to do was go back to my quiet life in the Utah desert. But it was not to be. Fate had it out for me that day.


    I soon found myself sitting on a park bench next to a beachfront sidewalk with my back to the ocean. Nearby was the empty parking spot where I had parked my vehicle before the meeting. It was gone. The entire camper was gone.


    I was finally seeing the world as it truly was, stripped of artifice. It was grim.


    I peered at a sinister-looking child carried by a grumpy woman crossing the street nearby. Did those two steal my camper? What darkness lay within that infant¡¯s mind?


    A police car rolled past and I watched moodily as it turned a corner, leaving my sight. Did the police have my camper towed away? Should I report it stolen? Would they even care?


    I saw a tall thin woman in a conservative-cut black business suit approaching. The cold predations of corporate America were personified in her blank features.


    I squinted, looking more closely.


    It was her, the woman from the meeting in Fred¡¯s office. How had she found me?


    ¡°Terrence,¡± she addressed me, after drawing close.


    I looked up and nodded a silent greeting.


    ¡°Terrence, I must advise you that your best option is to return and collect your sweepstakes money.¡±


    ¡°You came all the way down here to give me that lousy advice? No thanks. I¡¯m in a pretty foul mood right now. First I think I¡¯m rich, but it turns out I¡¯m not. Then I get profoundly insulted. And now someone has stolen my home, with all of my possessions inside.¡±


    ¡°I saw a picture of it. Is it really such a great loss?¡±


    I gave her my most ferocious glare.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t stolen, actually,¡± she continued, unmoved by what I thought had been a convincingly ferocious glare. Disappointed, I vowed to practice looking ferocious in a mirror again.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± I stumbled over the words, confused.


    ¡°It¡¯s technically not your trailer anymore,¡± she explained. ¡°You¡¯re in a conservatorship, remember? The conservator found the vehicle unsafe for you to live in and had it hauled to a storage compound. Don¡¯t worry about it. It¡¯s safe.¡±


    I was reeling. Not only had this sweepstakes thing become a fiasco, but now I couldn¡¯t even get my existing life back. I was going to be at somebody¡¯s mercy, whether I took the money or not.


    An eminent artist once sang, ¡°Go on, take the money and run.¡± I supposed he was right.


    I would do it. I would fall on the sword and accept the fifty million dollars. I would pretend to go along with things, for a while, at least. I planned to squirrel away small amounts of cash, saving for a sudden midnight dash away from my conservator¡¯s clutches, like a prisoner plotting his big jailbreak.


    But first I had to know my enemy.


    ¡°Who is my conservator? Who had the gall to lay a hand my camper without my permission?¡± I snarled.


    ¡°Me,¡± she said flatly.


    I blinked, unsure I had heard her correctly.


    ¡°Did you say¡­¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m your conservator, and any decisions I make will be made in your best interest, Terrence. I¡¯m not your enemy. You can have a life of comfort again. I¡¯ll make sure of that. You don¡¯t need to live as a recluse, out in the desert, living in a home which is crumbling around you. Plus it wasn¡¯t healthy. Did you know it smelled¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I interrupted crossly. ¡°Of old socks. I¡¯m aware. It wasn¡¯t a problem.¡±


    ¡°Well, the odor was emphasized in the report I received from the company who transported it. They said it was noticeable from outside the vehicle.¡±


    I stared at the ground, cursing my horrible luck for winning fifty million dollars. I had lost everything. Now I had nothing but pretend wealth and this strange ¡®keeper¡¯ woman the court had appointed. I felt like a rescue pet that had just been adopted out.


    ¡°If I go back to Fred¡¯s office, will anything be different? Will you still be my conservator?¡±


    ¡°Terrence, a judge ordered the conservatorship. Nobody in today¡¯s meeting can do anything about it, even me. You need to fight that in the courts, and having sufficient money to hire lawyers sounds advantageous in that situation, does it not?¡±


    She had a point.


    And so, with a heavy heart, an hour later I watched Fred shuffle papers around his desk. (It was a glass desk, of course.)


    I signed here, and put my initials there ¡ª no, right there ¡ª until I officially became the winner of fifty million freedom-robbing dollars, fifty million shackles wrapped around me by a corrupt judicial system whose decisions were for sale to the richest parent.


    I was handed a door key to a room at a nice hotel nearby, given a debit card with a stipend too small to make a worthy getaway attempt, and the meeting was done.


    I walked to my hotel room, threw a bunch of pillows together as a backrest, and sat down to process what I had just been through.


    Never before had the law of Conservation of Luck been so vividly demonstrated in my life.


    It is a horrible thing to win a lot of money. As soon as you do, you know you are going to have some awful event heading your way.


    Here is the real kicker. That contest I won? The Grensfeld Industries Great Worldwide Sweepstakes? I don¡¯t remember entering it. I had to look up who they were after Fred told me I had won.


    It turned out Grensfeld Industries made heavy industrial equipment, the sort of machines used in places where people do very hard labor, and therefore places I do not frequent. How could I have entered their sweepstakes?


    To my knowledge, there had been no night of blackout bacchanalia in my past, involving reckless untrained operation of a crane, or something of that sort. Nor had I gone shopping for road graders lately. It was most confusing.


    My cell phone rang on the nightstand. I answered.


    ¡°Hello?¡±


    ¡°Hi, it¡¯s Emily. I just wanted¡­¡±


    ¡°Who?¡± I interrupted, puzzled. Perhaps it was a misdial.


    ¡°Emily,¡± the caller repeated.


    There was a pause. Finally, she continued.


    ¡°You don¡¯t remember my name, do you? I¡¯m your conservator, Emily. One more time as repetition is crucial for the learning process, my name is Emily. I am your conservator Emily.¡±


    I could tell she was annoyed. I wanted to explain that I¡¯m simply awful at remembering everyone¡¯s names when I first meet them. It wasn¡¯t something she should take as a personal slight. The right thing to do was to apologize and explain.


    ¡°Oh! That Emily!¡± I instead feigned recognition.


    I heard her sigh.


    ¡°There is going to be a press conference tomorrow morning.¡±


    Morning? I didn¡¯t like the sound of that.


    ¡°The CEO of Grensfeld Industries will make a statement, and then you will speak. I sent you a script of the short speech you are to deliver via email. Please study it tonight and be ready to repeat it, or at least be able read it well in front of the press. I do not want you to go rogue on me. No freestyling, o.k.? Stick to the script.¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± I replied, cooperatively. ¡°Stick to the script. Of course, I will need to add some humorous anecdotes to¡­.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Emily rebuked me fiercely. ¡°No anecdotes. Just read the script.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± I huffed. ¡°If you wish to underutilize my natural comedic talents, that is your affair, and the company¡¯s loss.¡±


    ¡°O.k. Good. Thank you. I will have a limousine waiting in front of your hotel at 10:15. Please be on time. I will call you in the morning to check in.¡±


    Ten fifteen? AM? Was she serious? What sort of morning person did she think I was?


    ¡°Oh, and Terrence, what¡¯s my name?¡±


    This was a real crisis. I hadn¡¯t been told there would be quizzes.


    ¡°Your¡­?¡± I sought clarification, stalling for time.


    ¡°Name. My name. I repeated it multiple times about sixty seconds ago. What is it?¡±


    I remembered her name sounded old-fashioned. Agnes? I felt like I was getting so close to remembering.


    ¡°Edith?¡± I threw out my best guess.


    I heard a snort of pure disgust over the line. Then the call ended.


    I wondered if I could get a pizza delivered to the room.

 Ch. 4 - The Press Show

    I think that does it. You are all caught up to the current point in my story.


    I completely messed things up at the beginning. I started when I was waking up in my hotel room, so I had to backtrack to explain why I was there in the first place, or more accurately why was I in a limousine at 10:45, just pulling away from the hotel.


    My cellphone rang. I pulled a small piece of paper from my pocket, read the name ¡®Emily¡¯ scribbled on it, then answered the call.


    ¡°Hi, Emily,¡± I greeted the caller confidently, placing great emphasis on her name. There would be no belittling me over my idiosyncrasies after that.


    ¡°How can you be so irresponsible?¡± she snapped, revealing that my rosy forecast of ¡®no belittling¡¯ had been tragically off the mark. ¡°You were supposed to have left half an hour ago. What happened?¡°


    Without allowing me to respond, she continued, ¡°Somebody is giving you fifty million dollars, and you can¡¯t be polite enough to show up to the giveaway announcement on time? What is wrong with you?¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± I observed, ¡°now that¡¯s a very interesting question. I believe that I suffer from what is called existential anxiety.¡±


    I guess she didn¡¯t genuinely care about my affliction, as she began to speak over me.


    ¡°Did you at least review the speech?¡± Emily asked, sounding not particularly hopeful.


    ¡°I did,¡± I replied truthfully, feeling that my perusal of the opening paragraph ¡ª and quick scroll down the message to see how long the thing was ¡ª counted as a ¡®review.¡¯


    ¡°I¡¯m going to meet you at the front door of the conference center, to lead you back. We¡¯ve got to hurry. You are so late that the CEO will be speaking before you get here. He is going to be very angry that he didn¡¯t get a chance to meet you before the event. He has concerns about you.¡±


    ¡°What concerns?¡± I cried out, wounded. ¡°Why should he have concerns about me?¡±


    ¡°Terrence, please,¡± Emily begged. ¡°I don¡¯t have time for this. Keep reviewing the speech, and after I hang up, please ask the driver to hurry, o.k.?¡±


    ¡°Yes, o.k.¡±


    The call ended.


    This Emily woman wasn¡¯t into the whole goodbye thing. I supposed she was just being efficient, but it was giving me a complex to be hung up on so many times. I was not a fan.


    I stared out the tinted window as we rolled the short distance from my hotel to the location of the press conference. I had been living out in the desert for a while, and it was a bit overwhelming to suddenly find myself in a major city.


    As we pulled up to the conference center, I saw Emily out front, doing a shuffling high heeled run over to my limousine, to pull me out of the vehicle if necessary.


    I stepped out onto the sidewalk, trying to look serious, as if I understood the gravity of our scheduling predicament. I thought that pretending to be concerned was a very thoughtful gesture.


    Once again my effort to meet Emily halfway went unappreciated, as she merely shrieked, ¡°What are you wearing?¡±


    ¡°Ummm, the same clothes I was wearing yesterday,¡± I replied sarcastically. ¡°Somebody had all of my other clothes towed away, remember?¡±


    ¡°What about the new business suit I had delivered to the room for you?¡±


    ¡°The suit in the closet?¡±


    ¡°Yes, the suit in the closet,¡± she clarified, sounding desperate for some sort of rational explanation.


    ¡°I thought it belonged to a former guest,¡± I explained.


    ¡°Why would a suit from a former guest be hanging in your room? That doesn¡¯t make sense. Housekeeping would have removed it. Why didn¡¯t you look closer? The garment bag had your name on it.¡±


    ¡°Well, people don¡¯t ordinarily buy me clothing, then fling it randomly about for me to find,¡± I replied defensively. ¡°This is actually your fault for not telling me about the suit. You failed to plan ahead.¡±


    She shook her head, staring at the slogan printed on my hooded sweatshirt.


    It read, ¡°I paused my game for this?¡±


    I''ll concede, it was a regrettable choice of attire for a sweepstakes winner to wear in front of the press while being given fifty million dollars, but as mentioned, it wasn¡¯t my fault my entire wardrobe had been stolen.


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°Unbelievable,¡± Emily muttered softly. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±


    And with that, she resumed her shuffling high heeled run back into the building, leading me through an atrium, up an escalator, down a hall, and into a medium sized ballroom, with heavy doors, one of which I accidentally let slam behind me.


    All eyes were upon us as the loud bang seemed to really juice up the assembled crowd. There was a real buzz in the air.


    The CEO had stopped mid speech, his mouth frozen in the shape of a vowel which was never to come. He glared at us, and I think I saw Emily wince.


    Eventually, the CEO finished his yawner of a speech, and I was ushered forward to a small lectern in front of the media and their cameras.


    Looking down at my phone, I began to speak, reading the prepared words Emily had sent me.


    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed members of the press, and valued partners, I am honored to be here today as the lucky recipient of the Grensfeld Industries Great Worldwide Sweepstakes. This monumental opportunity has not only transformed my personal life but has also allowed me to fully appreciate the extraordinary commitment Grensfeld Industries has to innovation, progress, and, most importantly, its customers.¡±


    My God, it was dull stuff. I wasn¡¯t blind. I could see that the gathered members of the Fourth Estate were not going to be giving my show good reviews.


    I hurriedly scrolled through the rest of the prepared statement. It was more of the same. Utter bilge.


    It was time for some Terrence magic.


    I looked up at the press with a big smile.


    I saw Emily, in the back of the room, horror slowly creeping across her face as she recognized my intention to abandon the script. She started to rapidly shake her head ¡®no.¡¯


    I couldn¡¯t be stopped.


    ¡°Ladies, and gentlemen of the press, everything I know about Grensfeld Industries I learned by looking at their website last week, after finding out I had won their sweepstakes.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯re a normal person, you probably haven¡¯t heard of Grensfeld Industries. And, honestly, if you¡¯re a normal person, there really isn¡¯t any reason why you should have heard of Grensfeld Industries.¡±


    There was some light snickering. I was winning over the media.


    ¡°But if you aren¡¯t normal, that is to say, if your job is to do things in the middle of nowhere, which nobody knows about, that people probably shouldn¡¯t see, Grensfeld should be front and center in your mind. If a product is incredibly expensive and insanely heavy, they make it.¡±


    ¡°And the Grensfelds are such nice people,¡± I went on.


    ¡°For example, take Edith back there,¡± I proposed, gesturing in Emily¡¯s direction. The gathered press turned to look.


    ¡°I know the Grensfelds must watch over their customer¡¯s needs just the way Edith has so comprehensively watched over mine since we met. It¡¯s so caring that it¡¯s almost smothering.¡±


    I gestured defensively. Chuckling, I said, ¡°Hey, back off, lady!¡±


    The press was grinning as they continued to stare at Emily, who was standing next to the CEO, who, by the way, was looking at me with murderous intent.


    Emily was facepalming, clearly miserable.


    I really needed to make a big save.


    ¡°Let me keep this real, for a moment. You know, this time last week, I was living alone in a camper, out of money, on public land in the desert of Utah. I can tell you, things were looking pretty bleak.¡±


    Members of the media were suddenly looking at me with great curiosity. Human interest stuff they could use. I would give them more.


    ¡°See, this money could entirely change the trajectory of my life. I could become someone whose parents could be proud of him.¡±


    Things were going very well.


    I seemed like a happy fool. Every writer loves a happy fool story. It practically writes itself.


    ¡°But to waste such a windfall by helping only myself would be greedy,¡± I explained. ¡°And I want to leave a positive mark on the world. With this money, I can do it.¡±


    I could be wrong, but it looked like one of the photographers might have grown teary eyed. The atmosphere had grown electric. All eyes were upon me. All ears were tuned to my words. It was time to accomplish my mission.


    ¡°Let me ask you,¡± I spoke in a serious tone, holding a dramatic pause to keep my adoring audience in suspense.


    ¡°When was the last time that your connection to the Internet went out, and you thought, ¡®Gee, I wish I still had dial-up access?¡¯¡±


    There was silence, but that was no bother. History had conditioned me not to expect enthusiastic initial responses from the sheeple.


    ¡°As the Grensfeld family¡¯s ambassador to the normal world, I will use my voice to promote dial-up Internet access wherever I am called to serve. I have Edith¡¯s word that¡­. ¡±


    My microphone went dead.


    ¡°Everyone, I can¡¯t thank you enough for coming here today to cover this joyous event,¡± I heard the CEO speaking into a wireless microphone as he approached the podium to take over.


    So it was like that, eh? ''The Grensfeld Way'' would seem to involve second mic''s and sneaky silencing of speakers. It was positively Orwellian.


    I was brushed aside, before joining Emily at the back of the room. She hurried me out through the doors before the media could ask any questions.


    ¡°What was that?¡± she demanded angrily, when we were no longer in earshot. ¡°Stick to the script. I told you. Over and over. Stick to the script!¡±


    She looked like she felt completely exasperated, but so did I. Did my feelings not count?


    ¡°Well then give me better material,¡± I demanded. ¡°I can¡¯t polish any old turd into a crowd pleaser through the sheer power of my charisma alone. Didn¡¯t you see? I was bombing out there when I was reading that empty corporate-speak.¡±


    Emily was biting her lip so hard that it hurt to look at her. I wondered what had made her so upset.


    ¡°You could always just go back to court with me, and jettison me from your life forever, you know,¡± I spoke temptingly.


    Emily looked like a woman weighing her options.


    ¡°No,¡± she finally spoke, in a weary tone. ¡°I accept responsibility for not making sure you could do something as simple as reading a prepared statement while dressed in a suit. I should have made sure you wore the right clothing, and reviewed the statement with you, many, many times. It¡¯s just¡­I thought¡­Yale, you know? But, o.k., we can make this work.¡±


    We stared at each other, both exhausted. Emily finally broke the silence.


    ¡°There was supposed to be a reception after this, but I¡¯m confident Dave will want to reschedule it.¡±


    ¡°Who is Dave?¡±


    ¡°The CEO, Terrence,¡± she explained, sounding pained. ¡°His name was up on the giant screen behind him the whole time he was talking. I guess you didn¡¯t notice. His name is Dave Elmer.¡±


    ¡°Got it!¡± I reassured her. ¡°Dave Elmer. And what about him again?¡±


    Emily looked like she was envisioning a hopeless future.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter,¡± she reassured me. ¡°He¡¯s going to kill me. On the off chance he doesn¡¯t, I will call you.¡±


    ¡°Sounds good!¡± I said cheerfully, and made my escape.

 Ch. 5 - Unreal Estate

    It was around three o¡¯clock in the afternoon while lying in bed, munching on Doritos purchased from the hotel shop, that I received another phone call from Emily.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I answered. ¡°So you survived?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± she replied, sounding far more cheerful than I would have expected. ¡°Things are fine.¡±


    ¡°Even with old Dave, the CEO?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± she exclaimed happily. ¡°Especially with Dave.¡±


    My mind raced as I searched for any way such a thing could be possible. I was pretty much down to ¡®a glitch in the matrix¡¯ when Emily spoke again.


    ¡°I have to begrudgingly congratulate you, Terrence,¡± she said earnestly. Absent was the measure of condescension with which she usually addressed me.


    ¡°The magical combination of a fifty million dollar giveaway, your strange word salad, your general appearance, and the words ¡®dial-up internet¡¯ made your speech go viral on Instagram. Dave couldn¡¯t be more pleased. Grensfeld has never had so many visitors or likes on the company channel, and those are KPIs for them. He¡¯s looking at a big bonus payment.¡±


    ¡°But I think you might be slightly more clever than you put on. Dial-up Internet access is a trending topic, pretty much everywhere. Seventy-three percent of younger Internet users didn¡¯t know about dial-up Internet access, at least before seeing your speech.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m aware,¡± I boasted. ¡°You are probably getting that figure from a study I funded.¡±


    ¡°Well, you drew more attention to your cause this morning than even fifty million dollars would have made possible. Well done.¡±


    ¡°Great. Have I earned my release? Ready to drop this conservatorship yet?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps I will pencil in a two-minute introductory lesson at the beginning of each of our calls to review the fact that I cannot release you, only the court can. What do you think, Terrence? Should I pencil that in for the next hundred calls? I don¡¯t know what your learning rate is yet. Early test results are not promising.¡±


    I steamed. That one hurt. She had built me up with all of the praise, and I had let my guard down.


    ¡°We¡¯ve got to take care of your housing situation. I won¡¯t let you move back into that awful camper of yours, and I won¡¯t let you blow all of your money on an expensive hotel.¡±


    I heard the shuffling of papers over the connection.


    ¡°On that note, Terrence, did you purchase a forty-pound bag of Doritos a while ago?¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I asked, startled by the strange question. ¡°I bought a small, single-serving bag of chips, that¡¯s all.¡±


    ¡°I see. I guess I thought it must have been an enormous bag given that you spent thirty-nine dollars on it,¡± she spoke patronizingly. ¡°It is unacceptable to pay that much for a¡­¡±


    F this. I hung up.


    The phone started ringing, but I ignored it. I gathered my few personal effects, locked up the room, thought better of it, came back in, grabbed the free suit, and locked up the room again.


    I would not have this vile Emily creature micromanaging my existence. I stormed to the elevator, pressed the down button, and waited.


    The door opened, and an enormous figure wearing cargo shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and sunglasses was already inside. He looked like an NFL offensive lineman just returning from vacation. Seeing me, he stepped back to allow me in. But he was staring at me.


    Feeling the sort of ¡®indescribable uneasiness¡¯ I hear people relate in Bigfoot encounter stories, when they hear branches snap in the deep woods, I stepped on the elevator, and turned to face the door, as etiquette dictates.


    From behind me, a voice spoke.


    It could only have been the ¡®squatch. We were alone.


    ¡°And where will we be going today?¡±


    I turned to look.


    ¡°Excuse me? What do you mean ¡®we?¡¯¡±


    Via the tone of my communication, I aimed to strike a balance between sounding irritated on the one hand and not sounding punch-worthy on the other in the ears of this imposing specimen.


    ¡°I¡¯m Jim,¡± he said, holding out a giant hand. ¡°I¡¯m your bodyguard. Emily hired me to watch out for you.¡±


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    I shook his hand, masquerading as someone not about to mentally break down.


    ¡°Are you going to answer that?¡± Jim asked, pointing to my phone, which had not stopped ringing since I had hung up on Emily.


    At that moment, the elevator doors opened to the lobby. Kindly relieving me of the garment bag that I was carrying, Jim pointed to a chair near the front desk, and said, ¡°I¡¯ll wait over there.¡±


    Utterly defeated, I answered the phone.


    Not missing a beat, Emily was on me immediately, as if nothing had happened.


    ¡°To avoid more outrageous purchases like the overpriced Doritos, we need to get you out of that hotel and into a rental property. I think we¡¯ll aim for a six-month lease.¡±


    ¡°Did you hire a prison guard to watch over me?¡± I inquired accusingly, ignoring her for a change.


    ¡°Jim? Yes.¡±


    The matter-of-fact way she acknowledged my incarceration horrified me. It was positively chilling. This was how democracies died.


    ¡°He isn¡¯t a prison guard, Terrence,¡± Emily went on. ¡°He is a bodyguard. Your parents are very wealthy people, and even if you find that fact unimportant, many unsavory characters around the world do not. I¡¯m sorry, but you should not ever have been living alone in an isolated place like you were. I¡¯m surprised that you haven¡¯t been kidnapped already.¡±


    ¡°Fascinating! So you¡¯re blind to the fact that you are my kidnapper?¡±


    ¡°There is a big difference between me and a kidnapper. I¡¯m not getting paid anything close to the sort of ransom payment someone could shake your parents down for, Terrence. In fact, given what a pain in the ass you are to deal with, I almost feel like I¡¯m doing this work pro bono.¡±


    I saw an angle!


    ¡°I¡¯ll give you half,¡± I blurted out. ¡°Let me go, and you can have half the money.¡±


    Emily laughed.


    ¡°And then I would be living in a camper instead of you, forever on the run from fraud charges. No. As your conservator, and as a sane person, I must turn down your offer. You do not have permission to give me the money.¡±


    ¡°I just texted Jim a list of properties I want you to look at tomorrow. I will have a car out front at nine.¡±


    ¡°In the morning?¡± I cried out, unable to conceal my horror.


    She sighed.


    ¡°O.k. I¡¯ll reschedule the first appointment. Your car will be out there at ten o¡¯clock instead. Please be prompt, o.k.? No more of this half-hour late stuff. Don¡¯t make me hire someone to wake you every morning with a bucket of ice water.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t do that,¡± I protested (not at all sure that she couldn¡¯t.)


    ¡°Try me,¡± she threatened, before hanging up.


    I stared into the distance, envisioning my very bleak future.


    And so the following bleak day, I climbed into the back of a bleak limousine with all three hundred pounds of Jim and headed off to look at houses.


    We drove well out of the city and were nearing the first property I had been ordered to view when the driver cut through an adorable neighborhood of little cottages to avoid some traffic congestion. I found it lovely.


    When a particularly charming place up ahead had an open house sign out front, I shouted, ¡°Stop the car!¡±


    Springing out of the limousine, despite Jim¡¯s torrent of complaints, I wandered up to the front door of the house, threw it open, and walked right in. Jim entered right behind me.


    Inside were a few graying couples and a forty-something-year-old listing agent with a glued-on smile. I walked straight up to her and asked if I might ¡®please have one of the informational pamphlets¡¯ about the property.


    The agent scanned me up and down. She seemed far from impressed.


    ¡°This house is seven thousand plus square feet. Is this truly something you can¡­want?¡±


    ¡°If what you mean to ask is ¡®can I afford it¡¯ then the answer is yes. I can most definitely afford it. Lady, I won fifty million dollars yesterday. Look me up. I¡¯m viral on Instagram.¡±


    The agent¡¯s eyes widened, and her expression softened in an instant. The mention of money ¡ª especially that much money ¡ª was all it took. She became all sweetness and light.


    ¡°You did?¡± she inquired supportively. ¡°Why, that¡¯s just wonderful!¡±


    ¡°He can¡¯t spend any of that money, you know,¡± Jim suddenly chimed in.


    Deciding he needed to explain, he added, ¡°Conservatorship.¡±


    I saw the agent deflate before my eyes. Years were added to her appearance in moments. So much money had disappeared so quickly. It was difficult for her to process.


    I glared at Jim.


    I didn¡¯t want to have to do it, but I pulled out the big guns. I searched my cellphone for an article about my parents and handed it to the agent.


    Confused, she began to read, then looked up at me.


    ¡°Those are my parents,¡± I explained.


    As if having quaffed the elixir of eternal youth, years lifted from the agent¡¯s appearance once again, as she gave me a big smile.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I don¡¯t like to mention it, you know? People can act funny.¡±


    ¡°I completely understand,¡± she empathized. ¡°Now I can see that this house is quite suitable¡­.¡±


    ¡°His parents don¡¯t talk to him,¡± Jim informed the woman.


    ¡°They won¡¯t give him a dime.¡±


    Not helpful.


    I sighed. The system was rigged against me.


    The agent just nodded her head in acknowledgment, unable to handle any more wild emotional swings. She handed me the informational pamphlet I had asked for.


    ¡°I¡¯ll leave you two to look around,¡± she said, sounding utterly defeated, before heading off in the direction of the house¡¯s wine cellar.


    An hour later, I was standing outside, on the house¡¯s elegant veranda, shouting into my cell phone at Emily.


    ¡°Mutual assured destruction! I¡¯m telling you, either you approve the purchase of this place or I¡¯m going to TMZ to tell them Grensfeld Industries has taken me prisoner. Given who my parents are, I can guarantee you at least five minutes of solid Grensfeld bashing on TMZ per night, for several weeks. Maybe the New York Post will even pick up the story. That would be fun, wouldn¡¯t it? My folks would be thrilled with you. Now either give me back my trailer or let me buy this place.¡±


    Negotiations continued. Calls were placed. I had to wait while an appraiser was rushed out to the property by Emily. But in the end, she relented.


    ¡°A certain amount of real estate will be a good fit in your financial portfolio,¡± she finally acquiesced. ¡°I will call and make the offer. Please allow me to do my job, and let me ensure that you get the most favorable possible deal, o.k.?¡±


    ¡°O.k.,¡± I replied happily. ¡°Thank you, Emily.¡±


    She hung up.


    Whatever.


    Inside, I saw the real estate agent making a furtive reentry to the foyer where she had originally spoken to us. I burst through the doors and cheerily called out, ¡°I¡¯ll take it! I¡¯m buying this house.¡±


    Confused, she looked at Jim. He nodded yes.


    And once again, the agent grew young.

 Ch. 6 - Terrence Gets Toasted

    ¡°You¡¯ve got to stop saying stuff like that, Terrence. The company isn¡¯t named after a family, Grensfeld is the name of a place,¡± Emily chastised me in a whisper.


    I, too, could play the whisper game.


    ¡°My God! A place called Grensfeld? Do people actually live there? I mean, can¡¯t even imagine a place that sounds worse to¡­no, wait¡­Death Valley. Fine. But Grensfeld must be the second worst place.¡±


    Emily was gritting her teeth, making her whisper come out like a hiss.


    ¡°Just stop calling people ¡®the Grensfelds¡¯ o.k.? There is no Grensfeld family.¡±


    Aside from Emily¡¯s incessant corrections, I was having a fine evening. I was seated at the head of a long table in an elegant restaurant, wearing the suit I was supposed to wear to the press conference. To Emily¡¯s credit, the suit fit me perfectly. I looked fantastic.


    And everyone seemed happy to be around me. For once in my life it seemed as if I could do no wrong. When I spoke, my audience laughed and gazed at me warmly. Even Dave Elmer, CEO of Grensfeld Industries ¡ª not originally my greatest fan ¡ª beamed in my direction from his seat at the other end of the table.


    You see, the night before I was to close upon my new home, Grensfeld finally decided to hold the sweepstakes reception which my poorly received remarks at the press conference had indefinitely postponed.


    Thanks to a bunch of bored teenagers on Instagram, all had been forgiven. Their viral support of the press conference video had helped Grensfeld¡¯s social media accounts soar to dizzying new heights of popularity.


    In the eyes of the Grensfelds, I had become someone to be celebrated. The reception was to be ¡®my night.¡¯ All eyes would be on me.


    Truth be told, the event sounded awful, but I pretty much had to attend. My bodyguard Jim made that clear, under orders from Emily.


    Emily¡¯s hired muscle Jim was a very unwelcome intrusion into my life. Wherever I went, so did he.


    It¡¯s not as if a person can be subtle doing much of anything when they weigh three hundred pounds and it¡¯s all muscle. I had someone fitting that description following me around everywhere I went. To see one of us was to see two of us. I felt like a tiny moon forever orbiting a giant planet. It was humiliating.


    Tonight Jim was nowhere to be seen. Granted, I had to endure an evening with my conservator Emily in exchange for this brief Jimless moment, but it was worth it. His absence was not making my heart grow fonder.


    But I digress. Back to the evening:


    The light, repetitive clinking of metal on glass called attention to Grensfeld¡¯s CEO, Dave, who had risen to his feet at the far end of the table to make a toast. He commenced by addressing me.


    ¡°Terrence, I would like to once again congratulate you on behalf of the entire Grensfeld family.¡±


    I remembered Emily¡¯s earlier lecture.


    ¡°So you say there¡¯s no Grensfeld family,¡± I taunted Emily through my eyes. Emily¡¯s eyes, squinting with annoyance, spoke back, ¡°That¡¯s not the same thing and you know it.¡±


    Our eyes would have debated the point further, but Dave was distracting us all with a bunch of babble about his gratitude for everyone¡¯s hard work on the sweepstakes, and how proud he was of the entire team, yada yada.


    It was all a bunch of ¡®insider stuff¡¯ of no great interest to those of us who didn¡¯t work at Grensfeld. I hoped Dave would move on quickly. It struck me as rude to spend time talking about other people at a banquet dedicated to me.


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    At last, the topic switched to something more interesting.


    ¡°Did I hear that you are closing on a home tomorrow, Terrence?¡± Dave inquired politely.


    ¡°I am, yes. I¡¯m looking forward to moving in.¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s your new home located?¡±


    ¡°The Hollywood Hills,¡± I replied.


    ¡±I¡¯ve been told that I¡¯m supposed to simply tell people ¡®I live in the hills,¡¯ but I¡¯m not comfortable with that idea. Where I come from, someone who ¡®lives in the hills¡¯ is a crazy person who has gone off-grid and is surviving out in the deep woods. I¡¯m not like that at all. When I go off-grid, I prefer to stay in Utah.¡±


    There was some laughter, which perplexed me, as I couldn¡¯t remember cracking any jokes.


    ¡°Homes in that area don¡¯t come cheap. That must have taken a decent bite out of your winnings,¡± Dave observed.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I confessed. ¡°But by playing hardball, I was able to negotiate an excellent price.¡±


    I could feel Emily¡¯s eyes burning holes in me. What was her problem? I was the one who told her to buy the house. Without my input, there would have been no good deal.


    ¡°What is your new home like?¡± inquired a woman at the far end of the table. The way she asked made it seem as if she genuinely cared about my answer. I would have put money on her being the VP of HR.


    I pulled the pamphlet I had picked up at the open house from my suit pocket and began to read.


    ¡°This charming seven thousand plus square foot treasure in the Hollywood Hills,¡± I spoke slowly, selling my listeners on the vision, ¡°is a deco masterpiece. Constructed in 1932, it still has most of the original fittings. It is simply timeless. 7 bedrooms. Pool. Bowling alley.¡±


    I looked up from the pamphlet and added my summation.


    ¡°It¡¯s really quite an attractive cottage. I can¡¯t wait to move in.¡±


    I started to get some odd looks.


    ¡°Only a four-car garage, though,¡± I added modestly. I didn¡¯t want anyone to think I was boasting.


    Something had changed. The crowd¡¯s attitude had grown decidedly less pro-Terrence. Perhaps some humor could win everyone back?


    ¡°The only thing that bothers me,¡± I said, picking up my wine glass and gesturing vaguely, ¡°is the architectural disaster of a house next door.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s as if someone instructed an architect to design something revealing no evidence of ever having been designed, like the place simply accreted over time, like a slime mold.¡±


    Definite laughs. I got definite laughs.


    They were warming up to me again. The alcoholic beverages, which had been served to the table moments earlier, no doubt aided my cause.


    Looking back, I see that I could have stopped there, and things would have turned out so much better. But I didn¡¯t.


    I always chase laughs, some might even say excessively.


    ¡°And the lawn ornamentation these people have. You wouldn¡¯t believe how over the top it is. It¡¯s as if they received a postcard of Versailles and gave it to their gardener, telling him to recreate it as best he could.¡±


    Some of the snickering I heard may have been guilty snickering, but it was snickering nonetheless. I was on a roll.


    ¡°Why not just buy it and tear it down?¡± inquired a jovial marketing exec. I could tell that he was the top brainstormer of the Grensfeld Industries C-Suite. He probably filled an entire whiteboard with good ideas in every meeting.


    ¡°That¡¯s true,¡± I agreed, amused by the thought. ¡°Scraping the lot would be a public service.¡±


    ¡°To tearing down 1206 Hossenbury Way in the Hollywood Hills and making this world a better place,¡± I cried out, raising my glass in a toast. ¡°To no more ugly houses!¡±


    Glasses were raised, and clinked together, as the gathering joined me in my toast. I felt a warm flush of triumph. I was killing it.


    As the joy died down, I noticed that CEO Dave¡¯s smile had slowly transformed into a scowl. He stared at me from the far end of the table with the corners of his mouth twitching.


    ¡°1206 Hossenbury Way is where I live,¡± Dave¡¯s tone of voice grew dark, as I watched his eyes narrow. ¡°That is my ¡®ugly¡¯ house you want to tear down.¡±


    I reeled. I often deliver surprises to my audiences, but I¡¯m not used to them pitching zingers like that back at me.


    ¡°And it was designed by my brother, a very successful architect,¡± Dave added, showing any final holdouts that I had no redeeming qualities whatsoever.


    For a moment, I was struck speechless, feeling the entire table¡¯s gaze shift toward me. No jaw remained undropped.


    ¡°It¡¯s a small world,¡± I observed, feeling claustrophobic at how particularly small it felt at that moment.


    Dave was looking at me in a menacing way.


    ¡°Am I to understand that you are closing on the property next door to mine tomorrow?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I acknowledged.


    ¡°Not if I can stop you,¡± Dave growled in reply.


    I managed to plaster a smile back on my face. I could salvage the situation. I was sure of it.


    It would seem I could not. Dave stormed out of the restaurant while I was still formulating a game-saving witty response. In my defense, I was not operating at top speed under the strain of events.


    I began to feel very upset. The evening had supposed to have been a celebration of my sweepstakes victory, not a messy, embarrassing public scene.


    Everything had gone terribly wrong and Emily was clearly responsible. Anyone could see. I glared at her,


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you know about this?¡± I demanded. ¡°Didn¡¯t you do your research on the neighborhood?¡±


    Emily stared at me aggressively, rolling the handle of a steak knife over and over in her hand. She didn¡¯t blink. She didn¡¯t respond. She just rolled the knife over and over in her hand.


    I sensed she was not yet ready to accept blame. That was fine. Humility would come with time.


    ¡°I¡¯ll see you at the closing tomorrow,¡± I said, backing away slowly. When enough distance was between us, I turned and fled.


    The worst part of the entire evening was that ¡ª as I made my escape ¡ª I realized that I missed having Jim around. I didn¡¯t feel safe without him anymore.


    How pathetic.

 Ch. 7 - Quid Hic Agis?

    A knock sounded upon my front door at the crack of noon.


    Stumbling out of bed and down the grand staircase of my new home in the Hollywood Hills, I opened the door and was stunned to find my father standing before me.


    ¡°Pater,¡± I greeted him coldly.


    ¡°Filius¡± he replied stiffly.


    ¡°How have you been?¡± I asked, trying to be polite.


    His head tilted to the side, and he gave me a disapproving look.


    ¡°Abandoning our Latin already, are we? This early in the conversation? How far have you fallen child?¡±


    God, I hated this.


    Convinced that learning to speak Latin would make me seem sophisticated, my father had forced me to take lessons throughout my childhood, with terrible downstream effects on my social life. I was all too aware that my foolish decision to flaunt my Latin skills at the ninth-grade talent show had single-handedly destroyed my dating prospects for the remainder of my high school years. (Eheu!)


    ¡°What brings you here, Pater?¡± I asked, hoping this joyless reunion would end sooner if I kept things moving along.


    ¡°Your mother was worried sick about you,¡± my father explained.


    Pausing, he then mumbled, ¡°No, we both know that¡¯s not believable.¡±


    ¡°Look, I just wanted to make sure your conservator didn¡¯t let you spend your money recklessly,¡± he confessed.


    ¡°So, you basically came to perform an appraisal of my new home?¡±


    ¡°If one wished to express my motivations in the crudest of terms, yes.¡±


    ¡°Then come on in,¡± I invited him, opening the door widely. ¡°Look around. Take your time. Now if you¡¯ll excuse me, I¡¯m off to tell my armed bodyguard that there¡¯s an intruder in the house. Best of luck!¡±


    ¡°I see the neighbor¡¯s house is also for sale. Are there any issues with the neighborhood? Did you investigate?¡±


    ¡°No, the place next door just listed yesterday. I know the guy. And I know why he¡¯s moving.¡±


    ¡°Let me guess. It¡¯s because of you. You¡¯re the problem in the neighborhood, aren¡¯t you child?¡±


    ¡°I am twenty-six years old,¡± I growled. ¡°For the love of God, will you please stop calling me child? It sounds creepier every year.¡±


    He dismissed my protest with a wave of his hand.


    ¡°Now, child, did you know that people conventionally put furniture inside their houses after moving in?¡±


    It was a fair critique. So far, I had purchased an oversized lounger for Jim to sit on, and a mattress for my bedroom. The place did not look crowded.


    ¡°Are you here to look at my house or to decorate it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m simply concerned that by taking you shopping for antiques to furnish your dorm room, your mother left you helplessly unfit to create a habitat suitable for human life. She coddled you.¡±


    He was really upsetting me.


    ¡°The woman I spoke with perhaps twice annually from birth through the age of ten¡­who then had me shipped me off to boarding school? That¡¯s who you think ¡®coddled me?¡¯ Are you serious? I think you should leave.¡±


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    ¡°But I haven¡¯t looked around,¡± my father protested.


    ¡°I¡¯ll send you photos. Just go. I don¡¯t need any more of your BS.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking of adding you back into my will,¡± he offered, sounding desperate.


    ¡°No, you haven¡¯t.¡±


    He paused, holding his breath, then exhaled deeply.


    ¡°You know, you¡¯re right, Terrence. I apologize for my clumsy attempts at deceit. I admit that I have not been completely honest with you.¡±


    ¡°This is difficult to say, but the truth is, I¡¯m dying child. That¡¯s why I¡¯m here.¡±


    ¡°I only wanted to see you,¡± he confessed softly. ¡°One last time.¡±


    Oh, please.


    Not the old ¡°I¡¯m dying¡± routine again. It had worked to stop my complaining that one Christmas, when I was four, and my parents had forgotten to buy me gifts, but the act was definitely getting tired the fifth time around.


    ¡°Awesome,¡± I replied. ¡°Then we¡¯re done. You¡¯ve seen me. You can check that item off your bucket list. Enjoy the remainder of your life. Now leave.¡±


    He would seem to have preferred a different response, based on his crankiness.


    ¡°Is that what you want your final words to your pater to be?¡±


    I scoffed.


    ¡°Final words? Are you trying claim that you¡¯re actively dying, right here and now? I¡¯m confused. Should I call you an ambulance or an acting coach?¡±


    ¡°There is so much of your mother in you,¡± my father hissed.


    ¡°Great seeing you, Pater,¡± I lied, ferrying him out the front door.


    Once outside, my father prevented the door from closing with his foot, and picked up a bottle of liquor sitting outside. I had no idea where it had come from. He must have left it there himself before knocking on the door.


    Handing the bottle to me, he spoke encouragingly, ¡°Say it one more time. Tell me, ¡®You have got to go, Pops, but I¡¯m keeping the McDunn¡¯s Single Malt Whiskey.¡¯¡±


    Pops? Whiskey? What was he talking about?


    ¡°No,¡± I replied. ¡°I don¡¯t drink. I don¡¯t want this.¡±


    I tried to hand the bottle back to him, but he pulled away.


    ¡°Just do it. Just say what I told you to and I will be on my way back to the airport.¡±


    What was happening? Had my father lost his mind, or was this just another one of his con jobs?


    ¡°What¡¯s your angle here, Pater? What is really going on?¡±


    ¡°You won¡¯t do it?¡± he asked in a pitiful tone of voice.


    ¡°Of course not,¡± I replied angrily.


    I watched him deflate. He shouted out to no one.


    ¡°Alright everybody. It¡¯s over. We¡¯re done here.¡±


    A small film crew emerged from the shrubs around my house. Things came into sharper focus.


    So my father had done all of this simply to film me holding a stupid bottle of liquor?


    ¡°Tell me, ¡®Pops.¡¯ Did you invest heavily in a distillery?¡±


    ¡°Yes. I took a major position in McDunn Whiskey, and I¡¯m taking a bath on my investment. I need you to make a viral video promoting it. For some reason, beyond my reckoning, you seem to have a knack for these things.¡±


    All in all, it had ended up being one of the most pleasant interactions I had ever had with my father. I hoped that we would do it again, in a decade or two.


    ¡°All the best, Pater,¡± I scoffed, slamming shut the front door.


    It was then that Jim finally showed up to see what was causing the racket. Some bodyguard he was.


    ¡°Why is there a film crew here?¡± he asked, gazing out the window.


    ¡°My father brought them here,¡± I explained.


    ¡°Your father? Which one¡¯s your father?¡±


    ¡°See the guy with the white hair? The one who looks like a retired timeshare salesman? That¡¯s him.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to invite him in?¡± Jim suggested.


    I was about to launch into a diatribe when Jim¡¯s cell phone rang. He picked it up, answered the call, and handed it to me.


    ¡°It¡¯s Emily. She needs to talk to you.¡±


    Emily didn¡¯t ordinarily call out of the blue. I knew the call couldn¡¯t be good news.


    ¡°Did you know your father called the judge who ordered your conservatorship? He is questioning my fitness after seeing inside your house. Is it really completely empty? You need to get that place furnished immediately. This is my reputation on the line. The judge has scheduled a meeting for¡­hold on, I have another call¡­¡±


    She disappeared.


    ¡°That was your father. We cut a deal. He will call the judge and withdraw his complaint if, in return, we let him decorate the house. The expense will come completely out of his pocket, so it is a highly beneficial deal for you.¡±


    I was about to lose my mind.


    ¡°Nothing about this is beneficial,¡± I howled at Emily. ¡°I don¡¯t care about the money, at all. You are trying to let a vampire cross my threshold. I am not letting that man in my house.¡±


    ¡°Give the phone to Jim, Terrence,¡± Emily instructed me.


    ¡°No,¡± I replied petulantly.


    ¡°Fine,¡± she threatened, ¡°I¡¯ll take care of this.¡±


    The call ended.


    Outside, I saw my father receive a call, walk up to the house and hold his phone up to the window for Jim to see.


    It was a video call from Emily. She was on the small screen holding up a piece of paper with handwriting reading, ¡°Open the door Jim.¡±


    She gave a little thumbs up sign, to confirm that she meant it, and Jim followed orders.


    The front door opened and my father swept in with his film crew.


    I walked upstairs to crawl back into bed. It was all too much to handle before coffee. Before I could drift off to sleep, a text message arrived. It was from Emily. She wrote, ¡°Don¡¯t forget about New Jersey tomorrow.¡±


    I didn¡¯t know how much more I could take. I felt completely overwhelmed.


    I had totally forgotten about New Jersey.

 Ch. 8 - New Jersey

    Our plane touched down at Newark Airport shortly after 1:00 PM.


    Jim and I found Emily waiting for us just beyond the final security checkpoint. She tried to hurry us out of the airport terminal, alarmed that we were already behind schedule, but I protested that I needed to retrieve my luggage first.


    She gazed at me with a mix of horror and astonishment.


    ¡°Tell me you did not check a bag,¡± she pleaded.


    I nodded. I could see her clench her teeth.


    She glanced at her phone, then started off at a brisk pace, headed for the baggage carousel. She glared back in my direction, making sure I was following.


    Soon thereafter, with my bag gathered, Emily, Jim, and I wound up in yet another limousine, racing away from the airport in the direction of a large Grensfeld Industries facility located someplace called Port Elizabeth, New Jersey.


    Some C-Suite muckety-muck had decided that I should be uprooted from my already turbulent existence and flown across the country to address a large gathering of Grensfeld employees at an all-hands meeting.


    Now, I¡¯ve sometimes heard people use the phrase, ¡°There¡¯s something rotten in Denmark.¡±


    Why Denmark? I don¡¯t know. Maybe it¡¯s from a movie.


    But even if something¡¯s rotten there, I¡¯ll bet that Denmark still smells better than Port Elizabeth, New Jersey.


    What sort of sadistic marketing professional would compel my attendance at an event held someplace with such a putrid stench?


    As soon as I exited the car I was enveloped by a thick cloud of petrochemical fumes. I was terrified someone would create a spark and we would all go up in flames.


    Who could work under such conditions?


    I soon found out when I saw Emily approaching, escorting a small man with an abnormally round face, with an abnormally large and pointy nose.


    Coupled with the man¡¯s unfortunate natural twitchiness, his tragic resemblance to a sizeable rat simply could not be ignored. I was transfixed. It felt ¡®trippy¡¯ like I was living in a cartoon. The man was giving 10/10 rat vibes. I was sure he could be competitive on the national ¡®rat man¡¯ circuit if such a thing existed. He was that good!


    ¡°Terrence, this is Anthony Caravucci, the general manager of this facility,¡± Emily explained. ¡°He will be introducing you.¡±


    ¡°Nice to meet you,¡± I greeted him, shaking his paw.


    I¡¯ll admit that, in my shock, I may have stared at the poor general manager¡¯s face a bit too long after we were introduced. He seemed uncomfortable. No doubt I appeared rude. But nature¡¯s wonders are magnificent to behold. And he was a wonder.


    We were led up onto a temporarily constructed stage in front of a sizeable crowd of industrial workers, out in the open air, under a sunny sky.


    Mr. Caravucci spoke for what seemed like forever. Only when the festivities were nearing completion did he introduce me to the crowd as the company sweepstakes winner, mentioning that I would be saying a few words.


    Many eyes were trained upon me. I did not sense great fondness.


    As I walked up to speak, not expecting thunderous applause, but hoping for a tenuous base of support somewhere among the crowd ¡ª a foundation upon which I could build ¡ª I was instead sorely disappointed by the desultory golf clap with which I was greeted.


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    I realized that the assembled were probably underpaid employees, and I was someone their company had just given fifty million dollars to, for kicks. It was fair for them not to hold me in the highest esteem. But at least give me a shot to redeem myself, no?


    An uncharacteristic measure of self-doubt began to creep in. I was getting thrown off by the hostility I saw in the worker¡¯s faces. I stammered out my opening remarks, unthinking.


    ¡°Thank you. I appreciate that warm welcome. I would like to thank Mr. Rat for his very kind introduction.¡±


    Alarm bells started ringing in my brain. What had I just said?


    The words were already out of my mouth before I could stop them. I gazed out at the small crowd, watching the puzzled looks on their faces transform into amusement.


    I wondered if I should correct myself, but I worried that, if I did, I would only call even more attention to the fact I had just called some poor guy Mr. Rat in front of all his employees. Worse, it was obvious from the snickering in the audience that I had not been the first person ever to do so.


    I glanced over at Emily who appeared frozen, as if her brain had completely shut down for her own protection.


    I decided to plunge onward. But there was no redeeming the original speech after messing up the very beginning.


    I would take the radical honesty approach with this tiny horde of honest laborers. I would try to seem humble, and down to earth, a true man of the people. I genuinely hoped for an opportunity to win their respect.


    ¡°Folks, I had a whole formal speech prepared, which would have been as much fun as a pre-flight safety announcement, but I say we just throw it out. What do you say? Why don¡¯t you just ask me some questions instead? Does anybody out there have¡­¡±


    I was interrupted by a barrage of questions. Most were related to my recent faux pas regarding the general manager¡¯s name, to my great chagrin.


    ¡°Did you just call him ¡®Mr. Rat?¡¯¡± a worker ¡ª as wide as he was tall ¡ª called out, pointing at Mr. Caravucci, wearing a huge grin on his square face.


    I cringed, clamping my eyes shut. Things were not going as I had envisioned. What could I say? I did my best to explain in simple terms.


    ¡°I don¡¯t remember.¡±


    That had sounded so much better in my head. Out loud? Not so much. There were roars of laughter.


    ¡°This guy!¡± the employee with the squarish head observed, shaking his head at me, expressing his amazement.


    ¡°Hey, aren¡¯t you that rich asshole?¡° someone called out.


    I was completely losing control of the situation.


    ¡°Perhaps I should return to the prepared remarks,¡± I suggested, but they were having none of it.


    Proposition: Answer His Question carried the popular vote by at least a 90/10 split. I was obliged to follow the people¡¯s will.


    ¡°If you are asking if I have wealthy parents, the answer is yes. I do. But¡­.¡±


    Murmurs of discontent spread throughout the gathered employees. A man cried out.


    ¡°That should have been our money. I haven¡¯t gotten a raise in two years, and it seems like money rains down on you. You should give some of it to us.¡±


    I had a flash of recognition. This was how the French Revolution had begun. I needed to deflect the mob to a different target. Why not to the king himself?


    ¡°Look, a one-time payment from me would simply be a bandaid. You need lasting relief. Only a union can do that. You should tell Mr. Caravucci over there to stop fattening himself off the labor of the peasants.¡±


    Too bad. I had begun to win them over until I called the employees peasants. Many of my new bandwagon fans jumped off immediately.


    ¡°@#$& this! @#$& you! And @#$& Grensfeld Industries!¡± a man cried out, standing and turning to address his fellow employees. ¡°This idiot isn¡¯t wrong. We¡¯re working hard and getting nowhere. I¡¯m going on strike! Who¡¯s with me?¡±


    Shortly thereafter, I found myself standing in front of a sea of empty folding chairs.


    It would seem that the course of events had not been to Mr. Caravucci¡¯s liking.


    The incendiary rage revealed in the general manager¡¯s face as he stormed across the stage in my direction made him look like a very angry rat, indeed.


    I mentally rehearsed the self-defense moves I had learned from YouTube videos then adopted my best fighting stance. Before I could unleash the lightning, a mountain appeared before me. It was my bodyguard, Jim, moving impressively quickly for a man of such bulk, fending off the general manager who clearly intended to commit felonious assault upon me.


    In the meantime, Emily had hooked me by the arm and begun to drag me away.


    I would like to believe that Emily didn¡¯t mean the things she said about me over the next several minutes.


    We mounted a rapid retreat to our limo, raced away just ahead of the baying mob, and got back to Newark Airport in time for me to catch a return flight to LA.


    I would sleep in my own bed that night. I was pleased. It had been an interesting trip, but I was ready to get back home. Twelve hours away had been enough.

 Ch. 9 - The Blue Papaya

    Grensfeld Industries took a long hiatus from demanding I make any public appearances after the Battle of Port Elizabeth. But that didn¡¯t mean my life got any easier.


    In the brief time I had been away from home my father had cooked up a calamity. Cutting a deal with a friend of his who owned a movie studio, he had managed to purchase all of the furniture used on the set of the HBO show Entourage. He had filled my home with it.


    Worse, my father had hired a bunch of actors to hang out at my house during the daytime, to make it look like I had friends. I felt really bad for one of them. He had a smoker¡¯s cough and looked way too old to be hanging out with twenty-somethings. It turned out the guy had been an actual extra on Entourage, in two episodes of season four.


    It was all very sad.


    The two things most abundant in the house were cameras and whiskey advertisements. No corner or wall was without one or the other.


    All the various camera feeds streamed off to God-knows-where over the Internet. Apparently, somebody somewhere sat around all day in a control room and produced my livestream, by switching the main feed to any camera in the house picking up something interesting. It hurt my heart to think of that person¡¯s life.


    I was thus under almost constant surveillance.


    I knew that everyone wanted me to ¡®go off¡¯ and give them something viral they could use to push their whiskey on people, so I made an almost superhuman effort to act normal in front of the cameras. Passive resistance was all I had left.


    I protested everything to Emily, many times, but she would only tell me to be happy I was making money off of my property. My house had become a valuable income stream. The judge overseeing my conservatorship was happy.


    Emily had worked out another deal with my father. He was paying my estate a big chunk of cash for the exclusive rights to livestream from inside my home.


    ¡°And, besides,¡± she would always say, ¡°the actors only work from 8:00 to 5:00. You can be alone the rest of the time.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you forgetting about Jim?¡± I would point out.


    That¡¯s when Emily usually sighed.


    My bodyguard Jim seemed to appreciate having the extra company around. He spent a lot of time with the actors while I slept. In fact, they were slowly becoming Jim¡¯s posse instead of mine.


    It was thus, one afternoon, while sitting on a crowded sofa, watching a movie with a group of hired friends and my bodyguard Jim, that I heard an unexpected clatter outside.


    I got up to look out the window.


    The source of the noise was a car pulling into my next-door neighbor Dave¡¯s driveway. And what a car. It looked like it had been in an around-the-world race, without being properly prepared for an around-the-world race.


    The vehicle came to a wobbly halt and out jumped a woman my age, wearing a baggy sweatshirt and jeans. She stormed up to the front door and rang the doorbell. Someone apparently answered her summons ¡ª I couldn¡¯t see from my angle ¡ª for she soon disappeared inside the house.


    The following day, when I was attending a meeting of the neighborhood book club, I learned the young woman was likely Pamela Elmer, Dave¡¯s daughter.


    I had joined the neighborhood book club in a fit of pique, trying to get away from the actors infesting my house. I remained a book club member because the hostesses always catered the meetings with delicious pastries. I was really only in it for the sugar.


    Anyway, the ladies in the club gave me the full scoop. It seemed that Pamela had gone off to get a film degree against her parents¡¯ wishes. She was currently trying to fundraise for her first movie, and her parents had refused to invest.


    Perhaps that explained what I had witnessed in Dave¡¯s driveway.


    Later that week, when I was in my backyard tossing a football around with the actors, I saw Pamela¡¯s car pull into her parents¡¯ driveway.


    To my surprise, she emerged and began walking in my direction.


    ¡°Hi,¡± she greeted me cheerily, holding out a hand as she drew close. ¡°I¡¯m Pamela.¡±


    As we shook hands, I confessed, ¡°I¡¯m Terrence.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m well aware. I¡¯ve been watching your career skyrocket since you went supernova at my father¡¯s press conference. That was brilliant work, by the way. I¡¯m an admirer.¡±


    ¡°My career?¡± I replied, puzzled.


    ¡°As an influencer,¡± Pamela nudged gently.


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m not an influencer,¡± I protested.


    ¡°Right,¡± she challenged. ¡°Call yourself whatever you like, but your channel¡¯s subscriber growth rate has been impressive.¡±


    I cringed.


    Once I had basked in ignorance, but sadly no longer, for now I definitively knew that my public humiliation¡¯s growth rate had been impressive.


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    Pamela continued to speak, seemingly unaware of how rapidly the world had begun to spin.


    ¡°I looked up your channel¡¯s analytics. I¡¯m amazed by how popular your livestream is getting in Japan.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I cried, quietly stricken.


    ¡°You definitely have a cult following over there. People make fan videos about you. I watched a few. They call you ¡®Weird Terrence.¡¯¡±


    ¡°Nice job,¡± she concluded, with an approving smile.


    ¡°No. You don¡¯t understand. Do you think I¡¯m putting my life on the Internet by choice?¡±


    ¡°Well, when I¡¯ve been over at my parents¡¯ house, I¡¯ve seen your friends putting makeup on before they walk inside, so I¡¯m pretty sure they were choosing to be on camera.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because those aren¡¯t my friends. They¡¯re actors.¡±


    Pamela burst out laughing.


    ¡°You hired actors as friends for your livestream? That¡¯s an incredible idea. You get to control the entire narrative, without the drama of real-life friendship. Bro, that¡¯s brilliant.¡±


    ¡°You still don¡¯t understand. It¡¯s true that the actors want to be on camera, it¡¯s only me who doesn¡¯t want to be. I didn¡¯t hire the actors, my father did. The whole livestream thing was forced on me by my father so he could make money off of me.¡±


    She studied me carefully. I could tell I had danced dangerously close to triggering her BS detector.


    ¡°You¡¯re telling me that you¡¯re a rising Internet celebrity, but you have nothing to do with any of it, and want no part of it. Do I have that right?¡±


    I nodded.


    ¡°Then why did you decorate your place like a fraternity house if you¡¯re trying so hard not to be an Internet celebrity?¡°


    She was peering inside my house through the open back doors.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t decorate this place. Who would hang whiskey ads in their own home? Do you think I want to live in a saloon? My father was responsible for the decoration. My father hired the actors. My father put up the livestream. Every bit of this has been forced on me.¡±


    ¡°Seriously?¡± Pamela marveled.


    ¡°Seriously,¡± I affirmed, in a grave tone.


    ¡°And I thought my parents were controlling,¡± she wondered aloud.


    She paused for a moment as if struggling over whether to say something or not. She came to a decision and proceeded.


    ¡°Terrence, I¡¯m a filmmaker,¡± she began.


    Based on what the neighborhood moms told me, that was a bit of a stretch.


    ¡°I¡¯m trying to find investors for my next film, ¡®The Blue Papaya.¡¯ I would love to sit down with you to pitch the idea properly.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± I responded, puzzled. ¡°Do you want my feedback on your pitch?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she explained in a measured tone, slightly offended. ¡°I¡¯m hoping you will be motivated to invest in the film.¡±


    I understood. She wasn¡¯t aware of my situation. How humiliating.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I professed. ¡°You see, the thing is, I got placed in a conservatorship. I don¡¯t have permission to spend any of my own money. If I did, I certainly wouldn¡¯t be living here. So I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t invest in your movie.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s awful,¡± she observed. ¡°Who did that to you?¡±


    ¡°My parents,¡± I replied.


    She looked at me pityingly.


    ¡°Wow. I know what it is like to have overbearing parents, but I¡¯m not sure I¡¯ve ever heard of someone who has it as badly as you.¡±


    We bonded for a quiet moment, both pondering my tragic existence.


    ¡°In that case,¡± Pamela piped up, breaking the silence, ¡°you wouldn¡¯t mind if I use your father a little bit to promote my film on your livestream, would you?  Since your father¡¯s only using you, it only seems fair to use him back, doesn¡¯t it?¡±


    She gave me a big friendly grin to help sell the idea.


    I tried to reason this new relationship out. Wouldn¡¯t that make her my second user, once removed?


    ¡°Hey boys,¡± she suddenly called out to the actors, who were still tossing the football around. ¡°Which of you are up for whiskey shots?¡±


    Four twenty-something actors came galloping past, following Pamela into my home. One forty-something actor came huffing and puffing along moments later.


    I followed the huffer and puffer inside.


    Pamela proceeded to pour drinks for all of the actors. I declined her offer. Jim, thank god, also declined her offer. A drunken Jim was something I never wanted to see.


    Once Pamela had the crew in her clutches ¡ª using flirtation and free whiskey ¡ª she pitched her movie idea, all of which was going out over my livestream, probably being watched by an English-speaking teenager in Tokyo in the middle of the night, if the analytics didn¡¯t lie.


    And that was how it all began.


    Soon it became a daily occurrence for Pamela to show up unannounced and bluster her way into my home by gaslighting me that I ¡°surely didn¡¯t mind¡± having her over. She spent hours vamping for the cameras and talking about the plans for her movie.


    To my even greater irritation, she began to bring guests with her. Many were friends from film school, happy to take their turn getting free publicity on my father¡¯s dime. Others were influencers, trend-surfing off my misery, hoping to be associated with me.


    I really needed to stand up for myself, but I mainly just isolated myself in my bedroom.


    The strange goings-on only seemed to add to my livestream¡¯s popularity. Soon, I was garnering significant viewership numbers in Poland and Kenya. I found out when I received a text message from Emily.


    ¡°Someone contacted me about licensing your image for some merchandise to be marketed in Eastern Europe. Are you good with that? The deal is worth $50K over 6 months.¡±


    ¡°What merchandise?¡± I replied.


    She texted me a photo of a sweatshirt. On it was a silkscreened image captured from my livestream, zoomed in upon an extremely unflattering picture of me.


    My name appeared above the image, and there was Polish text below. I pasted the text into a translation engine and got the result.


    ¡°Web Goblin.¡±


    Ouch. I mean, that hurt. I¡¯m only human.


    Web goblin?


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I¡¯m comfortable with that,¡± I related to Emily, considerably understating my feelings.


    ¡°K. What about $30K to license your image for making educational signage in Kenya?¡±


    Educational signs sounded a lot better than the web goblin deal. I was willing to consider such an offer. I was in favor of promoting education worldwide.


    ¡°What sort of educational signs?¡± I asked, seeking clarification.


    ¡°They would be part of a government initiative educating the Kenyan public on the importance of seeking proper mental health treatment.¡±


    ¡°And am I to be the cautionary tale in this educational material?¡± I asked, having already surmised the answer.


    Emily¡¯s silence told me everything I needed to know.


    ¡°Then, no,¡± I texted.


    Emily never replied.


    And so it came as a surprise the following week when one of the actors showed me a social media video shot by a young man in Kenya, thanking me for inspiring him to seek help turning his life around.


    I know who I am. I know my strengths and I frequently relearn my weaknesses. Never would I suggest to anyone that I should be a source of inspiration. That is not me.


    I felt extremely uncomfortable.


    What Emily had done was completely unethical. But she, unfortunately, had every right to do so. And I knew it was a losing strategy to fight my conservatorship by claiming I was against the idea of helping people around the world. That would not make me appear as a particularly sympathetic character before a judge.


    But I vowed to make sure Emily hadn¡¯t accepted the web goblin deal, too. If she had done that, I was pretty sure I could have taken the matter before a judge.


    (Sadly, it turned out Emily hadn¡¯t taken any goblin money. I remained trapped.)

 Ch. 10 - Fight Or Flight

    One sultry summer evening at twilight, when Jim was taking me for a walk around the block (for I always felt like Jim¡¯s pet when pacing a few steps ahead of the giant) I saw my neighbor Dave storm out his front door and across his lawn, headed in my direction at full steam. He looked enraged.


    My animal fight-or-flight instincts kicked in immediately. In one smooth motion, I deftly jumped behind Jim for protection.


    ¡°It¡¯s o.k.,¡± Dave announced as he drew close. ¡°I¡¯m not here to cause trouble. I only want to talk to you, so come out and show your face, you little¡­¡±


    It is at this point that my neighbor ¡®worked blue¡¯ as they say. I will excise the specific colloquialism he used from this volume, for reasons of propriety and self-respect.


    I emerged, channeling my inner alpha.


    ¡°What do you want?¡± I asked crossly, my voice skipping a little, undermining my attempt to sound intimidating.


    ¡°Why is my daughter over at your house all the time with your creepy friends? Why is she doing free advertising for your father¡¯s whiskey?¡±


    ¡°You know why she¡¯s doing it,¡± I answered him tersely. ¡°She¡¯s trying to find investors for her movie. If you would have just given her the money in the first place...¡±


    ¡°I tried,¡± Dave interjected, surprising me. ¡°I offered to cover the entire budget if she would just stay away from you. But she¡¯s stubborn.¡±


    ¡°So she doesn¡¯t even need to be at my house,¡± I observed in shock, more to myself than to Dave. ¡°She doesn¡¯t need funding.¡±


    ¡°No she does not,¡± he replied gravely. ¡°I think she¡¯s using you to punish me for saying ¡®no¡¯ to her originally. And I would like this to end. Please figure out a way that you can convince her to accept my money and leave you alone.¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s in it for Terrence?¡± Jim chimed in.


    He raised a good point. Quid pro quo. I knew I should be demanding something in return, but what?


    Dave wasn¡¯t waiting.


    ¡°After you caused a strike at our Port Elizabeth facility, all I should be offering is not to hire a team of hitmen to take care of you.¡±


    ¡°But I¡¯m willing to make you a better deal. Grensfeld Industries will free you from having to attend another company event during the remaining time you are obligated to. You can be done with all of that. As can we.¡±


    That was fair.


    If I got one monkey off my back, and into the embrace of her father, I could also get her father, a second monkey, off my back. It wouldn¡¯t leave me monkeyless, but it would lighten my burden considerably.


    ¡°You have a deal,¡± I agreed.


    Dave nodded in acknowledgment.


    Then he marched back across his lawn, in silence, before disappearing from view, behind the front door of his terribly ugly home.


    After my encounter with Dave, I spent a great deal of time thinking about the best way to manipulate Pamela into reuniting with her father ¡ª without being forced to act like a complete jerk ¡ª when at last I struck upon a possible solution.


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    I would call Emily, and see what she thought I should do.


    ¡°What are you talking about? Do you think I¡¯m a middle school guidance counselor?¡± Emily responded when I briefed her, seeking her advice. ¡°You¡¯re asking me how you should talk to a girl?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I spat back. ¡°This isn¡¯t as simple as just telling her to ¡®get out.¡¯ I also need to make sure that she goes back to her father. It¡¯s complicated.¡±


    ¡°How is it complicated? She has no money. She needs money. Her father is offering her money. Trust nature to take its course. Give her the boot and be done with it.¡±


    Needless to say, Emily then hung up the call.


    Very well. If everybody thought I should play hardball, I would play harderball.


    I would instruct Jim not to let Pamela enter the house.


    There would be no tearful goodbyes, no lamenting the early end of a burgeoning friendship, just a polite ¡°I¡¯m sorry miss¡± from Jim at the front door. It would be cold.


    Jim refused.


    ¡°I¡¯m your bodyguard, not your doorman,¡± he scoffed when I spoke with him. ¡°Grow a damn pair and tell her to stop coming over if you don¡¯t want her here.¡±


    ¡°But for the record,¡± he added, ¡°the guys and I really like having her around.¡±


    Great. So now I was being outvoted by my pretend friends?


    Later that afternoon, when my place was lousy with influencers, I headed out from my bedroom to find Pamela. Since every influencer was only there in the hope of appearing onscreen with me, I had to go through an excruciating series of encounters just to get downstairs.


    I found Pamela in the study, directing the actors as they played out the first scene of her movie for the livestream audience. Credit to her scriptwriter, the scene left me wondering what the blue papaya would turn out to be. My guess was an expensive jewel.


    When the show was over, I managed to get Pamela to join me down in the bowling alley, where few people ever ventured. In the privacy of the lanes, I leveled with her.


    ¡°Look, the actors asked me to speak with you on their behalf. Please don¡¯t take this the wrong way. They like you. We all do. It¡¯s just that they feel like you¡¯ve been coming around the house a lot, and I mean an awful lot.¡±


    Rather than looking stricken, as I had anticipated, Pamela looked amused.


    ¡°Oh, the actors feel that way?¡± she inquired patronizingly. She then had the gall to gently ¡®bop¡¯ the tip of my nose with her index finger.


    There was no limit to the number of boundaries this woman wouldn¡¯t cross!


    ¡°Terrence, are you trying to tell me something?¡± she asked in a much kinder tone of voice. ¡°Am I overstaying my welcome?¡±


    ¡°So you didn¡¯t believe what I told you about the actors, and what they asked me to do?¡±


    ¡°Of course not, Terrence. Those are my boys. We¡¯re tight. You should spend more time downstairs with the group. People have a lot of fun at your house.¡±


    ¡°Not me,¡± I complained.


    ¡°Then I was right. You do want me to buzz off.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t say that,¡± I prevaricated.


    ¡°Oh. So you want me to stay?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t say that either,¡± I replied hastily.


    ¡°Hmmm¡­you don¡¯t make things easy, Terrence.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just thinking that your parents are next door missing you, and instead of seeing them, you always come over to my house and¡­¡±


    Fire had filled Pamela¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°It was my father, wasn¡¯t it?¡± she demanded. ¡°He put you up to this, didn¡¯t he?¡±


    ¡°Who? Dave?¡± I bleated.


    ¡°You¡¯re a terrible liar, Terrence. It might be your most endearing quality.¡±


    I hung my head, ashamed to have been so transparent in my motivation.


    ¡°Terrence, if you ever want me to leave, simply say the word and I assure you I will leave. But if it¡¯s actually my father who wants me to leave, then I would prefer to stay with you. So is it o.k. if I keep coming over?¡±


    I nodded yes, and she gave me a warm smile.


    ¡°I found an influencer sleeping in my garage the other day,¡± I added. ¡°Maybe you could invite fewer of them over?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a deal, buddy,¡± Pamela responded warmly. Then we parted company.


    I ran the foul influencer gauntlet back to my bedroom and placed another call.


    ¡°Dear God, do I need to hire a nanny for you?¡± Emily greeted me less than enthusiastically.


    I filled her in on the happenings and asked for her take on things.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got to admit. Something doesn¡¯t add up. She hasn¡¯t gotten any investors from your livestream, has she? So why would she choose a long shot over a sure thing if she really wants to make her film? There must be some information you don¡¯t have. Figure out if she has another source of funding.¡±


    ¡°And now I¡¯ve wasted two minutes of my day too many thinking about this.¡±


    Then Emily was gone. The call ended.

 Ch. 11 - Rendered Textless

    I had a mystery on my hands. Emily was right. Pamela must have had some other funding source, or she wouldn¡¯t have turned down her father Dave¡¯s offer to fund her entire movie.


    I began my investigation into Pamela¡¯s finances, as one does, by hacking the storage cluster containing the output of the house¡¯s video cameras. I spent the next six nights scanning the video for any recordings of Pamela speaking.


    My search was fruitless. By all appearances, Pamela had been trying as hard as she could to solicit investors. She was pretty relentless. I didn¡¯t get the impression that she had found the money elsewhere.


    She made sure to drop in a McDunn¡¯s Single Malt Whiskey product placement into her banter now and again, I supposed to stay on my father¡¯s good side, as she was aware he owned the exclusive rights to livestream from my home.


    One painful effect of watching so much of the stored video was a growing awareness of how rare it was for me to appear on my own livestream. And when I did appear, I did not come across well.


    It was awful. I looked like an antisocial freak.


    I vowed to try harder to seem likable in front of the cameras. I would make a greater effort to reciprocate the kind gestures made by my pretend friends, and to interact more with the creepy strangers Pamela liked to bring over.


    I could change my image. I simply needed to turn on the old Terrence charm.


    In the meantime, I needed to move my investigation forward, so I raised the topic of Pamela¡¯s movie funding with Jim one evening. All he had was a question.


    ¡°Did you ask her?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I confessed. ¡°She already thinks I¡¯m her father¡¯s shill. If I start asking about how her fundraising is going, she is bound to see right through me.  So¡­.would you ask her for me?¡±


    Jim sighed and shook his head


    ¡°We¡¯ve been through this,¡± Jim replied. ¡°I keep you safe. Nothing more. If you want someone to do a bunch of little errands for you, hire a personal assistant. Emily would probably be in favor of the idea.¡±


    It struck me as a remarkably good idea. Why hadn¡¯t I thought of it? I liked the idea of having someone I could send out to tackle uncomfortable situations for me. That¡¯s an excellent service for someone to offer.


    The following morning I placed a call to Emily and pitched the personal assistant idea.


    I gave her my best plea, ending with, ¡°I could benefit from some help accomplishing a few things.¡±


    ¡°You need help accomplishing¡­nothing?¡± Emily marveled. ¡°What do you need help with?¡±


    ¡°I just thought it would be nice to have someone who could organize things around the house, and make my life a little easier.¡±


    Emily laughed derisively.


    ¡°In my estimation, your life is easy enough, Terrence,¡± she scolded me. ¡°If anything, it¡¯s probably too easy.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think it is a good idea for you to hire a personal assistant,¡± Emily concluded, passing judgment. ¡°I¡¯m going to say no.¡±


    Why did everyone think my life was so easy? I was ¡®imaginary rich¡¯ and ¡®real-world broke.¡¯ My existence was turning me into an international laughingstock. I had no control over my own home. Things were miserable.


    ¡°Please at least think it over,¡± I begged.


    ¡°Fine,¡± she agreed, then hung up on me.


    I spent about an hour that morning draining myself into an emotional void by engaging with a group of influencers sitting in my living room. I felt like I had gone to the zoo and fallen into an exhibit. There wasn¡¯t a single thing we had in common.


    That put an end to my brief attempt to look better on my livestream. It was not worth the effort. I was resolved to a life of unrelenting web goblinhood. And I was o.k. with it.


    That afternoon, as I was in bed drinking coffee and reading about the history of modems, I received a text message from my neighbor Dave.


    ¡°Why no progress with Pamela?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m working on it,¡± I explained.


    ¡°Work harder or I will withdraw my offer.¡±


    With that, Dave disappeared, leaving me a nervous wreck. I needed my bargain with Dave to be rock solid. I had been counting on clearing my house of unwanted guests and never having to deal with Grensfeld Industries again. If Dave withdrew his offer, my life would be so much more difficult than it needed to be.


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    I decided to meet Dave in person, to firm up our partnership. I could deliver his daughter back to his arms, but he needed to give me sufficient time.


    That evening, when the livestream was over and the crowd had dispersed, I noticed Jim had become engrossed by a weightlifting competition he was watching on his phone. Taking advantage of the momentary lapse in surveillance, I slipped out of one of the French doors and onto the long veranda wrapping around the back of my house.


    Pausing, I listened intently, trying to determine if my escape had been detected. I was relieved to hear nothing from inside. Jim was off in muscle-land, and I was free.


    I hugged the side of the house, staying out of view of the windows, moving stealthily down the veranda in the direction of Dave¡¯s house.


    A sizable stand of turf grass stood between my house and Dave¡¯s. Seeing a stately oak that grew near the boundary of our properties, I steeled my nerve and set off at a dash in its direction. I could hide by the tree waiting for Dave to step outside.


    I instinctively ran in an ¡®S¡¯ pattern, as I had been taught by the movies. Halfway to the tree, it dawned on me that people ran that way to avoid bullets, and nobody was shooting at me. Somewhat chagrined, I completed my breathless dash in a straight-line sprint.


    After 15 minutes spent in the gathering darkness of evening, I finally observed Dave.


    He was moving oddly past the corner of the house, headed in the direction of his car. I say he moved ¡®oddly¡¯ because he almost appeared to be sneaking around, on his own property.


    I watched him slip past, no more than ten feet away, and praised my good fortune at being provided with such a perfect opportunity to speak with him privately. I greeted him with a hearty hello.


    He shook violently, flailed his arms about, and let out a sharp cry. An enormous clatter arose as a bag full of golf clubs slammed down on the paved driveway.


    It would seem Dave had failed to notice me standing under the tree as he passed. Mine had been an unexpected voice out of the darkness. He appeared to dislike unexpected voices out of the darkness immensely.


    He looked enraged.


    ¡°Oh. It¡¯s you,¡± he growled through clenched teeth. I began to wonder if my decision to exclude my bodyguard Jim from our meeting had been a mistake.


    Fortunately, there would be a witness to any potential assault, for at that moment a woman¡¯s head popped out of an upstairs window of Dave¡¯s house and looked down on the scene with disapproval.


    ¡°David Elmer? Are you taking your golf clubs out after I forbade you from playing tomorrow? You have to attend Veronica¡¯s baby shower. You have no choice! No golf!¡±


    With that, she slammed the window shut.


    Dave turned back to stare at me, the way a grizzly bear stares at a hunter who has just fired his last shot and missed.


    ¡°What do you want?¡± he asked menacingly.


    It was not the rollicking start to the festivities I had rehearsed. It was only stage one, and I was already off-plan. I did my best to recover.


    ¡°I just wanted to give you an update on the Pamela thing. I am making progress. I have scoured all the videos recorded in my house and made inquiries. All that¡¯s holding me up is getting approval to hire a personal assistant.¡±


    ¡°For what?¡± Dave asked, astonished. ¡°Why can¡¯t you just ask my daughter to leave?¡±


    ¡°Because I¡¯m pretty sure she has another source of funding. It¡¯s the only explanation that makes sense. So even if I ask her to leave, she might not come back to you.¡±


    ¡°O.k. Did you ask her if she has an investor?¡±


    ¡°You mean, did I just walk right up to her and ask? Out of the blue? Wouldn¡¯t that be incredibly awkward?¡±


    I was slightly horrified by the thought.


    Dave looked at me with greater than his usual level of disgust. He pondered the situation.


    ¡°That would explain why she¡¯s been doing sales for your father¡¯s whiskey on your livestream,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°My father?¡± I gasped. ¡°You think my father invested in Pamela¡¯s movie?¡±


    Dave pulled out his cell phone and placed a call.


    ¡°And a very warm welcome to you, too,¡± he grumbled to the person on the other end, before becoming interrogatory. ¡°Tell me, Pamela, would Terrence¡¯s father happen to be investing in your movie? Terrence wants to know, but he¡¯s too dense and cowardly to ask. No, I will not be nicer to him. Maybe you meant what are the top ten things wrong with him? It doesn¡¯t seem like you want to answer my question. Is Terrence¡¯s father paying you?¡±


    Dave listened to his daughter speak for a moment, then said goodbye and returned the phone to his pocket.


    ¡°So your father thinks he can come between me and my daughter, does he?¡± Dave muttered darkly, staring at me without blinking. I wondered if I should call out for Jim.


    ¡°Well I can play dirty too,¡± he threatened.


    ¡°By the terms of the sweepstakes, I can keep you traveling for the next four months. So that¡¯s what I¡¯m going to do, Terrence. If your father is going to keep my daughter away from me, I¡¯m going to keep his son away from him.¡±


    ¡°No, please,¡± I begged, ¡°don¡¯t do this to me. Let me talk to my father. Maybe we can still work things out.¡±


    As the words poured from my lips, I began to picture my house, always so annoyingly full of strange people, and for a moment I wavered.


    Maybe life on the road would be better? In the end, I might get more time alone.


    Then I realized I might have to transit Dallas/Fort Worth Airport during my travels.


    ¡°You can¡¯t do this to me!¡± I shouted, panic creeping into my voice. ¡°It¡¯s completely inhumane!¡±


    ¡°Just watch me,¡± Dave huffed, and picked up his golf bag.


    ¡°Please, Dave. Let me fix this.¡±


    My words didn¡¯t matter. Dave ignored my entreaties and stomped his way back into his house.


    I made my way back home, and crawled into bed, full of dread about what was to come.


    A mysterious text message arrived from Emily.


    ¡°I thought it over. It was a good idea. He starts tomorrow at eight.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, what?¡± I typed, puzzled.


    ¡°Your PA. Do you not remember begging me for one this morning? Are you unwell? How much time did you spend in the sun today?¡±


    Oh yeah, the personal assistant idea. It was far too late for that. I didn¡¯t need anybody to talk to Pamela any more thanks to Dave.


    ¡°I changed my mind. I don¡¯t need one.¡± I replied.


    ¡°It¡¯s too late for that. He has already been hired. His name is Reggie. He will be at your house first thing in the morning.¡±


    I was horrified. The last thing I wanted was yet another person pestering me.


    ¡°Please call him and tell him not to come. I DO NOT WANT HIM!¡± I virtually howled.


    Rarely in my life had I ever resorted to texting in all caps, and I hoped Emily understood the gravity of my gesture.


    ¡°Goodbye, Terrence. Be nice to him.¡± she texted.


    It was the first time Emily had ever concluded one of our conversations with a goodbye instead of going silent or hanging up on me. I was rendered textless.

 Ch. 12 - Places to be Scene

    I awoke the following morning at 10:00, lifted from my slumber by a faint heavenly aroma. What started as a sensation in a dream was transformed into a very real tumbler of coffee ¡ª sitting on a tray next to my bed ¡ª when my eyes opened.


    Horrified by the realization that someone had entered my room while I slept, I was nevertheless intrigued. I took hold of the tumbler, popped open its spill-proof lid, and sniffed the contents. The scent was wonderful.


    I put the tumbler to my closed lips and tilted it, so I could determine how warm the coffee was. The temperature was perfect.


    I took a swig of the mystery brew. It was delicious.


    I was no fool. I realized that it must have been my new personal assistant who had set the coffee in my room. I conceded that this Reggie character was off to an excellent start.


    After consuming the surprise mugful over a pleasant half-hour span, nature came calling. I opened my bedroom door, bracing myself to run the gauntlet of influencers. To my surprise, the only person I saw in the hallway was a young man in a suit sitting cross-legged on the floor, working on a tablet computer. Seeing me, he set his work aside and rose to his feet.


    ¡°I¡¯m Reggie, sir,¡± he greeted me enthusiastically. ¡°I¡¯m your new personal assistant. Thank you so much for giving me this opportunity. I really appreciate¡­¡±


    ¡°No problem,¡± I interrupted him. ¡°I would be happy to speak with you, but I need to use¡­¡±


    ¡°Of course!¡± Reggie interrupted me back, racing ahead to the bathroom and flipping on the light, before stepping out into the hall.


    Whether I was weirded out by Reggie¡¯s behavior or not ¡ª and for the record I was ¡ª my distress was only increasing, so I lurched past him and closed the door. A short time flowed past.


    When I emerged, Reggie was waiting.


    ¡°Was the cup of coffee by my bed this morning your doing?¡± I asked.


    Reggie nodded.


    ¡°Thank you. It was very good.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a specialty Arabica bean I ordered from a contact in Columbia. I brought some of my personal supply, hoping you would enjoy it. Emily told me you are a very enthusiastic consumer of coffee.


    ¡°I live on the stuff,¡± I confessed.


    Noticing the unusual scarcity of vapid influencers gathered in the hallway, I asked Reggie, ¡°Where is everybody?¡±


    ¡°Ah, that,¡± he explained. ¡°I hope I did not overstep my bounds, but I told your guests that the upstairs of the house is off-limits until you are awake. It is your home, and they should respect your privacy as their host.¡±


    Waking up to coffee? Finding out someone has drawn a line with the influencers? My head was spinning. I wondered if Reggie could speak with my father for me.


    ¡°What does your agenda look like today, sir?¡± Reggie inquired.


    ¡°Agenda? I don¡¯t have an agenda. And please don¡¯t call me sir.¡±


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    ¡°Very well,¡± Reggie spoke agreeably. ¡°Should I follow you around as you produce your livestream and take notes? I¡¯m eager to see how you go about¡­¡±


    ¡°Reggie, look,¡± I corrected him. ¡°I have nothing to do with my livestream, and I don¡¯t want to have anything to do with it, o.k.? I just want to make that clear.¡±


    ¡°But your house is currently ranked twenty-sixth in the Los Angeles Tribune¡¯s ¡®50 pLAces to be Scene¡¯ list. I recognize some of the people downstairs. Those are genuine D-list celebrities. Your channel''s on fire!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome to go join in the activities if you like.¡±


    ¡°Well, no. I¡¯m here to assist you.¡±


    ¡°Right. Then I could use another coffee,¡± I suggested helpfully.


    ¡°I¡¯m on it!¡± Reggie cried, springing to action. Soon he was back, and I, coffee in hand, reclined in my bed once more. Reggie disappeared back into the hall, closing the door behind him.


    As I sipped from the second tumbler of coffee, I pondered my predicament. If I couldn''t get my father to withdraw his financial support for Pamela¡¯s movie, I would be forced to spend the next four months of my life going from one horrible Grensfeld Industries event to the next.


    Or I could also work the other angle. If I could convince Pamela that she would regret giving my father even the slightest amount of control over her movie ¡ª I supposed it might be clarifying to relate the story about Robert Johnson selling his soul to the devil down at the crossroads ¡ª maybe I could persuade her to take Dave¡¯s money instead.


    It was tough to decide where to begin. Both options seemed unlikely to succeed. I decided to put the matter before a higher authority.


    ¡°Why?¡± Emily asked, early in the phone call I placed to her, a touch of exasperation in her voice. ¡°Why do you keep bothering me?¡±


    ¡°This is a crisis! You¡¯re my conservator. I need conserving! You can¡¯t let me be forced to spend every day for the next four months in a living hell. I¡¯m staring down oblivion!¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t we being a bit dramatic? A business trip is not ¡®oblivion.¡¯ And, besides, I don¡¯t know what Dave was even talking about. There is a cap on the number of appearances you can be asked to make. I think it is ten. And you¡¯ve already made a few. So you have about a week¡¯s worth of appearances left. How he gets four months out of that, I don¡¯t know. There isn¡¯t a cap on travel time to those events, but how would you get to four months from¡­oh...oh, no.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I cried frantically.


    ¡°Not many people hold corporate events in inaccessible places. Not many people even could hold such events. But Grensfeld Industries has projects all over the world, some in extremely remote locations. If Dave decided to make you appear¡­no, I shouldn¡¯t speculate. I¡¯ll tell you what. Let me contact Dave and find out what¡¯s going on. In the meantime, don¡¯t antagonize him again, o.k.?¡±


    I gulped and told her that I wouldn¡¯t.


    I spent a nervous few hours drifting in and out of a nap. Finally, I received a call from Emily. I sat and listened, growing ever more numb, as she spoke.


    ¡°O.k. Here¡¯s the deal. I spoke with Dave, and he told me they plan to use you in a promotional video they¡¯re making for their investors. So the good news is, they¡¯ve finally figured out not to put you in front of a live audience.¡±


    ¡°The bad news is that they were asking for exactly what I thought they might. Dave was intending to send you to a gold mine in the Australian outback, a pipeline in the Alaskan wilderness, a highway construction project in the Amazon rainforest, and to the Sahara desert, to a refinery they operate.¡±


    ¡°But I negotiated him down. You don¡¯t have to go to the Sahara, only to the other three places.¡±


    ¡°Between the flights, the time spent traveling upriver by boat, delays caused by rebel activity, and the like, your total travel time should come to no more than two months.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome,¡± she concluded, chastising me for not fawning over her.


    ¡°Rebel activity?¡± I bleated.


    ¡°Well, not in Alaska or Australia. And you will have personal security with you.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think it¡¯s safe,¡± I observed.


    ¡°What do you think, Reggie?¡± Emily asked.


    ¡°Reggie?¡± I asked, stunned. ¡°Is Reggie on the line?¡±


    ¡°Affirmative,¡± Reggie replied helpfully.


    ¡°What are you doing on¡­¡± I protested, before being interrupted by Emily.


    ¡°I asked him to join us. If I tell you both the details, Reggie will actually remember them. So you can go to him when you inevitably forget and want to bother me. Now, Reggie, can Terrence trust you to assist him in preparing?¡±


    ¡°Definitely, ma¡¯am,¡± Reggie enthused. ¡°I¡¯ve always wanted to see a pipeline.¡±


    ¡°Well, I haven¡¯t,¡± I announced. ¡°And I¡¯m not going!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll email you the proposed event schedule, Reggie,¡± Emily announced, ignoring my protest.


    And then she hung up.

 Ch. 13 - Humpty Doo Hotel

    I hugged the center of the small rivercraft, unlike my foolish companions who were leaning over the side and peering into the muddy water, trying to film crocodiles as we progressed up Australia¡¯s Mary River.


    Before crossing the Pacific on my current Grensfeld assignment, I watched every YouTube video available on the topic of ''animals in Australia that can kill you.'' Saltwater crocs were featured prominently. I had seen videos of the monsters launching themselves vertically out of the water to snatch food out of the air.


    With the risks the others were taking ¡ª leaning over the edge of the small craft ¡ª I was fully expecting to see a close-up reenactment, leaving me ¡®down¡¯ a companion. What fools. They had not done their research.


    I had traveled to Australia¡¯s Northern Territory to record some video footage of a gold mine being opened by Grensfeld Industries. I was to appear at some point in the film, but I had instructions to say nothing. With me were Reggie and Jim, a video director, and a film crew of four.


    Jim, Reggie, and I had flown directly from Los Angeles to Sydney in one interminable flight. It felt like an entire day spent in a tightly packed library that served booze. I was considering emigrating just to avoid the flight home.


    After staying in Sydney for a night ¡ª or a day ¡ª I¡¯ll confess I was struggling to tell the difference at that point ¡ª we flew on to Darwin, in the Northern Territory. It was an aptly named city, for all of evolution seemed to have taken a unique turn there. Everything in the natural environment seemed capable of deliberately ending your existence, by land or by sea. I was terrified to step out of the airport.


    We were whisked off immediately, to a place called Humpty Doo. (I¡¯ll bet you think I made that name up, so I¡¯ll wait while you look it up. Do you feel bad for doubting me?). There we were stuck, for the better part of a week, at the Humpty Doo Hotel. It seemed that the final water leg of our journey required a lift on a contracted boat. The boat¡¯s availability had been delayed, so we were left to cool our heels.


    The days drifted by as I floated in a foggy haze of exhaustion and insomnia. By the time a crowd of zealous locals arrived to howl on open mic night, I was so sleep-deprived that I was sure I had arrived in hell.


    Just when I had finally started to recover from my jet lag, and began to wake up at noon like a normal person, I was told we would be moving on. Once again my schedule was upset, and so was I. I was tired of traveling.


    We drove some distance down the Arnhem Highway, past hour after hour of reddish soil and scrubby trees until we reached the Mary River.


    We clambered down a steep wooded bank, and onto a small boat tethered close to the highway crossing. Once our equipment was onboard, we set off.


    Come to think of it, this is where I started this chapter, wasn¡¯t it? I can¡¯t think of much I¡¯ve left out. Jim got yelled at by the boat¡¯s pilot once, for straying too far from the boat¡¯s centerline, since nobody could counterbalance his weight, and the pilot seemed anxious not to be ¡®eaten by bloody Crocs.¡¯


    We spent some time under a blistering sun, gliding along, annoying some birds with the noise of the engine, until we arrived at a small dock constructed in the river.


    We unloaded the boat and headed up to meet our Grensfeld contacts.


    As the mine was in an ecologically sensitive area, the operation was required to have a minimal footprint. Only the barest necessities were constructed above ground, while of course the bulk of the project was hidden underground. The film crew sent up a drone, but aerial shots of a mine entrance ¡ª just a hole in the ground ¡ª aren¡¯t compelling footage in a hype video.


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    To make up for the scene''s deficiency in visual appeal, a thirty-foot tall inflatable kangaroo had been erected by the employees and tethered to the ground by a dozen cables. Now that¡¯s entertainment. Throw in some shots of people wearing hard hats, and you¡¯ve got something to keep investors¡¯ attention.


    Eventually, the wind picked up, and the drone had to land, so the film crew switched to traditional camera work. The manager led a tour of the facility for the viewers, while I stood around waiting for my turn to appear.


    The workers were all gathered to watch the filming take place, so I joined them and got to know them a bit. Friendly people. I liked them.


    As the breezes grew stronger, I saw the wind pick up the giant kangaroo like a sail. It was straining against its ties. I went over and placed my hands on one of the ropes, amazed at how taught it was.


    One of the members of the film crew saw me touching the rope and thought I was trying to reorient the kangaroo to a better angle for the next shot, so they came over to help. Before I could stop them ¡ª almost before I realized what was happening ¡ª they had loosened the knot on one of the far ties.


    I looked up with concern as the humongous plastic beast was beginning to lean over me. It looked heavy. Some workers dashed over to the loose rope, making a valiant group effort to hold the line, but another strong burst of wind tore it from their hands. Then another tie-down broke.


    The kangaroo was now wobbling in a sweeping orbit as if drunkenly hopping in place on one leg. All hands at the site were now racing forward to deal with the looming disaster, while I raced away.


    Another particularly strong gust of wind hit at the worst possible time, and the kangaroo snapped free of its last tethers. All thirty feet of it began to tumble along the ground in the direction of the approaching workers, who immediately reversed course and began to flee in terror from the rapidly approaching wall of kangaroo.


    Hitting a vehicle in its path, the kangaroo was launched upright and airborne. The workers froze in place and watched in awe as the huge inflatable soared over their heads, before coming back to earth, and smashing into a brick maintenance facility, shattering the windows. The impact forced the kangaroo to ricochet back in the direction of the terrified workers, who once again began to flee for their lives in the opposite direction, all while releasing a torrent of swear words in several different languages.


    A positive development was that the collision with the building had torn the kangaroo¡¯s plastic, and the beast began to slowly melt before our eyes. After a few more minor collisions with company equipment and much shouting, it finally deflated to the point that it could no longer be moved by the wind.


    When the horror ended, a stunned silence fell over everyone. Nobody could quite believe what they had been through. It was being in a Godzilla movie and having your character make it through to the very end. Everyone felt shocked at being alive. A positive outcome hadn¡¯t seemed very likely, for a while.


    To my relief, when the top manager launched an immediate investigation into the cause of the disaster ¡ª pre-supposing my guilt ¡ªthe workers had my back, revealing that it was a member of the film crew who had unleashed the Kraken.


    As nothing could be filmed outside anymore, my scene was ultimately shot inside the mine. I stood next to a seething manager, in front of the camera, both of us wearing glued-on smiles. The manager read some very lame joke about the mine hopefully being as lucky as me, which had been prepared in advance, as it was clear that he now considered my presence a curse.


    When the filming was done, we were hurried into vehicles and driven off as quickly as possible. We had been on the road for a brief time when I realized we were heading away from the river.


    ¡°Why aren¡¯t we heading back the way we came?¡± I asked the director.


    It was then that I learned the boat journey had been completely unnecessary. The film crew had merely been trying to get B-roll footage of the local wildlife. It turned out we could have simply driven to the mine, all along.


    A week bored to death in a hotel and half a day spent cooking myself alive on a boat, all so one of these fools could film a crocodile? I was incensed.


    Emily would hear about this.


    But not before I spent another disorienting day traveling back to Los Angeles. This time, my flight had to refuel in Honolulu. It is a cruel thing to do to people. In the middle of a long airplane journey, you touch down in paradise for an hour and force the passengers to stare mournfully out the window at it, never leaving their seats. Then the endless flying begins again. I found the experience soul-killing.


    When I crawled into my bed at journey¡¯s end, it felt like heaven (though I noted it didn¡¯t smell like heaven. It was time to change my sheets. I would let Reggie know.)

 Ch. 14 - About Us

    ¡°So you had a good time?¡± I asked, pleased.


    ¡°Wonderful, yes,¡± Reggie replied. ¡°I like your neighbors. Mrs. Conners has a master¡¯s degree in literature. Her analysis of ¡®Willow Weeps¡¯ made me see a deeper meaning in the plot that had gone completely over my head. Thanks for sending me.¡±


    ¡°No problem,¡± I demurred, spilling crumbs down my shirt from the breakfast pastry I was nibbling on.


    While away in Australia, I received a group message from the neighborhood book club announcing that ¡®Willow Weeps¡¯ was the novel we would be discussing next. I assigned the job of reading it to Reggie, expecting him to prepare me a synopsis.


    When the morning of the book club meeting arrived, I was too tired to attend, so I sent Reggie in my place, with instructions to bring me home one of the delicious, catered pastries which would almost assuredly be provided.


    Reggie had been accepted by the literary mob and had delivered my snack. It had been a job well done.


    ¡°Job well done,¡± I praised Reggie. He seemed pleased.


    ¡°I heard some interesting gossip about your neighbors, Dave and Bitsy Elmer,¡± Reggie reported dutifully. ¡°I¡¯m not sure I should share what I heard¡­¡±


    ¡°Spill it,¡± I instructed.


    ¡°Very well,¡± Reggie replied. ¡°The ladies told me that Dave and Bitsy are having a major disagreement over whether or not to accept an offer they received on their house.¡±


    I nodded. It wasn¡¯t news to me.


    ¡°I heard about that. It happened before we left. Dave wants to accept a lowball offer and Bitsy doesn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°This is a newer bid. It came in while we were in Australia. It is for the full asking price.¡±


    ¡°Why on earth would Dave want to turn down an offer like that? I thought he was trying to get away from me as quickly as possible?¡±


    ¡°It was made by a corporate entity. Dave has concerns about their plans for the house.¡±


    Now I was getting concerned myself.


    What ¡®plans¡¯ did these potential buyers have? More importantly, how would those plans impact my life? In my experience, construction crews start making lots of annoying noise soon after the time I usually fall asleep, around six in the morning.


    ¡°Did you find out what the buyers want to do to the place?¡±


    ¡°Well, I preface what I¡¯m about to say by pointing out that even Mrs. Gupta wasn¡¯t sure of its truth. She heard it from her landscaper who heard it from Dave and Bitsy¡¯s landscaper.¡±


    ¡°Mrs. Gupta¡¯s a very nice lady, by the way. She told me to tell you they missed you at the meeting.¡±


    ¡°Anyway, what she heard is that the buyer wants to bill it as the ugliest house in Los Angeles and treat it as a tourist attraction. Needless to say, nobody in the club was very pleased about that.¡±


    I was horrified.


    ¡°I¡¯m with them! You mean, some company wants to run tours down our street?¡±


    ¡°Yes, because it is next to this house, too,¡± Reggie clarified. ¡°Your livestream is gaining a lot of followers. People are interested in seeing where it streams from.¡±


    I was aghast. Loads of people were going to drive past and peer in the windows at me. Absolutely not! It had to be stopped.


    ¡°I¡¯ve already talked to Reggie,¡± I complained to Emily, after she answered my phone call by saying, ¡°Talk to Reggie.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± Emily sighed. ¡°What now?¡±


    ¡°Some company wants to run tours on my street to peer in at me.¡±


    ¡°Well, the streets are public, Terrence. What do you want me to¡­¡±


    ¡°And they¡¯re buying Dave¡¯s house too, to make it a double-billing on one street.¡±


    ¡°What? What company ¡ª especially a small tourism company ¡ª can afford to buy an enormously expensive mansion? That makes absolutely no sense. Did you think those words made sense when they were coming out of your mouth?¡±


    Stolen novel; please report.


    I was offended.


    ¡°I¡¯m just passing on what Reggie learned from an impeccable source, Mrs. Gupta at the book club. She knows everything happening in this neighborhood. I can vouch for her.¡±


    ¡°O.k. On the one in one thousand shot that your information is correct, you need to find out what this buyer is up to because the tourism story sounds like an angle. Where is the money behind the offer truly coming from?¡±


    I tried to respond, but Emily had already ended the call.


    I began my investigation by asking Reggie to ''work'' his book club contacts for information on the offer. Within hours, I learned it had been extended by a company named Cloutbus.


    The Cloutbus website was exactly the sort of hideous phone-friendly mess you would expect from such a business. The purpose of their operation was to monetize the invasion of people¡¯s privacy, disguising the crime as a fun outing with friends and family.


    There was not much information to go on. I clicked on ¡°About Us¡± hoping to find something more useful.


    If I had read the names on the ¡°About Us¡± page just six months earlier, they would have meant nothing to me. Instead, one name jumped out immediately after living with it plastered on every wall of my house.


    McDunn.


    To be specific, a person named James McDunn was the president of Cloutbus. Was he of the infamous whiskey-distilling McDunn family my father was involved with?


    He had to be. I sat deep in thought, wondering how I could have been so foolish.


    There was a soft knock on my bedroom door. I called out, and Pamela came in, shutting the door behind her. We stared at each other in silence for a moment.


    ¡°I have some things to tell you, Terrence,¡± Pamela spoke softly. ¡°There are some things I haven¡¯t been completely honest about.¡±


    She paused and took a deep breath, building her confidence.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure how to begin,¡± she began. ¡°I guess I¡¯ll start by asking¡­have you noticed that I do an awful lot of ¡®free¡¯ advertising for McDunn¡¯s Single Malt Whiskey on your livestream?¡±


    ¡°I have,¡± Terrence acknowledged. ¡°And I¡¯ve been worried about you. Do you think you might be developing a problem with alcohol?¡±


    ¡°Wait, what? No! That¡¯s not where I was going with the conversation, at all. Why would you even¡­I mean¡­you¡¯ve been ¡®worried¡¯ about me? How dare¡­¡±


    Pamela managed to overcome her irritation and get back on point.


    ¡°What I mean is, did you ever think there might be a reason I do those¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh, is this about my father bankrolling your movie? Yeah, I know.¡±


    Pamela¡¯s jaw dropped. She stared in shock as I continued.


    ¡°That¡¯s another thing I¡¯ve been worried about. I need to warn you about my father. Have you ever heard the story about Robert Johnson and the crossroads, by any chance?¡±


    She shook her head.


    ¡°How did you find out?¡± Pamela asked.


    ¡°I was there with Dave when he called you, and you told him,¡± I explained.


    She seemed astonished.


    ¡°So you and my father were, like, hanging out together?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not quite how I would describe the situation, but yes. I was there.¡±


    ¡°Wow. So¡­first of all, I¡¯m sorry. I should have told you, myself, that your father had offered to invest in my project.¡±


    ¡°But there¡¯s more.¡±


    She took a deep breath.


    ¡°Something else I¡¯ve kept from you is that your father is trying to buy my parents¡¯ house to use it to promote McDunn¡¯s whiskey. He wants to make it a party house for another livestream. The house will get destroyed. My father is extremely upset about it.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I knew most of that already, too.¡±


    Pamela stared at me in amazement.


    ¡°How? How do you know these things? I mean, you never leave your bedroom.¡±


    ¡°I have my sources,¡± I replied, sounding smug.


    (Thank you, Mrs. Gupta!)


    ¡°O.k. Then do you also know that my uncle designed my parents¡¯ house?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    She gave me a suspicious look.


    ¡°You¡¯re lying. How would you know that?¡±


    ¡°Your father told me at a Grensfeld reception I would rather not talk about. It was part of how our rift began.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I kind of forget that you have a life outside of locking yourself in here, hiding from the livestream. When we all leave in the evening, that¡¯s when the web goblin must prowl.¡±


    I was stunned by what I had just heard her call me.


    ¡°Where did you get that?¡± I demanded angrily. ¡°That ¡®web goblin¡¯ thing. Did you hear it from the Eastern Europeans?¡±


    Pamela cringed.


    ¡°I guess I should come clean about that too.¡±


    ¡°There is a mixed drink called the ¡®web goblin¡¯ being nationally promoted by McDunn¡¯s Single Malt Whiskey. Part of the promotion is that web goblins are sold at half price, for five minutes, whenever you make one of your infrequent appearances on the livestream. A lot of bars show the stream on one of their TVs all day. Every time you leave this room and sneak down the hall to the bathroom you sell a whole lot of web goblins.¡±


    ¡°Who came up with that name?¡± I interrogated her, seething inside.


    She was silent. I had my suspicions.


    ¡°Was it you?¡± I demanded to know.


    She nodded sheepishly, reluctant to share the information.


    ¡°Terrence, look. I¡¯m so, so sorry about all of this. And I can understand if you are angry with me. But I¡¯m in an awful position, and I¡¯m hoping you can forgive me enough to help me out.¡±


    ¡°The web goblin is listening,¡± I replied sarcastically, giving Pamela an unkind look, but willing to at least listen to her. She seemed genuinely distressed.


    Tears started to well up in her eyes.


    ¡°Terrence, my parents are talking about getting divorced over this, and I¡¯m working for the person who is causing all the trouble. I feel horrible.¡±


    A tear escaped Pamela¡¯s eye and rolled down half her cheek, leaving a trail of mascara in its wake. She brushed it away with the palm of her hand.


    I wanted to continue to be mean to her for a while, as I felt she deserved it, but only a jerk would be a jerk to a woman who was already crying. It is like kicking someone when they¡¯re down. It¡¯s simply not done.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that,¡± I lied, but in a much gentler tone of voice. I saw her head lift hopefully.


    ¡°Yeah, it is a bad situation,¡± she spoke between sniffles.


    ¡°So what are you going to do?¡± I asked.


    She looked into my eyes as if sizing up the moment.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s the thing. I was sort of hoping that you could call your father and explain¡­¡±


    I didn¡¯t catch the rest because I had burst out laughing.

 Ch. 15 - An Alaskan Getaway

    It was the day I was to depart Los Angeles for my next Grensfeld Industries appearance.  Grensfeld had scheduled me to appear in a video with a pipeline inspection team to be filmed above the polar circle in Alaska.


    I prepared for the trip, following my standard routine of ritualized dread, but there was also something energizing me, counteracting the negative feelings.  This trip was unique.


    My bodyguard Jim needed to attend a wedding, which conflicted with my trip''s schedule, so Emily hired temporary Alaskan security for me.  I would meet the local bodyguards there.  That meant it would only be Reggie and me jetting off to the great north.


    But I had other plans for Reggie.


    What Reggie didn¡¯t know¡­what no one knew¡­was that it was finally my Independence Day, the day of my big break.  Everything was carefully planned.  I was going to disappear from the face of the earth and live free again.


    Sadly, Reggie couldn¡¯t come along.  It was time for the two of us to part company.  I would bitterly miss waking up to tumblers of hot coffee that he prepared and left by my bed, but it had to be.  I would be boarding an airplane bound for Alaska as planned, but I needed Reggie to remain behind in Los Angeles.


    Please understand that I felt horrible for doing it, but when Reggie wasn¡¯t looking, I slipped a plastic baggie containing a quarter-inch of powdered sugar into his jacket pocket, immediately before he passed through the passenger security screening at the airport.


    Moments later, I gathered my things, having waltzed through my security screening without incident, and began to walk to the gate.  Behind me, I heard Reggie calling out in shock and protest as a growing crowd of security officials took an interest in him.


    I took my seat on the airplane and was relieved to see the cabin door eventually close with no Reggie aboard.  I was alone, free of my keepers.  I shifted nervously in my seat throughout the flight, mentally rehearsing my next moves.


    After landing in Anchorage and making my way past the final security checkpoint on the way out of the airport, I spotted the two men Emily had hired to serve as my temporary bodyguards.  Even if one of them hadn¡¯t been holding a sign with my name on it, I would have identified the pair immediately.  The first was the Jim type.  The guy looked like an advertisement for protein shakes.  He was all muscle.  The other was small and alert.  He looked feral.  He was holding the sign.


    I feigned a move toward the waiting bodyguards, then took off at a sprint down the airport terminal.  The men gave chase, after a brief pause, bewildered by the turn of events.


    We began to draw the attention of airport employees as we ran through the terminal.  I heard one woman calling over the radio for security assistance.


    In my planning, this part of the escape had gone smoothly.  I had pictured myself being able to creep stealthily away from the airport.  In reality, the situation was disastrous.


    My heart was pounding in my chest.  Not only did it look like my plan was going to fail, but I was beginning to think I might get myself arrested or even shot if security got jumpy.


    Out of further terminal to run through, I waited an eternity for a set of automatic double doors to open widely enough for me to squeeze through.  Once outside, I scanned my surroundings to formulate a plan.  I began to race forward across the lanes of traffic, peeking over my shoulder to see how close my pursuers were getting.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    In fifty feet there was a parking garage structure I could duck into, but until reaching it I would be completely out in the open.


    I heard one of the bodyguards exiting the terminal.  He was not far behind me.


    Suddenly, a black Cadillac Escalade sped past, only to come to a screeching halt directly in my path, blocking me.  I froze.


    The rear passenger door opened.  A figure inside shouted, ¡°Get in!¡±


    I was having trouble processing what I was seeing.  I hurriedly jumped in and slammed the door shut behind me.  The vehicle lurched forward and we raced away from the scene.


    I stared at my fellow passenger in complete shock.


    ¡°Pater?¡± I gasped.


    ¡°Are you surprised to see me, child?¡± my father prodded, wearing a self-satisfied grin.


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand.  What are you doing here?¡±


    ¡°I came to save you, child.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean by ''to save me?¡±


    ¡°Your goal is to disappear today, right?¡±


    I was stunned.


    ¡°How do you know that?¡±


    ¡°Reggie has been on my payroll for some time.  He alerted me that you had bolted.  I was in the northwest on business, so I was able to jet to Alaska before you.¡±


    My assistant Reggie was a rat?  He worked for my father?  That made me feel slightly better about what I had done to him with the baggie of powdered sugar, but I was still feeling guilty.


    ¡°Is Reggie o.k.?¡± I asked sheepishly.


    ¡°What you did to him was devious, cruel, and self-serving.  I¡¯m very proud of you.  But, yes, he is fine.  The authorities determined his innocence quickly enough, and the generous bonus I paid him will ensure his silence regarding the rubber glove incident.¡±


    My father beamed, radiating self-satisfaction.


    ¡°So I repeat my question,¡± he spoke, ¡°do you want to disappear?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but from you too,¡± I pointed out.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be ungrateful, Terrence,¡± my father chastised me.  ¡°I will free you from Dave Elmer, and that¡¯s all that matters.¡±


    No.  It was the only thing that mattered to my father.  But arguing with him was pointless.


    We drove some distance to an empty field where a running helicopter was waiting.  Climbing in and taking off, we set a course into the Alaskan interior.


    For most of the flight, my father was expounding at length about my livestream¡¯s performance, and the positive effect it was having on his whiskey distillery investment.


    When he finally paused to breathe, I jumped into the conversation to plead Pamela¡¯s case.  (However I felt about her, I didn¡¯t want to see my father spread even more misery in the world, after all.)


    ¡°You realize that you are ruining Pamela¡¯s life by causing so much tension between her parents, right?¡± I challenged him.


    ¡°Who is Pamela?¡±


    ¡°Come off it, Pater.  I know you¡¯re investing in her film.  I know that you''re the money behind Cloutbus.  I know all of it.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t know about Reggie,¡± he gloated.


    My father pondered the situation for a moment.


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you what.  Thanks to your freakish popularity, my McDunn Whiskey investment has paid off handsomely.  To make you happy, I might be willing to unload my stake.  But there is something I would want from you first.¡±


    ¡°I want you to appear at GoblinFest, in Milwaukee,¡± he explained.  ¡°It¡¯s the launch of McDunn¡¯s football season marketing campaign.  The festival should drive the distillery¡¯s valuation much higher.  That would be the right time to cash out anyway.¡±


    ¡°So that¡¯s my offer.  If you¡¯ll agree to appear at GoblinFest, I¡¯ll sell my stake in McDunn¡¯s after it¡¯s over.  And without my financial backing, McDunn¡¯s won¡¯t be able to afford to expand Cloutbus, who will pull their offer on Dave¡¯s house.  All your problems will go away.¡±


    I was stunned by his lack of awareness.


    ¡°My problems will most certainly not ¡®go away.¡¯  Thanks to you, I am stuck in a conservatorship, remember?  But it would make Pamela¡¯s life easier.¡±


    ¡°Is it a deal?¡± my father pressed me for an immediate answer.


    I agreed to his terms.  I wanted to ask what I was supposed to do at this GoblinFest of his, imagining I would find my responsibilities quite degrading, but I ran out of time.


    It was at this point that a beefy member of the helicopter flight crew approached me and began to strap a harness around my torso.  I struggled to act cool, but I had a sinking feeling, one soon confirmed when my father said goodbye, and I was heaved out the open door of the helicopter to be lowered to the ground, dangling by a cable, in a small gap between the trees.


    I closed my eyes and imagined being at home in bed until my feet hit the ground and I found myself surrounded by men working for my father who had been waiting for me.  Signaling my safe arrival to the crew in the chopper, the men led me off through the forest to my hideout while the helicopter retrieved its dangling cable, and then flew away.

 Ch. 16 - Staying Under The Rock

    At the far western end of Lake Aleknagik, some miles up the Wood River from Dillingham Alaska, there is a spot where the dense brush is clustered quite close to the water¡¯s edge. If you come ashore and enter this tangle, you will encounter a hidden game trail which leads away from the lake, winding its way up a steep slope.


    One frigid early-winter evening, two men were navigating the game trail in the darkness, rifles slung over their shoulders. The beams of light from their headlamps swept eerily over the dark, empty woods surrounding them.


    The only sound was the crunch of freshly fallen powder under their snowshoes.


    The man in front froze, gave a signal with his arm, then crouched down, his weapon at the ready. The second man did the same.


    Forty feet ahead, a large bull moose crashed forcefully out of the thick brush lining the trail. Pausing, it turned its head to look at the men, then plunged into the brush on the opposite side. The men sat and listened to the receding sound of breaking branches as the huge animal wandered ever farther away from them into the inky darkness. Then the men stood and resumed their progress.


    Nearing the summit of the ridge, the man in front stopped.


    ¡°That¡¯s it,¡± he whispered to the second man. ¡°That¡¯s the cabin.¡±


    The second man took his time inspecting the scene before him. He gave instructions to the first man.


    ¡°Go around back and make sure nobody escapes out a window,¡± he instructed him quietly.


    After waiting until the first man had gotten into position, the second man hunched over and hurried from the wood line to the cabin¡¯s side wall, his progress somewhat hampered by the snow.


    Reaching cover, he unfastened his snowshoes. He gingerly placed a foot on the first step of the stairs leading up to the cabin¡¯s front deck. The wood creaked under his weight. He froze.


    Sensing nothing which would indicate his presence had been detected by whomever was inside, the man slowly continued to climb, before dropping to his hands and knees to crawl across the deck toward the front door, staying out of sight of the front window.


    Taking several deep breaths, he turned the doorknob, pleased to find there was no lock. He gathered himself for a moment then threw the door open, lowering his rifle to aim inside. But he was disoriented.


    It was as if he had stepped into a warehouse of snack foods. Metal shelf after metal shelf was stacked floor to ceiling with bags of Doritos.


    In the right rear corner of the room, he saw a scraggly looking young man crouched down on the floor trembling, aiming a flare gun at the door, a bag of Doritos spilling onto the floor at his side.


    ¡°Terrence, It¡¯s me!¡± the man at the door shouted. ¡°Don¡¯t shoot!¡±


    In reply, he heard Terrence¡¯s confused voice address him.


    ¡°Jim?¡±


    They both lowered their respective weapons.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to bring you home, Terrence,¡± Jim announced.


    ¡°Then you wasted your time because I¡¯m not leaving,¡± I huffed.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Thirty minutes later, I was on a skiff putting slowly across an Alaskan lake in the darkness, alongside Jim and someone who turned out to be a local guide he had hired.


    The following afternoon, I was on an airplane, touching down at LAX airport in Los Angeles.


    By dinner time I was getting out of a limousine, and entering my Hollywood Hills home. The actors pretending to be my friends had stayed late to welcome me, which was touching. I¡¯m pretty sure they weren¡¯t even getting paid extra. I was right back in the thick of things.


    While I was literally ¡®out of the picture¡¯ for three weeks, my father had relied on Pamela to keep the livestream going. She had leveraged the house¡¯s reputation, and now the house had graduated from attracting D-list celebrities to attracting C-list celebrities, a huge win in the social network game, while also allowing Pamela to cultivate an invaluable set of industry contacts.


    Honestly, the new set of minor celebrities who were visiting the house made me feel extremely uncomfortable. While I have never considered myself ugly¡ªmerely average¡ªbeing in the presence of so many television-friendly faces made me feel like a bug who crawled out from under a rock, only to encounter an entire ecosystem full of better looking insect species. Sometimes you¡¯re better off just staying under the rock. The truth can be painful.


    I soon found myself attending a book club meeting once again, as my neighbors had been kind enough not to remove me from the mailing list and I was craving sugar.


    We were deep into discussion of the week¡¯s novel when an awful noise slowly became audible. At first, I thought the source was one of those old fashioned music-playing ice cream trucks. But there was no real tune. Instead, blaring out over loudspeakers every ten seconds, a strangely autotuned voice kept repeating, ¡°Don¡¯t forget to like and subscribe!¡±


    We all rose in unison, and walked to the picture window, looking down the street in the direction of my house for the source of the racket. And then we saw it. The CloutBus.


    It was a party bus covered with a custom wrap featuring pictures of influencers, emoji graphics, hashtags, and phrases like ¡°#LivingMyBestLife¡± and ¡°Follow for Follow!¡±


    I watched in horror as the vehicle stopped in front of my house, and a wiry guy wearing a sleeveless hoodie which read ¡°Ask about my merch!¡± sprang off the bus holding a selfie stick.


    ¡°People, people, let¡¯s go,¡± he called out, following which a deluge of teens poured onto the street, grinning like mad in their excitement. He began to address the toothy crowd.


    ¡°Listen up! As you know, my channel almost made it big before the algorithm turned on me, but that didn¡¯t happen for the influencer in this house. Terrence doesn¡¯t do a thing to work on his brand, and subscribers seem to flock to him. The algorithm rewards him for nothing. It is a perfect illustration of the good creators getting squashed by the bad ones. But here we are in this unfair world, and here you are at Terrence¡¯s house. Go get yourself some likes!¡±


    With that, a dozen livestreams were launched, as each of the teenagers strained to make it seem unimaginably glamorous to be standing in the street in front of my house, so they could lord the experience over their classmates back home. A large ring style light rose from an enclosure atop the bus, and began to flash randomly, simulating the effect of paparazzi photography to enhance the feeling of excitement.


    The wiry guy in charge was filming himself in a yoga pose when I saw the front door of my house open. My bodyguard Jim¡¯s face popped out to investigate the noisy happenings.


    All the teenagers let out a deafening shriek of excitement, thinking it might be a C-List celebrity walking outside. Even from a distance, I could see Jim¡¯s horrified expression. It amused me.


    It amused my neighbors less. I knew they held me responsible for the shameful thing which had just paid our street a visit. My presence no longer seemed universally welcomed. Sensing I was bringing unwanted disorder to the sanctity of the neighborhood book club, I waited for the CloutBus to eventually load up and crawl off into the distance¡ªstill loudly pleading the public for likes¡ªthen took my leave of the group, slinking back home, hoping there wasn¡¯t a CloutBus2 around the corner.


    Inside my house, the atmosphere was unsettled. The recent experience had clearly disquieted the herd of minor celebrities, and they were restless. Soon enough, they hoofed it, trying to avoid an experience so brand-damaging as being seen anywhere that a monstrosity like the CloutBus would visit.


    Practically alone in my house¡ªsave for Jim, Pamela, Reggie, a few of my paid friends, and a sole holdout D-List celebrity who believed that ¡®any press is good press¡¯¡ªI relished the new peace and quiet.


    The livestream viewers apparently did not share my satisfaction. They began to disconnect in droves. I learned this when Pamela¡¯s phone began to buzz repeatedly.


    ¡°It your father,¡± she told me. ¡°He doesn¡¯t seem happy. Viewership is tanking.¡±


    I waited, sighing.


    And then my phone rang.

 Ch. 17 - Terrence Gets a Sweet Offer

    ¡°That¡¯s not possible. I put that project on hold,¡± my father protested over the telephone.


    ¡°Apparently not,¡± I observed. ¡°The CloutBus is tragically real and rolling around Los Angeles.¡±


    There was a long pause.


    My father growled, ¡°McDunn. This has to be his doing. What a stubborn fool.¡±


    ¡°He did this completely against my wishes,¡± my father continued. ¡°The man is poisoning his own well. We need your channel to stay popular until GoblinFest. And now it¡¯s all at risk.¡±


    ¡°Ut sementem feceris, ita metes,¡± I observed.


    I heard him sigh.


    ¡°I¡¯ll remind you that quoting Cicero to me won¡¯t help sell any whiskey. And if I don¡¯t sell any whiskey, our deal is off. I won¡¯t sell my stake in the distillery for a loss, so you might end up living with the CloutBus for a long time.¡±


    ¡°So why don¡¯t you just rein in McDunn,¡± I counseled, growing concerned. ¡°Don¡¯t you own the distillery?¡±


    ¡°Not a majority stake, no,¡± my father confessed.


    I found myself smiling. The only positive aspect of this mess was that my father¡¯s schemes were being unraveled, which warmed my heart.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what to tell you. No celebrities are going to come near this place while that rolling abomination is prowling the neighborhood. And the channel only gets more popular when I¡¯m not on it. So I have nothing to offer.¡±


    ¡°What did you say?¡± my father asked, causing me to wonder about his mental state.


    ¡°I said I have nothing to¡­¡± I repeated, before being cut off.


    ¡°Offer! Sweet Offer!¡± he shouted. ¡°A collaboration. That¡¯s the way out. It¡¯s perfect. Look, I¡¯ve got to go. But you need to prepare your house to host a concert, o.k.?¡±


    ¡°A concert?¡± I cried out. ¡°There is absolutely no way that¡­¡±


    The call ended. Perhaps Emily had taught him some tricks.


    I pulled out my phone and looked up Sweet Offer. The name turned out to be the pseudonym of an influencer who played Death Metal on his guitar at an incredible speed. The resulting sound wasn¡¯t musical so much as cacophonous. But he was on tour, happened to be in Los Angeles for the week, and was apparently immensely popular.


    Now, if my father had any say in things, Sweet Offer¡¯s fans ¡ª who creepily called themselves ¡®the offerings¡¯ ¡ª were about to converge on my house. I gave serious thought to making another run for it, maybe out of the country this time. I had no wish to join what sounded like a rock cult.


    Honestly, I believed ¡ª and I continue to believe ¡ª that I could do much better than winding up as one of ¡®the offerings¡¯ if I ever decide to shop for a cult. I would only join a cult that would grant me some sort of priesthood status right from the start, like a signing bonus. Skip the servitude and the chanting and get straight to the corruption, that¡¯s what I say.


    I was pulled from my ruminations by another phone call. It was Emily this time.


    ¡°Hello?¡± I asked, bracing myself for even more awful news.


    ¡°Hi,¡± Emily greeted me, before launching in, ¡°I need to talk to you about something. You know your father just managed to get Sweet Offer to agree to a collab with your channel, right? Oh, you didn¡¯t? Now you do.¡±


    ¡°Well, to get him to agree, your father had to tell Sweet Offer that he could move into your house for the week.¡±


    After a pause, she added, ¡°With his crew.¡±


    I felt a weariness someone my age shouldn¡¯t feel.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to receive a two hundred thousand dollar payment in exchange. I¡¯m not sure about this Death Metal rebrand of your channel, but it should be quite lucrative for you. Good luck. You¡¯ll do quite well off of this, either way.¡±


    ¡°My home is about to become the gathering place for a cult and you think I¡¯m going to do well? Are you¡­¡±


    Emily had hung up.


    It wasn¡¯t long before a crew of movers began to take away my furniture and set up a stage, with professional lighting and sound. I looked on with grave concern. It all looked very loud. I did not want to annoy my nice neighbors¡­except for Dave and Bitsy.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    Halfway through the setup, a few vans pulled up out front. The total amount of black denim on the property increased dramatically. Sweet Offer had arrived. He appeared to have brought a Doc Martens fan club with him. I would soon learn his companions were other Death Metal standouts forming a sort of YouTube all-star band, who had agreed to go on a short tour together.


    I noted that they all seemed to have a vendetta against sleeves, having ripped them off the various t-shirts they were wearing. Normally, I associate the sleeveless look with gym rats enthralled with their massive arms. But the musicians¡¯ arms were of the sad, pale, and twiggy ilk.


    At least in the case of Sweet Offer himself, the fashion statement made sense. Even short sleeves would have covered up his tattoo of a skull eating another skull.


    ¡°I¡¯m Bob,¡± Sweet Offer addressed me, after approaching and offering his hand.


    I blinked in shock, then shook his hand.


    ¡°Did you say ¡®Bob?¡¯¡±


    Sweet Offer laughed.


    ¡°I get that reaction a lot. I¡¯m actually a logistics manager for a national freight hauler. The music is just for fun.¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯m Larry,¡± said a guy with a Mohawk haircut, giving me a friendly smile while shaking my hand. ¡°I go by KillerZombie online. And, in case you¡¯re wondering - yes, I am the Larry who was in BloodThirst, from 2017 to mid-2018, the band¡¯s legendary period.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s an IT manager in real life,¡± Sweet Offer added.


    And so it went. I met the tatted-up drummer with the giant nose ring, who was a real estate appraiser, and the bassist with heavy eyeliner and a spiked leather collar, who served as a high-end events planner. Everyone was perfectly nice, acting highly apologetic for intruding on me in my home, seemingly very grateful to be collaborating.


    I was having a bit of difficulty processing it all. On the surface, the musicians looked mildly dangerous, in a Sid Vicious kind of way. But beneath the group¡¯s nihilistic facade lay a tiny chapter of the Elks club. The experience of meeting the death metal virtuosos was very far from what I had been expecting.


    ¡°You have a beautiful house. We are really happy to be streaming from here. Thank you so much for inviting us.¡±


    They were treating me with a deference with which I am unaccustomed. Nobody ever defers to me. It was weird. I suddenly realized that in the bizarre social media world they inhabited, I was a genuine ¡®somebody.¡¯ They were so excited about the one thing I disliked the most¡­my notoriety.


    ¡°No problem,¡± I lied encouragingly. ¡°This will be¡­great.¡±


    The musicians set up their kit while I had my bodyguard Jim coordinate with some off-duty LAPD officers who had shown up, having been hired for extra security. Then the fans began to arrive. My street was clogged with cars. I could scarcely imagine what the book club members must have been thinking, with the mess I was creating for everyone. I wouldn¡¯t blame the ladies if I was never given a catered pastry again. They were entitled to sugar shun me. I deserved it.


    To my relief, I learned that the audience size had been restricted to fifty, as my house began to fill up with the offerings. City codes serve a purpose.


    Then, the lights dimmed.


    A hush fell over the crowd as Sweet Offer appeared at the top of my staircase. He was shirtless, his torso painted with dripping black runes. He raised a hand and let out a primal scream.


    ¡°Offerings!¡± he bellowed, his voice bouncing off the vaulted ceiling. ¡°Are you ready to descend into the abyss?¡±


    The crowd roared back.


    He began his descent, each step punctuated by dramatic gestures, ranging from devil horns to finger guns. By the time he reached the bottom, someone had already fainted.


    I watched him prance past two tough thirty-something-year-old women whose fishnet stockings were quite frankly being asked to do too much. Tough or not, the two women clearly adored Sweet Offer.


    I wondered if any of his fellow employees at the freight company ever came to his shows. I thought it would be incredibly awkward to face ¡®Bob¡¯ at a Monday morning planning meeting to review shipping schedules after seeing him lunge around making faces and singing about annihilation as Sweet Offer over the weekend. I would call in sick the entire following week to avoid experiencing that level of awkwardness.


    He reached the low stage and climbed up. He raised his arms to silence the crowd.


    He introduced the band, as they joined him onstage.


    ¡°Tonight,¡± he growled, ¡°we offer up our souls to the altar of sound. Are you ready?¡±


    Then he brought his strumming hand crashing down over his guitar and began to play¡­at what seemed to be the highly crowd-pleasing tempo of five hundred beats per minute. He played a full concert¡¯s worth of notes every thirty seconds.


    I may not have been ¡®an offering,¡¯ but I still felt like my sanity was being sacrificed. I found the sonic assault painful. I edged away from the crowd and made a beeline to my room.


    I could hear Sweet Offer launching into his signature song ¡®Blood is Thicker Than Whiskey¡¯ when a competing noise arose.


    ¡°Don¡¯t forget to like and subscribe,¡± I heard a voice intone over a loudspeaker.


    Of all times, that was when the CloutBus had to arrive. It was unfortunate. My metal-loving guests were not pleased.


    The guide from earlier, still wearing his ¡°Ask About My Merch¡± sleeveless hoodie, sprang from the CloutBus¡¯ open door. Suddenly, he heard screams emerge from those still onboard. Confused, the guide looked up into the windows to see the teenage passengers pointing behind him in terror. His blood ran cold.


    It was no ordinary celebrity sighting. Perhaps a celebrity criminal sighting?


    The guide spun around to see five bulky non-celebrities wearing camo pants and army boots ¡ª anxious to express their disapproval of the racket the CloutBus was making ¡ª striding rapidly across the lawn in his direction.


    The guide let out a terrified shriek and bounded back onto the bus, screaming, ¡°Drive! Drive!¡±


    The ponderous vehicle eased its way into motion and disappeared slowly up the street as the Sweet Offer fans who chased it off laughed with great amusement.


    Shortly thereafter, I received a text message from Pamela, who had made herself scarce when things turned metal.


    ¡°How do u do it? This is the #1 night your channel has ever had. Maybe you¡¯re not ¡®Mr. Beast¡¯ but you are at least ¡®a beast.¡¯¡±


    Her message was followed by a few emojis (which I categorically refuse to transcribe, as I do not wish to contribute to the further degradation of society.)


    Never one to offer something without taking something in return, Pamela followed up by texting me the question, ¡°Have you had any ideas about my problem? With my parents¡¯ marriage?¡±


    I was floored. Even given my insanely busy schedule ¡ª with which she was quite familiar mind you ¡ª this foolish person thought I had time to sit and ponder how a crotchety old man who hated my guts could save his marriage.


    ¡°I¡¯m still thinking about it,¡± I let Pamela go with a friendly lie.