In a laundromat.
During a heatwave.
I watched a cowboy-type addicted to cellphone games play until he lost.
And he did lose.
Ran out of health or fuel tokens for his racecar.
Something.
It doesn’t matter.
Soon.
Right after he finished bursting all his fingers.
He picked back up his phone and scrolled until he found something else to pass the time.
I watched, over his shoulder 6-minute video: the thirteen simple hackz to generational wealth & happiness that you’re probably missing.
Rule 2 was honesty wins you honest business.
Rule 3 was honest business wins you an honest life.
Rule 5 was to find a wife that will always back you, always. An “always-wife.”
Rule 9 was spiritual success begets financial success.
And Rule 13––the most important rule––was, “Real estate! Real estate! Real estate!”
So.
I convinced my extended family to buy 115 houses.
Properties.
Homes.
We called them all those things in our investment packet.
One of the cousins drank all the Moscato and called them “Villas” at our shareholder retreat in Aunt Rachel’s backyard. The entirety of the wife’s side of the family had a good laugh about that. “Villas!” they chanted and laughed and chanted. “Villas!” “Villas!”
The houses were all under $12,000 and located in parts of America I had never been to and never planned on going. Places with names like Holtsville, East Knob, and Cotton Hill.
My PayPal account started faulting around house #67.
My phone grew hot in my hand.
I took that as a sign of spiritual success.
Mom texted, “You’re my son and I am proud of you.”
My brother, Ed, sent a lowercase email: “maybe the houses are buying you?”
My long-estranged sister, Donna Lee, mailed a postcard that said, “each house is a tooth in the jaw of your chin.” And then a second letter, some weeks later, “Still here. Still waiting.” I printed them out and taped them above my rice cooker.
Soon, I started naming the houses to feel closer to them.
House 12 became “Fuzzed-Up Homies.”
House 28 was “Maybe Dad.”
House 59 was just “ : ) ” and I never wanted to know why.
A spreadsheet tracked their status: condemned, structurally confused, fentanyl den (suspected), fentanyl den (confirmed). I never visited any of them. I imagined them like pets, lounging in the western sun. I didn’t want to bother them; I didn’t want them to bother me.
But things happen.
One got struck by lightning and the charred photo in the report made me weep.
Another was filled with dog kennels and meat-packed mannequins, which, after a long Google search, I learned is apparently how you train fighting-dogs to fight harder.
Someone turned House 83 into a “non-traditional church,” and they emailed to thank me for the vibes and providing a “sanctuary for the destitute and lost.” I replied with a gif of a melting snowman.
House 6 hurt someone but not on purpose.
That happened in Empire, Michigan.
Every now and then a city planner or bank or spirit medium would call and ask, “What are you doing?” and I’d say, “I don’t know, but it’s honest.”
Eventually my wife published a blog post titled: Buying 115 Houses Is a Poem About Loneliness You Can Live In.”
Donna Lee mailed me a box of dirt labeled “yard samples from your rotting tooth empire.” The letter smelled like radio parts. Cornstalk. Toppled beer.
Later.
Months later, after my wife had moved in with her sister, Mom texted, “Donna married an oil lawyer.” And then sent a link to a podcast where Donna Lee described each house based only on its address and a randomly selected Tarot card.
I listened while cleaning my single apartment.
The segment about House 91 made me sit on the floor and stare at nothing until dark.
Eventually.
The city of Holtsville offered me $495 to take one of the houses back. House 17. I accepted. I used the money and then some more money to book a ticket. I went there. The air tasted like it had expired. Or like Dr Pepper. Or maybe both of those things; a Dr Pepper, which had drifted to the bottom of the lakebed, only to be opened at some point in the near or distant future. That’s the way the air tasted.
I coughed.
I covered my mouth.
A cat stared at me like it knew how this story ended.
The door to House 17 wouldn’t open, so I sat on the porch.
I kept my hand over my mouth just in case the cough came back.
But it didn’t. No. It just began raining in Holtsville.
Lightly.
In this soft, joking-type way.
