We Moved Into A Perfectly Preserved 1950s House, It Won't Let Us Leave

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One little shuffle and I could have a foot in the road. Something I haven't done in over a year. Or has it been two years? Three? No, no, Mary and I moved in. No. Not Mary. Not Mary. Mia. Her fucking name is Mia and she's my wife. That part never changes at least. She was my wife when we moved in, and she's still my wife.

My name is... Fuck. No, my name isn't fuck. I mean, I can't remember right now. It does that to you. My name is... My name is... John? Not John. John isn't my name. That's the name I've been given. The name it wants me to be. have. The name that is acceptable. Because, apparently my real name isn't acceptable. Not manly enough. What the fuck is my name? Hey, can you help me grab these bags? What? I say, snapping out of it, and finally looking up from the

the curb. The curb I can't step off of. Can you help? The Instacart delivery guy asks, holding out two handfuls of grocery bags. There's a lot in here and I'm running late. Uh, sure, yeah. I say and hold out my arms. Hand them here. He looks at me. He looks at my arms. He looks down at the space between us. He looks back up at me. Then he shakes his head and walks the bags over to my waiting hands. I take the bags and say with an apology.

Sorry, new shoes, and I don't want to scuff them on the pavement. Those shoes are new? He asks, and glances at my leather loafers, my lawn shoes. They look like they're from the 70s or something. 50s, I say, making sure I correct him immediately. It doesn't like it when people get the decade wrong. There's a huge difference between the 70s and the 50s. And it is never pleased when people get it wrong. Never pleased. Easy mistake though. And the rest of your fit? Yes.

50s? Yep, I say and don't glance down at my perfectly pressed slacks, my perfectly pressed white short-sleeved button-up shirt, and my lint-free sweater vest.

No tie. It's still afternoon casual. So the house? The Instacart guy asks as he goes back to the tailgate of his Subaru to get two handfuls of grocery bags. That's the 50s too? I thought it'd be more 70s. Looks kinda like that old TV show my parents watched. What was it called? It was on Nick at Night and shit. You remember Nick at Night? Back when there was cable? The Brady Bunch, I say.

And we get that a lot. The house in the Brady Bunch was built in 1959 in the mid-century modern style. But the show was in 1969 and mainly syndicated in the 70s. so a lot of people think it was 70s architecture when it's not. The guy stares at me for a few seconds. Then he wrinkles his brow and shrugs. Okay, I'll trust you on that, he says, and lifts the bags up. Where do you want these? There are like ten more bags and I'm running late. You mentioned that.

He keeps staring. Right. Yeah, this way. I say and walk him toward the driveway. He starts to step up over the curb and onto the grass, but I shake my head. No, this way, please. We don't cross the grass until we get to the walkway, not without lawn shoes. He laughs, then sees my face stops. Oh, shit, okay, he says. Why? Is this like a museum or something? Or something, I say, and make sure he's following along the street until we reach the smooth concrete of our circular drive.

I could have taken him in the other direction, but that's the exit side of the driveway. This way is the entry side of the driveway. It is very particular about these things. He makes it to the driveway and I lead him along, skirting the perfectly manicured lawn.

to the short walkway that leads up to our front steps. Three front steps, exactly. Then we're at the front door, and I adjust the bags in my right hand so I can grip the doorknob, which is centered perfectly in the ebony door, and give it a twist.

With a smoothness, as if it had just been installed, the door whispers open onto a wide foyer with a view down the hallway to the wide back windows that look out on our perfectly manicured backyard. To the right is the step down to the living room, which has a door to

and on the far side, right next to the huge fireplace. But we keep moving forward down the hallway and turn right at the edge of the white brick wall before we reach the back windows. Now we're in the small kitchen dining area. A few more steps.

and were past the breakfast counter and in the kitchen proper. I set my bags on the counter by the sink and nod for him to set his on the counter by the refrigerator. Then I wait for the inevitable comment. Dude. The InstaGuy card said, his eyes wide. Are these the original appliances? I smile at the orange fridge, the orange double ovens set into the brick wall next to it, the orange stove top on the other side, and, lucky for us, the orange

dishwasher on the opposite side of the kitchen, next to the orange sink. Although, we still have to do most dishes by hand since they aren't dishwasher safe. Not much was back then. Yeah, original appliances, I say and try. mile. It's getting harder each day. That's so cool, he says, still holding the bags. You can put them right there, I say, hoping to move this along. There's more, right? He keeps staring at the kitchen.

running late i prod oh yeah i am he says and plops the bags on the counter i'll be right back with the rest stay on the walkway and the driveway please i say as i start to unpack the groceries and put them away his eyes narrow when he catches of the boxes in the cabinet I open. Before he can ask about the old packaging, I raise my eyebrows and say, you're gonna be late for your next delivery. Shit, yeah, he says, and slowly leaves the kitchen, his eyes flitting this way and that way.

transfixed by the style and decor. It likes when visitors do that. I fucking hate it. When the Instacart guy has gone outside, I hear the click and clack of short heels and look toward the hallway that leads to three bedrooms. Not that we need three bedrooms, since it's just Mary and... No, not Mary. Since it's just Mia and I. And I'm... Not John. Not John. Not John. Tyler? Sweetie, are you okay? Mia asks when she...

reaches me. Tyler! I exclaim and Mia jumps a little. Sorry, I couldn't remember. Shit, she says quietly. Even though it's quiet, I watch her get a zap. It doesn't like it when Mia cusses, not ladylike. It's been getting worse lately. You too? I ask her, looking her up and down. She's wearing a cobalt blue cocktail dress with deep Umbra polka dots on it. It's not...

at the bottom like it would be if we were hosting a barbecue, but sleek and hip-hugging, evening wear. Me too, Mia replies. Then she gives a little curtsy and turns slowly. You like? Is it new? Yeah. she says, her voice resigned. It was hanging in the closet this morning when I got out of the shower. Well, it's gorgeous on you. She smiles and moves in to give me a kiss on the cheek. I'll put the groceries away, she says.

Hurrying over to the bags. You go shower and shave. I already did. She looks at me, her expression blank, but her eyes pleading. All right, I say and rub my left cheek. There is some stubble there. It doesn't like stubble. I'll shower and shave and get dressed. I'll start dinner.

What time will they be here? Five sharp. And that's when we told them to be here. I say as I walk down the hallway toward the master bedroom. And it is the master bedroom. We don't dare call it the primary bedroom. It doesn't like that name. Morgan is pretty punctual, Mia says. Or she was back when we used to hang out. Yeah, I say and sigh. Back then. I leave her to finish with the groceries and step into our bedroom, closing the door behind me.

I have my shoes off, my slacks off. when I hear the screaming. I struggle to get my pants back on and race out of the bedroom. Mia is on her knees in the kitchen, her hands to her head, her eyes so wide I'm afraid the skin around her sockets will split. She screams and I race to the front door. I yank it open and see the Instacart guy walking across the grass. He looks at me like I'm crazy, which is a legit response to a crazy man standing on his front steps.

and only an undershirt and slacks while he screams at you to get off the lawn. Fucking now! I yell. The pain hits my head like a sledgehammer, but I don't let it take me down. My knees go weak, but I stay upright. I refuse to collapse outside for everyone to see. And I know they're watching. The neighbors always watch when someone new arrives in the neighborhood.

The Instacart guy hurries his ass across the lawn to the apex of the circular driveway. With every step he takes on the grass, I hear Mia inside whimper. When his shoes hit the concrete, the pain in my head stops. Just like that. Switched off. Hey, sorry man, the Instacart guy says, holding out the last of the groceries. I step off the porch and fetch the bags. He stands there and waits. Oh, right, I say and hold up the bags.

Let me set these down and get my wallet. I have to tip. That's what you do. Back then and now, you tip, but he's not going to like it. When I get back, I open my wallet and fish out a 10 and a 1. 10% exactly. Um, this is all I have, flying through my teeth as I close my wallet on the rest of the fives, tens, and twenties stuffed in there. A man always has cash on hand. He takes the ten and looks at it. Old bills, he says.

I made sure to add a good tip when I called the order, I say. Should be a good 20% there. I saw that. Thanks, he says, and lifts the 11 bucks. And this too. Nice to have a little off-the-record cash, you know. I know, I say. Good luck with the rest of your deliveries. I got two more in this neighborhood, he says. Do you know which house is the... Sorry, gotta go. I say and hurry up the steps and inside. I close the front door and lean my back against it.

I hear Mia say weakly from the kitchen. That was a bad one. It seems to be in a mood today, I say and push off from the door and walk the bags into the kitchen, setting them on the other side of the sink. I think it's nervous. Yeah, well, that makes two of us, Mia says, and slowly pulls herself to her feet using the fridge handle. This night better go well. It will, it will, I say and move to her.

I put my hands on her hips and lean into her back, resting my chin on her shoulder. I still have to shower and shave, I say. Are you okay to make dinner? I'm good, she says and presses her cheek against mine. Not like I have to do much. True, I say and step back. What are we trying to make tonight? Tofu curry with rice, she says, looking at the grocery bags. So we'll see. Curry was a thing in the 50s, right? Wasn't it part of the exotic fad that was all the rage? But not tofu.

It'll change it, like always. I hate it when it does that. A little zap hits my head. but goes away quickly. Can't criticize the cuisine now, can we? Uh, yeah. Curry was a thing. There was a name to it that escapes me, she says. But we'll find out at dinner. We always do, I say as I walk out of the kitchen.

I'll be out soon. Luckily, there's no screaming while I shower, shave, and get dressed. This time I'm in black slacks, a white, long-sleeved shirt with a black straight tie, and a casual black jacket. dinner with friends, nothing formal, so no tux. Thank God. I hate tying bow ties and clip-ons are not allowed in our house. Those are for the 70s. The kitchen smells incredible and actually like tofu curry. Except I know there won't be any tofu in the dish.

Is it going to work? I ask Mia as she washes some lettuce in the sink. I hope so, she says. It's called Country Captain. It's an old southern recipe for butter chicken that dates back to the 1800s. but became popular again in the 1950s. Did you follow a recipe? I ask, and go to open the oven. Don't, she says. I don't want to jinx it. I let my hand fall away and nod to her.

You're probably right, I say. Then I scrunch up my face and add, Are we going to address the elephant in the room? That Morgan is vegan? A nasty zap of pain slices through my mind and I wince. I can see from Mia's face that she got zapped. Yeah, that. I reply, not wanting to say the vegan word out loud again and risk a stronger zap. I'm going to tell her it is, Mia says and shrugs. You think she'll buy it? I think so. She's so self-spoken.

that she believes what she wants regardless. True. Blaine used to eat out of the garbage in college, so he will buy anything I say.

and look at each other, our eyes filled with cautious hope. Do you think this will work? It has to, because I'm not sure how much more I can take, Mary says. I grunt and shake my head. What's wrong? Your name. I reply and rub my temples. It's been getting harder to keep it straight. I'm Mia, not Mary, she says and moves to me, putting her hand on my chest. You're Tyler, not John. It's only a small zap. Well worth it to hear our names out loud.

I ask and look around. Mia and Tyler would never live like this. We thought we could at first, Mia replies. We thought it would be retro cool and fun. Yeah, well, that was before. I let the words fall away and she nods. I know, I know, she says and turns away. I need to get dessert prepped. You want some help? I ask. It's okay to ask. No zaps for asking. You know I'd love it. But how about you put on a record and get the drink started? She suggested.

Don't pour until five. Not making that mistake again, I say, leaning in to give her a peck on the cheek.

Cocktail hour begins at 5 and not a minute sooner. I walk out of the kitchen, but go the opposite direction of the hallway. The left side of the kitchen opens out onto the left side of the living room. Two steps down, and I'm by our white brick fireplace. place that takes up the entire east wall. A quick turn to my right, and the wet bar is waiting for me.

Bottles of gin and vodka stand tall. No bourbon because that's a drunk's drink. I really miss good bourbon. Gin, however, has never been my thing. Until here, that is. Before I go over the bar supplies, I move... the entertainment console by the bar, lift the entire top lid and sigh down at the turntable. The record is already loaded and ready to go. I start up the turntable, but keep the volume low. When I don't get a zap, I sigh again. Glad it doesn't want the music to be front and center.

Then I checked the bar to make sure we have lemons and olives for the martinis, and limes and tonic water for the G&Ts. The vermouth stands alone by the mixers, even though it's alcohol too, but not real alcohol like gin or vodka. The soda bottle is next to the vermouth and I pick it up, carrying it into the kitchen so I can fill it at the sink. Do we have enough cartridges? Mary, Mia asks. I forgot to check earlier and put those on the grocery list.

I glance at the cupboards where they are all stowed away in their proper places. I know if I open those cupboards, there won't be modern packaging for any of the brands we ordered. Shit, even some of the brands will have disappeared and been replaced by old brands that don't exist anymore. I get a kick out of the Ritz crackers box every time I see it.

Reminds me of old pictures of my parents when they were kids at their grandparents' houses. But what I wouldn't give for some flaming hot Cheetos. I'm lucky if the bags in the cupboards are a different flavor than just plain potato chips. Once in a while, we'll get hers barbecue flavor, but we have to have been good that week. It rewards us when we play along. I shake my head and say, I think we have a whole box of cartridges under the bar.

Oh, good. Mia says. We smile at each other, then I head back to the bar for my pre-hosting duties. I set the soda bottle down on the bar, then squat down to open the cupboard below. I make sure to grab my slacks and hike them up at the thighs so my shirt doesn't ride up to show my ass. It hates it even when the waistband of my boxers appears. I find the small cardboard box of nitrous cartridges and stand up, smoothing out my clothes when I'm upright. It doesn't like wrinkles either.

With one hand I hold the soda bottle and with the other, I fish out a cartridge from the box, slide it into the metal key, then screw the key and cartridge into the top of the soda bottle. When the end is pierced, I hear the satisfying sound of the gas entering the bottle. turning the plain tap water into soda water.

I remove the key, pluck out the spent cartridge, and set them both on the bar. The doorbell rings and I freeze. It's a long ding. They're early, Mary says as she comes around the corner, a dish towel in her hands. Shit. Zap. You okay? I ask her. It was a small one, she says, then hurries back into the kitchen. Stall them as much as you can until the clock hits five. I know, I know, I say. I've got this.

I check myself in the long mirror above the bar. Jacket is smooth, shirt is tucked in, tie is straight. Good to go. Then I head to the front door, pause as I take a deep breath and open it wide. Hey there, you two. I say in a suave voice, trying for Dean Martin. of wine he pats my shoulder and eases by so morgan can follow hi tyler morgan says and offers her

then move out of her way so she can come in. Then I take a quick glance outside. I can see the neighbors across the street on their porch, watching me. With a quick nod to them, I shut the door. I'll do that, sweetheart, Mary says, walking into the hallway from the kitchen, her arms outstretched. You open the wine, please. Of course, I say and walk into the living room, setting the wine on the bar.

A quick glance at the starburst clock that hangs over the fireplace tells me I have exactly one minute before I can get to work.

I look busy and silently count the seconds off in my head. This place always amazes me, Blaine says as he walks down into the living room and over to me. I mean, you two really went with the authentic look. We sorta had to. I say then cough and add, you can't mess with a piece of history like this. No, you cannot, Blaine says then nods at the bar. What we drinking? The wine I brought is outstanding, by the way. A glass of that would be great. I have had a day, let me tell you, man.

How about a martini? I suggest. Gin or vodka? He frowns at me for a moment, blinks, then shrugs. Um, yeah, sure. Vodka, please. Dry? Lemon twist or olive. Or we might have cocktail onions in the fridge. He watches me make the martini, pour it in a spotless martini glass and hand it over to him. I watch him take a sip. He says, smiling as he smacks his lips.

It might even be the best I've ever had. I get a lot of practice, I say, and then watch Morgan and Mary. Morgan and Mia step into the living room. Babe, you have to taste this, Blaine says and holds out his martini. Tyler fucking... Nailed it. I see Mia wince as we lock eyes. I'm in a red mood, babe, Morgan says. Pour me a glass of that. How about martinis before dinner? And we serve the wine with the meal, Mary suggests. Fuck. Mia, Mia, Mia, Mia. Not Mary.

The wine will go great with the chicken curry, I say. What's the name of the dish again, sweetie? Country captain, Mia replies. It's like butter chicken. Olive oil? Tofu? Morgan asks, her eyes suddenly narrowed. Um, no. I used coconut cream instead of butter. And the chicken is from that brand that makes the fake burger meat.

Her lie is at the ready. Doesn't that have eggs in it? Blaine asks and sips his martini again. Fuck me, Ty. This is so fucking good. If this all works out, Blaine will have to work on that mouth of his. Okay, let me try it. Morgan says and holds her hand out. She snaps impatiently. Babe, gimme gimme. It won't like that from her either. Blaine hands Morgan his martini and she sips. Oh shit, Ty. This is good. She says and snaps her finger.

me but i want a lemon twist please and gin will it still taste as good of course i say it'd make a big flourish with my hands let the maestro get to work sweetie same as morgan mary says I mix the two drinks and hand them the glasses, then get to making my martini. Gin, very dry, three olives. Thank you, John, Mary says. John? Blaine asks and laughs. You two role-playing tonight?

That's our little joke, Mia says quickly. John and Mary, the perfect 1950s couple. In the perfect 1950s house, Morgan says and raises her glass. I'll make the toast, I say and shrug. Man of the house and all that. Blaine and Morgan share a look and I wince inside. Too much, too fast. Um, to old friends and a bright future. I say and lift my glass. To old friends and bright futures. Blaine, Morgan, and, and.

Um, um, Mary? Yeah, Mary says. They all say. Yeah, they all say. We clink glasses, signifying the evening has begun. Sit, Mary says and gestures to the couch. I'll bring out the appetizers. Hors d'oeuvres, sweetie, I say. Keep it classy. My mistake, sweetheart, she says and hurries into the kitchen. Need some help? Blaine asks before he sits down. Nope, nope, she's got it.

I say and wave my hand at him. Sit, sit. They sit on the couch and look around the house. Remarkable, Morgan says. Every little detail is perfect. It must have taken you months to find all these pieces. I say. It's all original. Their faces fall, and the stunned looks they give me almost make me want to laugh if it wasn't for the scream that's hiding below the surface. I'm sure we mentioned that when we bought it, I add. Yeah. Maybe, Blaine says. I don't remember that, Morgan says.

I thought you'd moved all your stuff in here. Remember that couch you had? The one with the... Here we go! Mary says in her chipper, hostess voice that I love so much. Order! I smile and nod as she sets a platter down on the coffee table.

Oh dear, I forgot the napkins, she says and hurries away. What am I looking at? Blaine asks, a little snark in his voice. Are those Ritz crackers? With cream cheese and Spanish olives. Extra pimentos. I say and gesture with my drink. Eat up! Vegan cream cheese, right? Morgana. Without letting my smile falter, I say, of course, it's that vegan brand you like. The zap for saying the V word isn't bad, but it isn't good. Yum, Blaine says and picks up a cracker.

He inspects it from all sides and pops it in his mouth. He glances at Morgan and I see him shake his head just a little. I'll wait, Morgan says, smiling at me. Don't want to fill up before dinner. Here we go, Mia says when she returns. Napkins for messy fingers. the napkins down next to the platter and then stands straight, looking from Blaine to Morgan. Sweetie, I say with just a hint of admonishment in my voice.

Oh, you, she says and swats my arm. I'm sorry, I meant hors d'oeuvres. Great, Blaine says, not going back for a second one. Morgan just smiles. I ask and snatch away the glasses that Blaine and Morgan quickly empty. I'll wait until wine, Morgan says. I'm driving, Blaine adds. Oh, come on. A couple few drinks never hurt anyone. I say as I head to the bar. Keeps you. loose on that long drive home. No, seriously, I'm good. Blaine insists.

If you say so. I reply and mix myself and Mia, Mary, Mia, fresh drinks. When I return to the coffee table, Blaine says, I'm guessing the developer of your neighborhood was on ketamine when they came up with the concept. Ketamine? Mary asks. Yeah, stuff we took way too much of in college. Blaine replies. Interesting. Mary says and shrugs. Why do you think the developer was on drugs?

I ask. Well, every house on the block has a different style, he replies. I saw arts and crafts next to Victorian, Morgan said. Which isn't unusual. But then to be next to that house next door? That huge glass thing? Just weird. It looks like that old show. Blaine says and snaps his fingers. What was it called? Miami Vice. Morgan answers. That's it. Blaine says and points at her. Miami Vice. Well, you know developers.

say and laugh. Blaine and Morgan share a confused look. A loud buzzing comes from the kitchen. Chicken's done, Mia says, and skips off to the kitchen. Take our drinks to the dining room, will you, sweetheart? Of course, dear, I call to her. Shall we? Um, yeah, sure, Blaine says, and he and Morgan stand up. They follow me into the dining room, and I show them their seats, then set mine and Mary's drinks down. I hurry back to the bar and fetch the wine.

wine glasses. I'm surprised there are wine glasses. When I return, we take our seats. Mia comes in promptly with dinner. Her hands are stuffed inside huge oven mitts as she carries the bright red casserole dish and sets it

in the middle of the dining table. Voila, she announces and takes the lid off. Steam billows up from the reddish brown mix of vegetables and chicken. Smells great, Blaine says. What curry did you use? Is it that mix you used to- yourself? Oh, who has time to make spices up themselves these days? Mary says. No, it's McCormick. McCormick puts more sip and zest into every meal, you know. McCormick? Like the red bottle? Morgan asks, staring at Mia.

You always hated store-bought brands. Well, wasn't I a silly goose? Mary says, then leaves the dining room. Be right back with the rice. The looks Blaine and Morgan share are getting more frequent and more intense. When Mia returns with the rice dish, I wave at the casserole dish. Service up, sweetie, I say.

Of course, sweetheart. She takes Morgan's and Blaine's plates, heaping huge piles of rice, then some country captain onto each before serving me, then herself. If I may, I say as Blaine and Morgan lift their fork. A quick little grace. Another look shared between them. Thank you, Lord, for this grub, I say. May it bless my tummy and not give me heartburn in the middle of the night. Oh, you, Mary says and swats the air at me. Always a kidder.

I get a little indigestion sometimes after Mary's cooking, I say and wink at Blaine. You know how it can be, right?

Maybe it's all the martinis, Morgan says and glares at me. Sounds more like indigestion of the brain, Tyler, Blaine says, since you keep calling your wife Mary. No, I don't, I say, and my stomach churns a little. Eat up, Mary says, and we do. This is actually really tasty, Blaine says, not bothering to apologize for the surprise in his voice.

Morgan asks. It is. I insist. Huh. She says and takes another bite. We eat in silence for a minute or so. Okay, Ty, I gotta ask. Blaine says, setting his fork down as Morgan picks it up. food on her plate, her eyes locking onto the hunks of chicken swimming in curry sauce. Ask away, matey. I say and laugh. Mary laughs with me. Blaine and Morgan don't. Um, right. Blaine says after clearing his throat.

How often do you look at Zillow to see what your place is worth? I mean, I checked it out as we drove over, and dude, you would make a fortune if you ever sold. We don't have the internet. I say, and the zap hurts like a bastard. Internet is another of those. off-limits words. You don't? Morgan asks, turning her attention from the food to me. How do you work? How do you send your writing to your editor? Like normal people, silly, Mary says. Through the mail. Yet another look

and Morgan returns her attention to the chicken. This is really vegan, she asks. You know, Blaine, I say casually, Mayor Mia and I have been thinking of selling. You have? Blaine responds, smiling. you should sell to. Oh, who? I ask, keeping the eagerness for my voice. The Smithsonian, Blaine says, because this place is a time capsule. I could totally imagine tours going through here every day.

I was thinking maybe you and Morgan would like to buy it. I say. Do what now? He responds and looks at Morgan. She's still busy picking out her plate. You want us to buy it? You love it so much. I say. Well, yeah.

But we love it for you two, he says. I'm sorry, but this isn't vegan. Morgan bursts out. Blaine sighs and whispers. I wasn't going to say anything. Well, I am, Morgan snaps. She holds up a forkful of chicken. First off, there isn't even a hint of coconut in this dish. I have been vegan for 17 months, one week, and three days, thank you. And I know the taste of coconut cream. I see Mary.

out of the corner of my eye, but I keep my attention on Morgan, hoping she's done. She's not. And this chicken? She laughs. You want me to believe this is fake? That this comes from the same company that makes that burger meat? Mary says. I ordered it directly from the grocers. I insisted when I talked to them over the phone. Over the phone? Blaine says. You didn't place your order online? He shakes his head. Oh right, no internet. And I know what butter-

Tastes like Mia, Morgan says, jabbing the forkful of meat at Mary from across the table. This is coated in it. Mia, Mia, Mary, Mary swallows hard and tears begin to well up in her eyes. Hey Morgan, there's no need to be rude. I say and... reach under the table to pat Mary's leg. Her hand wraps around mine and squeezes.

Mary worked really hard on... Stop with the fucking Mary shit, Tyler! Morgan snaps. What the fuck has gotten into you two? She glares at the both of us. Who the fuck even are you? Babe. Blaine says and pounce her arm. She shoves it off. No, fuck this. Morgan continues. I'm vegan. They know this. We even confirmed with them when I called to say we were coming. She throws her hands up and laughs at the ceiling. Called? Because God forbid they still have modern phones that can...

Okay, I agree there dude Blaine says to me The cosplay has gotten a little out of hand. No internet, no smartphones, just a landline. He smirks. I get retro, but this is almost like you're punishing yourself. Not us, Mia says. It's the... Her body sh- shudders before she can get the word out. She nearly breaks my fingers as her hand clamps harder onto mine. Mia, are you okay? Morgan asks, suddenly worried. Ty, is she having a fucking seizure? Mary stops shuddering and takes a deep breath.

She says and takes her hand from mine. She puts her napkin on the table and smooths it out. Just a little episode. They happen. They happen? Morgan asks. What fucking happens, Mia? How often do you have these episodes? Has she been to a doctor? A doctor? I respond, puzzled. Why would she need to see a doctor? I give Blaine a wink. It's probably just women's stuff, right, Blaine? Do not drag me into whatever the fuck this is, Blaine says.

says. He stands and throws his napkin on the table. We should probably go. Go? Mary exclaims and jumps to her feet. But you haven't had dessert. Or coffee, I say. I was gonna mix up some Senka to go with the dessert. You have to stay. Mary insists. Dessert is baked Alaska. Baked Alaska? Morgan says, her eyes wide. Are you fucking shitting me? Um, no. Mary says, nodding.

That's what it is. I found this delightful recipe in Betty Crocker that... In Betty Crocker? Yeah, that's gonna be vegan, Morgan says. and shoves her chair back. Yeah, Blaine, we should go. Hold on, hold on. I say and stand to block them from leaving the dining room. Mary worked really hard tonight, so the least you can do is stay and try dessert. I focus on Blaine. Then us men can talk a little bit.

business. Chat about me offering a friendly discount on the house. Shave a few bucks off for an old college buddy. Eh Blaine? Dude, I don't think so, Blaine says and looks past me. Um, are you going to move or what? I hesitate and look over at Mary. Her head hangs down and her eyes are on her plate. Um, right. Sure. I say and step aside. It's late and you have a long drive.

I try to be chipper and pat Blaine's shoulder as he squeezes by me. Sure you don't want me to mix you a martini for the road? Yeah, dude. I'm fucking sure. And keep the fucking wine, Morgan says, and actually shoves me out of the way as she leaves the dining room.

Might as well since you never poured the fucking shit. I follow on their heels to the front door. Listen guys, tonight got a little out of hand, I know that. I say. We were just both so excited to tell you two that we are interested in selling. Then it all got away. from us you know how it is right Blaine business before pleasure dude I don't fucking have a clue what you were talking about Blaine says Morgan works and I'm a stay-at-home dad um I'm confused I say

at them. I didn't think you had kids. The Weimaraners die? Our dogs? Blaine says. You know this. How can you forget about Neo and Trinity? I just stare at him, unsure what to say. What the heck is a Neo and Trinity? Take some leftovers. Mary screeches as she races into the hallway, her hands holding two Tupperware containers. I should take it just for the vintage containers, Morgan says. But fuck that. I really can't believe this night. Me neither.

adds. He yanks the front door open, and a zap nails me between the eyes. I'm the host. I should have gotten the door, even if we are all having a little tiff.

You want to sell this place? Blaine says, turning around as Morgan goes straight to their car. Get a fucking real estate agent. Then a fucking therapist! Morgan shouts as she hops in their car and slams the door. That's a good idea too, Blaine says and walks around the car. Neither Mary nor I say a word as they pull out of our lovely circular driveway. We stand there and watch them drive down the street. street until they turn the corner and are lost from sight.

I'm going to put the food away and do the dishes, Mary says, still holding the Tupperware. She takes a deep breath. Can you take out the trash? She gives me a sad smile and walks inside. I follow and go to the skinny table set along the hallway wall. Pulling open the center drawer, I pluck the pack of camels out. I pat down my pocket and shout, Mary, where's my...

Probably in the living room. She calls back as I hear the sink filling with water. Thanks, I say, and check the living room. I find my Zippo sitting next to the ashtray on the bar. With cigarettes and lighter procured. I head out the front door and walk down the driveway, stopping just before the street. I've been zapped enough. Sure don't want to make it mad and step out into the road. We're not allowed out in the road. None of us are. And I'm not sure I'd come back from that.

of zap. As I light the cigarette, cupping my hands around the smoke to guard it from the wind, I hear the front door of my neighbor's house open. I stand there and wait, and soon a man approaches, stopping at the edge of the driveway. John. Lance, I say. The houses are happy when we use the names they've given us, and we all want to make sure the houses on the block are happy.

and then holds out his hand. I toss him my lighter. He catches it, lights up, and tosses it back to me. How'd it go tonight, he asks. They bite? No, I say, not interested. Look like... Cough in a huff, he says and puffs at his cigar. You were watching? Belinda and I were, yeah, he says. The name's his cigar at the houses up and down the block, each from a different era. The whole neighborhood was. You were the hope that we could find a way out

nightmare. Didn't end well, I say, taking a drag off my smoke. One of our guests was vegan. I take the zap. It's not a bad one since I'm out shooting the shit with my neighbor. It likes us to mingle.

is all he says, and we just stand there and smoke. What'd you have for dinner? What do you think? He replies, bitterness in his voice. Sushi? I reply and laugh. I am so sick of sushi. He says in size. But the house loves it, so that's what we eat. They ate other shit in the 80s, right? They must have. I'm sure they did. Well, not according to our damn house. The glass monstrosity only serves... He jolts.

gives me a weak, pained smile. We should change the subject. Good idea. We smoke and stare at the different houses. Arts and crafts, 70s ranch, ultra-modern 21st century, prairie style, lances. They don't burn, Lance says out of the blue. I know. That's probably a good thing since our house is a death trap. Another little zap. But we love it so much. He chuckles. I bet you do.

We smoke. I'm forgetting myself, he says. I think about my response. I could say so many different things, but I just nod and say, it's gotten worse for us too. What do they want? What we all want. Which is? To be loved, I think. To not be forgotten. Well, good for them. Too bad all of us are going to be forgotten soon. Or we're going to forget ourselves, at least. He reaches into his jackets inside.

and pulls out a little vial. Then he twists off the top and taps some white powder onto his hand and snorts it. But hey, we get the good drugs, he says as he sniffs and sniffs and sniffs. You got a little, I say. and point at his nose. He wipes. No, still there. He wipes again. Got it. Thanks. He holds out the vial. Want a bump? I can toss it over. No, I shouldn't. I say and glance back at my house.

my captor. We're strictly a booze house. No pills? Oh, there are pills, but they're diet pills and for Mary. I shake my head because that's not her name. Her name is, um, her name is... What's with the snapping? Lance asks, looking at my hand. I glance down and see my fingers pressed together. I hadn't even realized I was doing it. Same, he says, shaking the vial. Sometimes I just find this in my hand and my nose...

I don't even remember doing it. Same with martinis, I say. You still only gin and vodka? I nod. Not even scotch? I shake my head. You want some? All I get is expensive bottle of scotch. expensive bottle of scotch. I do have vodka, too. Lots of that. He holds up the vial again. Helps bring me down. They won't let us share booze, I say, and point my cigarette at the 70s ranch house across the street.

rolling a bottle of gin over to, um... I snap my fingers and Lance laughs. David? Yeah, I think that's his name, Lance says with a shrug. A car came along and ran it over. A car? An actual car? actual car. It ran the bottle over and just kept going. I saw David's face in his front window and he looked heartbroken. I guess all he has is cheap light beer. Oh, that sucks. Lance puffs on his cigar. What happened to the bottle?

broken glass. The next morning the street was clear, I say. You know how this place is. I look down at my almost finished cigarette and drop the smoldering butt onto my driveway, putting it out with the toe of my shoe. Grinded in there. You gonna try again? Lance asks. Try what? To get someone to buy the house? I laugh. No, no, I don't think so. Mary and I are done with all that. I hold up my pack of smokes. At least now I can...

smoke inside like a real man. We both laugh at that. I don't know if I'm kidding or not. We've already been here, what? Three years? That's not so bad. I say, three years? John, you've been here way longer than that.

What? No way. We've lived here four years and you were here before us. That can't be right. I trail off and think about it. Is that right? Have we been here for longer than... Hey, sugar. Lance's wife, Belinda, shouted. from their huge glass front door, knocking loose my train of thought. What was I thinking about? What, babe? Lance yells back. Moonlighting is on. Great. I'll be right in. Just chatting with John. Tell Mary I say... I call over to her. She smiles, waves.

Well, gotta go. Our favorite show is on, Lance says. At least there's Haagen-Dazs for dessert. What did you guys get tonight? Baked Alaska. Again? Again, I shrug. It's our house of... I'm open for a chocolate cake tomorrow, or even some jello and whipped topping just to switch it up. Good luck. Thanks. Well, it could be worse, Lance says and puts out his cigar. Without saying more... We looked down the street at the 1800s farmhouse and the man standing there.

Noah. It sure can, I say, and give Noah a wave. Lance does too. He just looks over at us as he adjusts his suspenders. We wave again. After a few seconds, he nods. A woman calls from inside the farmhouse loud enough for the entire block to hear. Noah! Supper's ready! Come wash up! Noah sighs heavily, then he turns and goes inside. Poor bastard, Lance says.

then gives me a sad smile before he turns. and walks back to his house. I watch him go, and as soon as he's inside, I shake out another smoke and light it. Even though I can smoke inside now, I think I'll stay out here and enjoy the peace and quiet. The little lady is sure to be emotional. After tonight, I'll let her be. Doing the dishes is good for her. Plus, there's nothing like a nice night and a cigarette after a meal. What more can a guy named John ask for?

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