The Island in the Living Room

“How much are you asking for that island?”

“I’m not selling it.”

“Why not? It’s prime real estate. It’s got a great view of the ocean—on all sides, in fact! And it’s private. It’s disconnected from other people’s busy lives, so you don’t have to worry about them or put up with their advice or their opinions or their noise. And it’s customizable. You can call it anything you want. You can do anything you want on it because no one will see you. You can dance around in your underwear. You can walk around it continuously and never come to a dead end or the line of some else’s property. And best of all, it’s in uncharted territory! No one knows where it is! A chance finally, a real chance, never to be bothered by anybody. After a long day’s work, that’s almost as good as a cold beer! Why can’t I claim that island as my own, huh? You could at least lease it.”

“Well I’m not.”

“Forgive me, Mark, but why in God’s name not?” Harold took off his sunglasses and gave Mark what Mark thought was perhaps the first ever serious look he’d ever given—until Harold’s cellphone vibrated detectably and Harold dove into his pocket.

They were sitting in a black convertible on a hot August afternoon (right after the sun had reached its zenith and the pavement was generously returning the heat it had been given in copious waves). The healthy trees in the sparkling New York suburb were reflected in the convertible’s sides in marbly swirls.

“Why not, Mark?” said Harold, finishing a text with a click.

“Because,” said Mark arduously, as he had told many of his friends many times, “that island is in my living room.”

“Yeah, I know. And I damn well wish it wasn’t. If it was in my living room, I’d be milking it for all it’s worth. But you’re such a reclusive old nutjob, you’ll hide yourself in it until we all forget who you are. And then we’ll say you died and sell your house for a quarter million. At least we’ll get some profit out of it.”

Mark was filled with retorts—and good arguments they were, too. But instead of speaking them out loud, he kept his mouth shut. Harold was right; Mark was a recluse. But he was comfortable with the knowledge.

“You know what I think?” continued Harold, as if he hadn’t just insulted Mark already, “I think you’re a hoarder. And you know where hoarders go in Dante’s inferno? In the same circle as the money-wasters! That’s where they go. You’re positively sinful, Mark. You have a moral obligation to lease that island! Be a good consumer, Mark. It’s for the health of the economy. Be a patriot. Lease your goddamn island!”

“You know I can’t argue with you, Harold,” said Mark as he climbed out of the car, “you’re a lawyer.”

“And I didn’t appreciate your lawyer joke birthday card, either!” shouted Harold. “Hey wait, hold on! We’re waiting for Marcy to finish her house-call!” But just as he spoke, Marcy came out of the house carrying her case of vet supplies in one hand and a bloody handkerchief in the other.

To be continued...