Note: For legal purposes, I’m changing the names of not only people, but companies for reasons that’ll be obvious by the end of the post.
—-
My friend Mac spent his 20s floating from job to job. Game shops, surf shops, music shops, anywhere you could have long hair and a beard without being asked to cut it or cover it up. Mac was the perfect picture of a stoner who hadn’t figured his life out yet, and clearly wasn’t going to any time soon… which I guess also made him the poster child for quitting drugs.
When we both reached 30, though, reality finally hit him like a tidal wave and I helped him search for “an adult job”. Luckily, I found a place that would take him only a few months before he would’ve been homeless and massively overdrawn.
Maenad was a soulless mega-corporation that hit it big during the Web two-point-oh boom and managed to survive the .com bubble burst. It would then go on to become one of the largest and highest valued companies to ever exist in the history of trading items for currency.
The good thing about Maenad was that they gave absolutely zero shits about who they hired. Alive? Breathing? Here’s your purple drab uniform and a list of five thousand boxes to pack by lunch – which you will eat at your packing station.
I’d have thought the job would crush Mac’s soul and he’d be out of there in two weeks or less, but it was the exact opposite. As it turned out, he excelled at shutting off his brain and keeping his head down… I won’t say I’ve never seen him happier (he hooked up with sisters at a music festival once) but I had definitely never seen him so comfortable and self-assured before… He did his job, he got paid, he slept… That was all he seemed to need out of life, at least for the time being.
The creator and CEO of Maenad was (well, I guess “is”) Boris Oran, self-made trillionaire who had been to the bottom of seas, the peaks of mountains, and the brink of space so many times that his accomplishments weren’t even considered news, anymore. He just did amazing and insane things every once in a while, and the general population would shrug and get back to work.
At this point, you can effectively put yourself in my shoes and imagine the utter shock I felt when Mac, the guy who once accidentally killed his turtle by feeding it psychedelic mushrooms, was invited to an event by none other than Mr. “My Smallest Boat Is Bigger Than Your Neighborhood” Oran.
“This is a mistake.” I said, talking to Mac over the phone as I sorted the pens at my office desk.
Not “this has to be a mistake” or “maybe this is a mistake”. It definitely was.
“Chuck. When have I ever lied to you, man?” Mac had been off of work for maybe twenty minutes and he was stoned. I could easily hear it in his voice.
“I didn’t say you lied, I said it was a mistake. There must be another Mackenzie Mackey who works for Maenad. As horrifying as that may be to consider.”
“Uh, bro.” Mac sounded like he was telling me he won the lottery, “You better believe – It’s for me!”
“Then it’s a scam.” I arranged the pens differently. Most of my day is arranging my pens.
“Chucky Chucky Chucky, you’re a man of many doubts.”
“Don’t call me Chucky, man. You know that.”
“Chork. The invitation was on my desk when I got back from taking a shit. It’s not a scam, my man, one of the higher-ups must’ve left it there when I wasn’t around.”
“Yeah, co-workers never scam each other. The workplace totally isn’t the number one breeding ground of MLM and Pyramid schemes.” I snorted.
“Exactly!” Mac enthusiastically replied.
I doubted the authenticity of the invitation to Boris Oran’s 45th birthday party while being selected as Mac’s plus-one, straight through planning to meet him at the mansion’s front gates, all the way up to tipping the valet who was waiting for me there…
The competition for being picked as Mac’s guest was very slim.
“Mackenzie Mackey.” I repeated to the valet, having said the name multiple times, as he probably didn’t hear it correctly, “Floor worker. Known as Mac. Long hair, beard? No other defining characteristics?”
“Yes,” the valet nodded slowly, wide eyes glued to me as if I had gone insane, “Mac is a valued member of the Maenad family. He’s on the list, there is a photograph to accompany his name, and this is not a mistake, nor is it a scam.”
Hearing everything I had asked him get repeated back told me I had given him enough trouble. I made sure to cover for that in his tip.
I watched my car drive away and entered the large, wrought-iron gates, making the long walk toward Oran’s embarrassingly unnecessary spectacle of a home. I passed row upon row of identically-sculpted topiary owls, a hedge maze that looked impossible to solve, and more expensive-looking cars than I could be bothered to count.
“Charles Willard?” a voice called out, snapping my attention away from a particularly shiny pearlescent vehicle, “Attending alongside Mr. Mackey, correct?”
It took me a moment to locate the source of the voice, yet another servant, wearing a tuxedo and holding an open envelope. He looked down at the note in his hands, then back to me.
“My apologies, sir, it appears Mr. Mackey will be delayed in attending. As I have been informed, there has been a bit of mischief regarding Mr. Mackey’s hurriedness in travel to this estate.”
The butler job must’ve required an English degree. In effect, Mac had gotten a speeding ticket on the way to the party. Since his car registration had expired three months prior, that would indeed mean that he wasn’t going to be arriving on time.
“Uh, thanks.” I said, tipping the butler, which I wasn’t sure I even had to do.
The inside of the mansion felt bigger than the outside, by which I mean the entire world and my lived experiences up to the point of entry. The first room I walked into had a vaulted ceiling, a chandelier, and more living space than I would even know what to do with. Following the sound of guests through the open door ahead of me, I entered a room so grandiose in scope that I realized the previous one had just been the foyer.
Plunging staircases, fine antique furniture, oversized paintings of incredibly boring things, it felt like walking onto the set of a movie mixed with the awe of wandering through a museum. Hell, you can even throw in the reverence of attending mass in a cathedral.
It was a lot, both physically and metaphysically. A lot of stuff, and a lot of feelings.
On top of it all, the crowd of mingling partygoers made me want to shrink into a corner even more. I recognized lauded actors, critically-acclaimed singers, and various tech billionaires who must’ve stayed up countless nights wishing they had started Maenad instead of a social media app that makes stupid people angry.
I had no one to talk to, and nothing to say. I was happy just to watch a rapper who released tracks about prostitution and homicide chatting up the star of an educational children’s show. Maybe a collab was in the works?
Suddenly, a loud clap shook everyone out of their small talk.
From on high, like a newly revealed Pope, Boris Oran stood at the railing of what I considered an indoor balcony, though I’ve come to learn those are called mezzanines.
“Welcome!” Oran spoke, the word echoing like thunder. It was like the entire room was designed to funnel and focus the voice of whoever stood in that exact spot, “It’s… pleasant… to see you all here.”
As stunned as I was to see the world’s richest human not only in-person, but only a few floors away from me, I couldn’t help but notice how he spoke. His words were stilted. Awkward. It sounded like he hadn’t talked to another human being for months, even years, and had forgotten what speech was supposed to sound like.
“We shall be proceeding to the grand ballroom… soon.” With an over-rehearsed sweep of his hand, he gestured downward, to a large door as two servants opened it in lock-step unison, “There is, however, no rush. Please, take things at your own pace and… above all, do as you enjoy.”
Believe it or not – English was not this man’s second language.
Anxiety grabbed a hold of my heart. I wasn’t good with people, especially in large groups, but I was good at faking it. Under normal circumstances, at least. Meetings, review boards, I could handle those. Being friendless and out of my element in what was sure to be a room full of music, dancing, and drunken shenanigans didn’t suit me. Mind you, the drunken shenanigans of people who could buy and sell every facet of my existence.
“Rest room, sir?” A servant seemed to pop up out of nowhere, right next to me, causing me to jump. He patted my forehead with a cloth. I must’ve been visibly swearing like a faucet.
I just nodded, then tipped him.
When I arrived at the bathroom, I finally found something small enough to compare it to the size of my house. The bathroom was as large as my entire house.
No expense was spared, no need unfulfilled.
It was a bit jarring, seeing a tampon dispenser and a condom machine alongside what must’ve been marble fixtures, elaborately chiseled into water and wave designs.
I stood in front of the mirror, the singular, long mirror that covered the width of an entire wall. There, I washed my face down with cold water and then dried off with the towel the bathroom attendant handed me.
“No need for tips here, sir. We are more than well-compensated. Please just enjoy your stay.” He held out his hand, pushing at the bill I was about to hand him.
Glad someone finally made it clear.
Finding my way back out of Poseidon’s bathroom, I found the previous room empty. Everyone had moved on, probably soon after I had left. Seeing the place empty was even more imposing than before, and as I took in my surroundings, I almost felt like I had shrunken in size. No normal person would feel comfortable there, loomed over by countless artifacts that were around long before you were born and would be there long after you were dead and forgotten.
It’s weird. All the art, the collected extravagance – It felt just as soulless as the company itself.
A pair of servants, neither of whom I had seen before, soon flanked me and, on either side of me, simply began walking at a steady clip. Like a sheep being herded by a sheepdog, I immediately walked with them, though they never laid a hand on me or said a word. I was matching their stride and speed before my mind even registered that I was going somewhere.
In my peripheral vision, I saw a man in a suit standing in one of the side doors, wearing a white mask that resembled the face of an owl. He didn’t move, didn’t follow… he didn’t even watch me pass, staring forward like he could’ve been one of the many sculptures.
Very obviously eerie in retrospect, but it flew by me amid the razzle and dazzle of the experience.
The “grand ball room” was a surprising break from the theme of the building so far.
The the entire room had been converted, floor to ceiling, into what resembled an upscale night club. Given the look of the rest of the mansion, this stood out as a very purposeful choice.
There was a stage to the back of the expansive area, complete with curtain, as multicolored lights flashed and deep-bass music thumped. Around me, everyone was talking, but I’m sure no one could hear each other.
Someone handed me a drink and, in studying it, I realized it was a gin and tonic. The basic bitch drink I had always ordered over and over again, no matter where I found myself. Hotel bar, airport bar, office party bar…
I floated around for a while, convinced that if I kept moving and never settled, no one would have time to realize I was a complete nobody who didn’t belong there. I did a few lazy laps, circling the tables and booths, seeing who I recognized and who I couldn’t place the face of.
A pair of obnoxious podcast hosts sat at a table, arguing the semantics of some asinine subject or another. Realizing that they couldn’t even get off of each other’s backs long enough to enjoy a drink brought a slight, guilty smile to my face.
Stopping my rounds for a moment opened me up to what every social caterpillar like me fears. A conversation.
“Hey.” Someone spoke up next to me, “Do I know you?”
I turned to see a very famous actor from a very popular film franchise sitting in a booth, laid back with his necktie undone and a white powder prominently dusting his nose.
“No.” I said flatly, “No, you don’t know me.”
“Sure I do.” He pointed at me and smiled, “Uhh… don’t say it. Don’t tell me. I’m good with nobodies. Some people are assholes, but I always remember you guys. I do.”
He got a strange sort of look on his face, eyes hooded, lips pursed. It was like he was deep in thought for a second.
“Okay, all done.” He bellowed.
A pop-country singer awkwardly climbed out from under the table and sat next to the actor, taking a sip of her drink. I froze and stared in puritanical shock.
“Got it.” The actor pointed at me again, “You’re one of my lawyers. The one with the slow kid… Hang on. Sorry – my bad. The different-speed kid.”
Wanting the conversation to end, I just silently nodded.
The actor pushed the singer aside and created a gap between them.
“Slide in.” He said.
Just as silently, I shook my head and turned on my heels.
As I walked off, not looking back, the music stopped and the lighting changed. The room was dark, other than a few spotlights on the stage.
The partygoers sighed in disappointment, then began murmuring amongst themselves.
The stage curtain parted and, in complete silence, the man in the owl mask stepped out of the shadows before us all. A charged moment passed as the owl man stood there, motionless, just staring out over the crowd, not focusing on anyone in particular.
“Oh, pardon me.” The man spoke, removing his mask.
It was Oran himself.
“Sorry, I… was lost for a moment.”
“Just don’t get lost in space!” a random asshat yelled out, drawing a mild chuckle from the crowd.
Oran pointed to the general area of the heckler, an inauthentic robot smile suddenly springing onto his face.
“Right. Thank you.” He replied. Not much of a comeback.
The multiple spotlights danced around the stage, then all focused on Oran as he stepped forward to the edge of the stage.
“Innocence.” He stated plainly. “Innocence is a lie.”
The room was as quiet as a catacomb.
“When I was a child, I thought I was innocent. For my… fifth birthday… my parents hired a performer. A magician.”
A single spotlight separated from the group as a party magician joined Oran on the stage, dressed in a top hat, a black cape, a fake handlebar mustache, the works. Seeing the magician, a few uneasy titters escaped from the group.
“This magician pulled cards out of thin air.”
The magician beside Oran pulled a card out of nothing, showing it off the the audience. A few more laughs and cheers erupted.
“He pulled a rabbit out of his hat.”
The magician on stage quickly pulled off his hat and produced a white rabbit, drawing hearty applause from the crowd.
“Then he shot himself in the head.”
The magician made a gun shape with his hand, put his finger in his mouth, and pulled the “trigger” in one smooth motion. A colorful burst of confetti popped behind his head.
The spotlight on the magician cut off, leaving him in darkness.
No one laughed or clapped.
“Right in front of me… In front of all the children.” Oran started to pace the stage like he was giving a TED talk, “He… was a very unhappy man. My father had… laid him off from a cushy position at his rubbish removal company. This man turned to odd jobs, became a party performer… when he was called to entertain the son of the man who ruined his life… well, you can put two and two together, there.”
Someone coughed, but it was forced. The kind of cough that says, “can you believe this guy?”
“Innocence…” Oran swept his arms out to his sides, then raised them, “Is a lie! So why bother pretending otherwise?”
Another robot smile, another cheer from the audience.
The stage lights came up in full as a group of children’s performers swarmed out from backstage.
Clowns, mimes, magicians, people with face-painting kits and clusters of balloons, even a pair of people in a pantomime horse costume. They joined Oran, standing behind him in regimented rows.
“In honor of my… early awakening… please enjoy yourself however you see fit. If you want your face painted like a cat…. have your face painted like a cat.”
A bounce castle began to inflate at the center of the room.
“If you want to fuck the face-painter, well… fuck the face painter!”
Oran laughed in a manner that was just as stilted as his speech. At first, I thought it was a sarcastic, mocking laugh, but as it continued for an uncomfortably long time, I realized he was being authentic.
The performers left the stage and began filtering into the confused, yet elated crowd.
“As for me…” Oran placed the owl mask back on his face, “Let’s just say… I prefer to watch.”
With that, the stage lights cut out and the normal club atmosphere resumed. The only difference being that a horde of clowns in colorful outfits and other for-hire buffoons were mingling with us. Also, a few grown adults were leaping around in a colorful, inflated castle.
I filtered through the crowd as best I could, avoiding elbows and feet as partygoers thoughtlessly moved about. I wanted to find a nice, quiet spot where I could think about, and fail to process, everything I had just witnessed.
I spotted a doughy man in glasses, a dress shirt, and tie toward the back of the room. He was holding a drink and looking like a fish out of water.
Defnitely another “plus one”.
“Hey,” I shouted over the music as I approached him, “Wild party, right?”
“Yyyyeah.”He gritted his teeth and shot me an uncomfortable look.
“Who brought you?” I asked, taking a spot next to him on the wall.
“My sister’s husband. Frank Weller. you know him?”
“Uh, no.”
“Great guy. Works in human resources.”
“At Maenad?”
“Yeah, of course. I don’t know how the Hell he got invited, but I was just so thrilled to come along.”
Then the doughy guy dropped a bombshell, though he had no idea.
“Too bad he couldn’t make it, himself.”
If this had indeed been a movie, that was the moment when the camera would zoom in on my horrified expression as the realization hit me. Mac wasn’t invited – not really. It was me who was supposed to be there. The how and why of it eluded me, but the strangeness of the affair made what would otherwise be a coincidence ring out like a gunshot in my mind.
“W-what did Frank-” I started to ask, turning back to my wall buddy to see his face turned upward, eyes closed, grinning wide as a kneeling clown blew him.
I stepped away.
Had they paid off Mac? Threatened him? Killed him? Mac wouldn’t set me up willingly, would he? I realized that anyone probably would for a large enough amount of money.
“Where ya goin’?” I walked face-first into a mime, black and white make-up on her face, tear drops drawn at the corners of her eyes, striped shirt already a little torn.
Put on the spot and at a loss for words, I just pointed a finger into the air as if motioning for her to give me a moment, then I stammered for a bit.
Finally, I settled on a response.
“Mimes… don’t talk.”
“Oh.” She smirked and tilted her head, “So you want me to be quiet? I can be quiet if you like that. Heck, I can cry if you want.”
She rolled her fists by her cheeks and pouted at me.
I looked her up and down. Tap shoes. Striped leggings. Black skirt. Striped top. Beret. Oran had really dressed his sex workers up for the scene… or had he just found the “right price” for real performers?
“Can you pretend to be tapped in a box?” I asked, glancing over at a news anchor getting joyously bent over by someone in a full super-hero morph suit, then looking away again just as quickly.
The mime put her hands up, feeling along walls that weren’t there. She looked positively perplexed. Soon, the box began to shrink as if it would crush her. Her movements became more frantic.
“That’s actually really good.” I admitted.
She stayed in a crunched position on the floor, on all fours.
“Uh-ohh, I’m stuck.” She cooed seductively.
“I, uh…” I stammered again, having done so well up to this point, “Tell you what. Hold that thought, stay right there, aaand… I’ll be right back.”
When I say I ran from the room, I am not overstating at all. I bolted.
After blowing through the doors of the grand ball room, past servants in the hall who said and did nothing to stop me, I paused in a doorway to catch my breath and calm my racing heart.
“Excuse me.”
The voice made me jump, and my heart rate doubled in speed.
I turned to see the owl mask. Oran had followed me out. How long had he been blending into the crowd… had he been watching me, specifically? For how long?
“I need some air.” I explained, turning away from him and swallowing hard.
“Is the party not up to your… standards?” Oran droned, just as monotone as ever.
“Yeah, I – No, I mean. It’s…” I turned back to him and put my hands to my stomach, “I think I have a stomach virus. I should leave. Sorry about that. Great party.”
Oran looked left, then right, the mask making it impossible to read his already-flat expressions.
As I looked around as well, I noticed innumerous servants standing in every possible doorway and in front of any available windows. They stood in wide stances, hands folded at their waists.
“I suppose you think you’re… innocent.” Oran sounded like a computer trying to understand human emotion, “Too innocent to… partake of what I’ve laid out for you.”
The servants were unflinching. No longer people, but a wall of “more than well-paid” meat and muscle between me and freedom. Feeling the weight of an unknown, impending doom on my shoulders, I searched my mind for any sort of reply.
“No.” I started, “Innocence is a concept that you lose the minute you steal a candy bar, or push your sister, or any number of thoughtless or selfish acts. Actually being ‘innocent’, if we’re being real, is an impossible standard for anyone to meet.”
The owl face only stared at me.
“There’s integrity, morality, respect and empathy.” I continued, flustered and basically just listing words until I thought if where I was going with this, “Those are things you build over time. Paths you choose according to your actions, and stuff.”
“Stuff…”
Oran stood for a moment, then pulled the mask off and tilted his head to the side.
“I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.”
“Okay, so…” I pulled up a chair that was more expensive than child birth and sat, “Your position is that nobody’s innocent. My position is that your point is very obviously under-developed. You’d might as well tell me that Santa isn’t real. Yeah, he’s fake, but knowing that and choosing to be good anyway is some meaningful shit if you think about it. Who gives a fuck about innocence?”
“So you’re saying… who gives a fuck about the question that has formed my entire existence and for which I have paid… billions of dollars… to finally address in a meaningful manner.”
“Right.”
Oran took a step back, then turned sideways, looking at the wall.
“Hm. Interesting.”
With a hand signal, Oran sent the servants into action. They moved quickly and in unison, and for a moment I thought they were going to pile on me and start tearing away like angry chimpanzees.
Instead, a set of servants toted in large, metal bars and held them in place over the grand ball room door as other servants screwed the bars in place with power tools. Within a few seconds, before I knew what was going on, the door was completely barricaded with industrial steel.
“I was so sure…” Oran muttered, still staring at the wall, “None would refuse. None would display any hint of a conscience. A bug in the program… a bug in the program…”
With a petulant, child-like stomp of his foot, Oran shrieked in his priceless echo chamber.
“THE PARTY IS OVER!”
Yet more servants nodded quickly and disappeared into a side room.
Almost immediately, I could hear the distorted, pneumatic rumble of large machinery at work. It was like the house, the entire thing, was a shell built just to conceal some tremendous, unseen monstrosity of moving parts.
The screams were barely audible under the rumble.
Then, the sound of crashing… smashing… crushing. The explosive pop of the bounce castle.
The floor vibrated like a hood covering the roaring engine of a garbage truck. Paintings fell free from the walls. A few artifacts toppled and smashed into unrecognizable debris. I threw my hands over my ears and hunched down in the chair, but it did nothing to muffle the horrific din. It wasn’t long before the screams stopped and the sounds of shattering glass, splintering wood, and… other matter being crushed… subsided.
I found myself on the floor in a fetal position, the chair having gone over without me even realizing I had fallen to the floor. I guess I blacked out for a bit.
Oran and his servants were gone.
I didn’t dare open the door to the grand ball room, and even if I was prepared to see what was on the other side – I couldn’t. It was still sealed tight. As I lay there on the floor, my mind swirling with a million conflicting thoughts and emotions, one thing was definitely clear in my mind.
Thank God the condom machine was in the bathroom.
