The tragic tale of the four little condo owners
The tragic tale of the four little condo owners
A cautionary parable for these dark times
Hey Friends,
Welcome back to Field Research, the humor and satire publication written and produced by me, Amran Gowani.
Hard to believe, but I’ve been writing this ridiculous newsletter for twenty-seven months. It’s been an incredibly enjoyable and ludicrously unprofitable endeavor, and I wouldn’t change a thing. Well, except for my wife’s newfound contempt. And my daughter’s continued contempt. And my son’s ridiculous behavior. And that “free speech” shitshow last fall. And the whole ludicrously unprofitable thing.
Anyway, I spent the past several weeks revising my kickass debut novel Leverage (coming to bookstores near you in Summer 2025), unwillingly touring the Ozarks, and asking the Gods why a country which worships capitalism chooses to close schools for three months each summer.
As you might imagine, I’ve been particularly strapped for time — and sanity — and thus went digging in the vaults for this month’s post.
I originally published the following “children’s story” on July 1, 2022 and, luckily, less than 150 humans read it. Now, with over 1,300 disinterested members comprising the Field Research community, Mother Earth aggressively trying to kill us, and U.S. politics graduating to the assassination phase, I figured the time was right to revisit this tragicomic fairy tale1.
Enjoy!
PROLOGUE
Once upon a time there was a great, big, fancy vintage house. Constructed during the Gilded Age, it was made of brick and limestone and had four humongous floors.
This great, big, fancy vintage house was owned by the same family for over three decades. But then, in 1929, the son of the original owner made a big mistake. He put up the property as collateral for a bank loan, then used said bank loan to make speculative, highly leveraged bets in the stock market.
When the GREAT BIG CRASH occurred, the bank issued what’s known as a margin call. When the son couldn’t produce the requisite cash, the bank seized the great, big, fancy vintage house.
The bank eventually sold the great, big, fancy vintage house to the BIG CITY for a juicy profit. The BIG CITY converted the great, big, fancy vintage house into a local history museum, which was nice.
Then, in the eighties, the venerable President Ronald Reagan, aided by a complicit congress and a pliable Supreme Court, deregulated every major industry, including Wall Street, just like in the Gilded Age.
Shortly thereafter a large property management company issued junk bonds and bought the great, big, fancy vintage house from the BIG CITY for a song. The property management company then converted the great, big, fancy vintage house into four separate condos — one for each floor.
Next, the property management company sold those condos to families who were wealthy enough to live in the BIG CITY, but not wealthy enough to own a great, big, fancy vintage house in the BIG CITY, for a juicy profit.
Over the ensuing four decades, the overpriced condos of the once great, big, fancy vintage house changed hands many times.
CHAPTER ONE
Today, the overpriced condos of the once great, big, fancy vintage house are owned by four families.
Miss Camel lives on the ground floor with her three calves. One boy in second grade and twin girls in kindergarten.
Mister Baboon lives alone on the second floor.
Mister Hyena, Jr. and the three co-founders of his cannabis startup live together on the third floor, though Mister Hyena, Sr., who bought the condo for his son as a graduation present, doesn’t know that.
And Professor Sloth, on the top floor, lives with her teenage daughter, who’s about to go away to FANCY COLLEGE OUT WEST.
The four families live together peacefully. Occasionally minor annoyances crop up (e.g., somebody leaves the garage door open, nobody can agree on the holiday decor), but the four families usually work it out and all the residents of the overpriced condos of the once great, big, fancy vintage house feel happy.
But the world outside is changing.
Carbon emissions generated by automobiles, planes, energy inefficient buildings, and unchecked consumer capitalism are causing the atmosphere to become super-duper grumpy. And when the atmosphere is super-duper grumpy, the weather gets angry.
Gentle summer rains become tropical storms. Tropical storms become hurricanes and monsoons. Windy afternoons, tornadoes. Sunny summer days, oppressive heat domes.
CHAPTER TWO
One humid afternoon, Miss Camel, whose first-floor unit is built partially underground, sees a puddle by her back door. The rain fell so hard water pooled on the ground and seeped inside her unit.
Oh dear, she thinks, we must immediately address this potentially catastrophic problem!
Miss Camel sends an email to all the other condo owners. Everyone should come together to solve this looming crisis before it’s too late, she says. Professor Sloth on the top floor agrees.
“Even though a possible flooding issue doesn’t affect me directly, as a co-owner of this building, and as a conscientious member of our HOA, I agree we should fix this problem — despite any costs, exorbitant or otherwise, I may personally incur — as soon as possible,” Professor Sloth says.
But Mister Baboon and Mister Hyena, Jr., who live on the middle floors, disagree.
“Stop being so hysterical, bro,” Mister Hyena, Jr. says. “Basements are like, meant to be damp, or whatever, bro.”
“If it ain’t broke, why try to fix it?” Mister Baboon says.
“But it is broken!” Miss Camel says. “My babies and I can’t swim. What if there’s a flood one day?!”
Mister Baboon and Mister Hyena, Jr. ignore her, and the problem persists.
A few weeks later, while enjoying a nice lunch with her daughter on a pleasant afternoon, Professor Sloth notices a crack in her kitchen ceiling. She grabs a ladder and ever-so-slowly ascends to inspect.
Professor Sloth, owner of a Ph.D. in materials science from M.I.T., notices something troubling. The ceiling crack goes all the way to the roof. And the roof has been coated with combustible cladding — the same type of material responsible for exacerbating that dreadful Grenfell Tower fire in London.
Oh dear, she thinks, we must immediately address this potentially catastrophic problem!
Professor Sloth sends an email to all the other condo owners. Everyone should come together to solve this looming crisis before it’s too late, she says. Miss Camel on the ground floor agrees.
“Even though a possible roofing issue doesn’t affect me directly, as a co-owner of this building, and as a conscientious member of our HOA, I agree we should fix this problem — despite any costs, exorbitant or otherwise, I may personally incur — as soon as possible,” Miss Camel says.
But, again, Mister Baboon and Mister Hyena, Jr. disagree.
“Stop being so hysterical, bro,” Mister Hyena, Jr. says. “Why would the roof like, ever catch on fire, or whatever, bro?”
“If it ain’t broke, why try to fix it?” Mister Baboon says.
“But it is broken!” Professor Sloth says. “Excessive heat. Arid conditions. Lightning storms. All these things could trigger a dangerous combustion event! What if there’s a fire one day?! My daughter and I can’t jump or run fast enough to escape.”
Mister Baboon and Mister Hyena, Jr. ignore her, and the problem persists.
CHAPTER THREE
One late summer evening, around dinnertime, the air feels tense and ominous. The sky moves from light blue to dark grey in an instant. Suddenly tornado sirens blare in the distance. All four families are bombarded with SEVERE WEATHER ALERTS on their smartphones.
Miss Camel and her three babies hunker down in their bathroom.
Mister Baboon does the same.
Mister Hyena, Jr. and his three roommates aren’t home, auspiciously vacationing in Cancun after touring the Y-combinator.
On the top floor, Professor Sloth and her daughter can’t hide in their bathroom because of the skylight. They can’t shelter in their living room because of the bay window. They settle under the crack in the roof.
Howling winds rage. Biblical rains fall. Fierce lightning crashes. Minutes feel like hours as the storm passes overhead. Then, a lull. Could the worst be over? Professor Sloth peers through her kitchen window to check.
Blinding light and deafening sound. She’s disoriented. Senses blurred. She feels the rain. Then she feels the heat. Her eyes flutter. Suddenly it’s bright as day. Suddenly it’s hot as asphalt. Suddenly her fur singes. Suddenly her daughter screams. Suddenly she’s crawling as fast as she can. Suddenly it’s not fast enough.
“Mommy it’s wet!” Miss Camel’s older daughter says. At first the water’s inconvenient. Then the water’s destructive. Then the water’s — where’s all this water coming from?!
EPILOGUE
“At this time, we believe lightning struck the derelict DirecTV antenna on the roof, which caused a small fire. Unfortunately, the flames quickly spread and ignited the weatherproof cladding. Once that happened, the top floor essentially exploded, instantly killing Professor Sloth and her daughter,” Mister Bernese Mountain Dog, the local Fire Marshal near the now uninhabitable yet still overpriced condos of the once great, big, fancy vintage house, said.
“We also believe, based on the wreckage, the force of the explosion caused the local water main to burst and, in combination with the heavy rainfall, resulted in flash-flooding of the ground floor unit. This tragically led to the deaths of Miss Camel and her three children,” he added.
Mister Baboon and Mister Hyena, Jr. stood next to Mister Bernese Mountain Dog during the somber press conference. That morning each had received a six-figure payout from the BIG INSURANCE OLIGOPOLY and a seven-figure civil settlement from the BIG CITY CATASTROPHE FUND.
“What’ll you do now?” Mister Baboon whispered to Mister Hyena, Jr.
“Crypto, bro. With these settlement funds my bros and I are going to, like, make a fortune, or whatever, bro,” he said. “You, bro?”
“Prolly head to the burbs,” Mister Baboon said. “This place is broke — why try to fix it?”
Author’s note: This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental — or whatever, bro.
Instagram nightmares
Sometimes I cook up a piece of satire so gruesome I can’t in good conscience send it to all you lovely, unsuspecting readers. Those stories are reserved for my most unstable “fans,” and thus reside behind the dreaded paywall.
For example, last week I recapped the lowlights of a Wall Street Journal exposé about kidfluencers, which detailed how some parents knowingly sexualize and monetize their children on Instagram for depressed and depraved middle-aged men. (Yep, that sure is a sentence.)
I also prepared an absolutely unhinged piece of satire, which you can read by clicking on or tapping “Read more” below.
To be clear, you shouldn’t read it. It’s gross AF, and you have to pay to access it. But, as a former marketing professional, I just want to let you know it exists.
Up next
I’ve got new collabos on the docket and plenty of short-form humor and satire pieces in the hopper.
Stay tuned and stay frosty.
Amran
I tweaked the original text ever-so-slightly and added GIFs throughout.
This story nailed it, that's exactly how the conversations go in the building I live in in France. Exactly the same, to a tee. Completely the opposite in Spain though, where I also technically live. Every building has a syndicate and everyone gets helped and everyone helps when necessary, without complaint.
By the way, is there a difference between condo and apartment, are they interchangeable? Always wondered.
Excellent use of repetition and other kid lit craft devices in your "children's" book. Deftly unhinged and rancidly topical.
Money? Where?
OH, the FUTILITY! WT-honest-to-God-F are we doing here?
I support you to the moon and back, buddy. Just probably never with money. Unless I get that seven-figure advance before you do. Here's to the wants in all of us. 🥂