The tragic tale of the four little condo owners

A cautionary parable for these dark times

Did you hear about Miss Camel? Such a shame. Photo by Jo-Anne McArthur on Unsplash

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 exchanged 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 which holiday decorations they like), 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 MIT, 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

Around dinnertime one late summer evening 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 then 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 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, caused 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?”

Note: This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental — or whatever, bro.

Something oddly inspiring

On September 12, 2001, my German-born professor of analytical chemistry began our morning lecture along these lines: Yesterday was a tragedy, but today we still have work to do.

Harsh? Perhaps. Flippant? Probably. Stereotypically German? Definitely.

But the sentiment holds true. As much as everything sucks right now, and as much as it seems like the villains always win, we still have work to do.

Vote¹. Donate². Volunteer³. Assist. Engage. Protest. Challenge. Canvass. Write⁴.

Stay angry. Stay engaged. Stay in the fight.

The terrorists only win if we give up.

Off next week

We’re planning a family reunion/vacation that looks fun on paper and will be nightmarish IRL. I’ll (presumably) see you again on Friday, July 15.

Hang in there.

Amran

1. Lest I be a hypocritical proselytizer, my wife and I voted by mail this month in our local and state elections.

2. We just made our annual donation to the NAACP LDF. We also donated, for the first but certainly not last time, to the Chicago Abortion Fund, which will likely be assisting impacted families from neighboring states.

3. Admittedly need to do more here.

4. I write this newsletter for fun and to entertain. While I have strong views, it’s not overtly “political” beyond what naturally unfolds during the creative process. That said, I’m brainstorming ways to translate my (alleged) writing talent into something actionable. Stay tuned for more details over the coming months.