“Yes.” Joan smiles. “I think you’d enjoy it.”
They sit in silence. Blandine forces herself not to say anything, hoping that Joan will engage with the mystics’ fetishization of suffering. Perhaps Joan’s just reflecting. But soon it becomes clear that Joan is waiting for the topic to pass, like a flash of hail. Loneliness grips Blandine with the force of a puppeteer.
“Do you have a bird feeder?” Blandine asks, changing course.
“Pardon?”
“You just—you look like the kind of person who would have a bird feeder.”
“No,” replies Joan.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever had a bird feeder?”
“No.”
“Not even as a child?”
“Never.”
“Huh.” Blandine tucks the library book back in her bag. “Well, Joan, between you and me, I’m giving mysticism a go, myself. I think I have a real shot. From what I can tell, theism isn’t a necessary prerequisite. All I want is to exit my body.”
Joan coughs. “Ah.”
“I think we should all take each other a little more seriously.”
A pause. “Perhaps,” whispers Joan.
“Sometimes I walk around, bumping into people, listening to them joke and fight and sneeze, and I don’t believe anyone is real. Not even myself. Do you know what I mean?”
Joan looks her in the eye for the first time. “Yes.”
“It’s like what Simone Weil says. ‘To know that this man who is hungry and thirsty really exists as much as I do—that is enough, the rest follows of itself.’ Simone was a bona fide mystic.” Blandine bites her nail. “What’s the rest, I wonder.”
Another silence.
“I’m glad we met,” says Blandine. “Strange to remain strangers with your neighbor, don’t you think?”
“Oh. Sure.”
“We’re all just sleepwalking. Can I tell you something, Joan? I want to wake up. That’s my dream: to wake up.”
“Oh. Well. You’ll be okay.”
“I feel better, having met you. Like, ten milligrams more awake.”
Joan blinks. “That’s nice.”
“But I know I’m not doing it right.”
“Oh?”
“Pop religion and demons and little biographies. Sweating blood. You must think I’m bananas.”
“No.” Joan checks her phone in a clunky, theatrical gesture. “No, no. Oh, late. I should get going.” She stands abruptly. “Nice to meet you.” Abandoning her load of blues, she exits the laundromat and slips into the evening as though trying not to wake it.
Alone, Blandine grips her forehead. She’s certain that she has some kind of social impairment; she just doesn’t know what it’s called. Internet quizzes never know what to do with her. In general, she feels too much or too little, interacts too much or too little—never the proper amount. It seems to her that she’s spent her whole life sitting in a laundromat, freaking people out. The energy mounts and mounts; she should have brought her vaporizer. She forces herself to sit in quiet. Then she checks her watch. Finally, it’s time to go.
She lifts her corduroy bags, which are stocked with bottles of fake blood, several voodoo dolls fashioned from sticks, bags of dirt from the Valley, latex-free gloves, her library book, and small animal skeletons. She power walks into an enchanting Midwestern dusk and makes her way northeast to the Vacca Vale Country Club. It’s hot, but her hands are numb.
A Threat to Us All
Vacca Vale Gazette
By Araceli Gonzales Vacca Vale Gazette
Tuesday, July 16, 8:50 a.m. ET Updated 2 hrs ago
CELEBRATION INTERRUPTED BY DISTURBING ACT
Last night, officials met at the Vacca Vale Country Club for a wild game dinner, celebrating the official launch of a development plan. Unfortunately, the developers did not have the opportunity to taste the fruits of their labor. Derailed by a mysterious attack, the dinner ended before it began.
At 7:18 p.m., two large ceiling vents opened in the banquet hall. Immediately, several small animal bones and large quantities of dirt fell from the vents, littering the table and attendees. These items were followed by roughly two liters of what was first assumed to be real blood but later determined to be a persuasive imitation. Last, 26 voodoo dolls dropped from the vent. The dolls were fashioned from twigs and string. They had X’s for eyes.
To understand who might be responsible for the attack, private detective Ruby Grubb says that it is important to understand its context. “When you’re dealing with a group or individual who commits organized sabotage,” she told the Gazette, “it’s almost always politically motivated. To track them down, you look for a motive. You look at the whole story. Not just personal history, but the history of their town, their country, their world. I think the first clue lies in the redevelopment proposal itself.”
The Vacca Vale Revitalization Plan will generate an estimated $4 million in local tax revenue annually and create thousands of jobs, provided that the general campaign is successful. The plan takes advantage of Chastity Valley’s natural beauty, and will construct luxury condominiums in the hills, transforming Vacca Vale from a dying postindustrial city into a startup hub, attracting talent from around the world.
Last year was particularly difficult for Vacca Vale, with unemployment at an all-time high of 11.7% and the rat population surpassing the human population by an estimated 30,000. (Who could forget the time a rat fell from the ceiling of a Ta Ta’s restaurant onto a patron’s fries?) Meanwhile, the cottontail rabbit population surpassed the rat population. Crime was on the rise, and last year alone, the town logged 319 murders and non-negligent manslaughters; 21,068 instances of theft; 14,472 burglaries; 907 cases of rape; and 644 acts of arson. In September, the city suffered a 1,000-year flood, which caused over $3 million in damage, exacerbated by the 500-year flood that occurred just a few months before. Vacca Vale ranked first on Newsweek’s annual list of “Top Ten Dying American Cities.” By February, Vacca Vale was forced to declare bankruptcy, and the city faced unincorporation.
By March, Vacca Vale’s plight caught the attention of developer Benjamin Ritter. An urban designer based in New York City, Ritter is known for his extraordinarily successful campaigns reviving small towns across the Rust Belt. Swiftly, Ritter partnered with Mayor Douglas Barrington and local real estate developer Maxwell Pinky, founder and CEO of Pinky LLC, to pull Vacca Vale out of the red and into the black. Within four months, the plan was underway. Ritter says Chastity Valley is the perfect site for renovation. “Vacca Vale’s got a whole history of reinvention,” he told the Gazette. “It’s really buzzing with American spirit.”
Construction will begin this upcoming August. The revitalization plan will renovate vacant Zorn Automobile factories, transforming them into the headquarters for three different tech startups whose identities have yet to be made public due to ongoing negotiations.
Benjamin Ritter, Maxwell Pinky, and Mayor Douglas Barrington 32 the rabbi t hutch were present at last night’s dinner, along with 23 other men. Before the food was served, Ritter and his team projected a short film, which featured lifelike simulations of the plan, along with positive interviews with members of the community who say they are looking forward to a new economic era. The presentation concluded with a sneak peek at a commercial—the first of many that will air all over the country this year.
Following Ritter’s presentation, the country club staff unveiled the food, set on chinaware that bore the new town flag—a result of last year’s design contest.
After Pastor Wheeler led the group in prayer, Mayor Barrington addressed the table of men. “It’s been forty years since Zorn left us, and it’s true that we never quite recovered,” Barrington said. “But now is the time to pull ourselves up. Not by our bootstraps, but by our innovation. Our grit. Our hands. Each other. Now is the time to start over. There is nothing more American than resurrection.” After applause, Barrington added, “Except, maybe, a hearty meal you hunted yourself!”
The supper featured venison, elk, hare, pheasant, turkey, quail, goose, and American coot, all of which were hunted from the surrounding region by the developing team and prepared by lauded Windy City chef Danny Fiorentino, who was invited to Vacca Vale for the occasion.
The dinner, however, was thwarted.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Maxwell Pinky, age 34, whose white suit was splattered with dirt and fake blood. “It was very troubling. An act of aggression like this is a threat to us all. We’re here to help and protect this town—to foster community—and this was, like, the antithesis of that.”