Moral Panic Room

Why don’t you take your shoes off and come right in? A good rule of thumb (or should it be “rule of big toe”) is that you should always act as you would at a fancy Japanese restaurant. There, you’d remove your shoes, sit on the floor, and eat more sea creatures than a famished flounder. Chugging sake and soy sauce by the quart. Watch the lamp on the side table, it’s an original Tiffany. And don’t eat those hard candies in the crystal dish, as enticing as they appear. They’re purely decorative, and as you might have discovered, sadly inedible. I can take out some petty cash for an emergency dental visit if necessary.

This house has it all, and then some. A good roof, firm walls, strong floors. No exposed wires or pipes. The fridge doesn’t rise above a low hum. The pilot light has but a gentle flicker. It wasn’t the scene of a horrible crime or once owned by an out-of-work celebrity attempting to hit the career reset button with a double dose of modesty and humility. An infestation isn’t on the horizon, nor is a major renovation. We did some digging, and this isn’t the location of an ancient Indian burial ground. Though, whoever built the place, liked to hit golf balls into the foundation. You shouldn’t lose any sleep over the possibility of something paranormal either. Haunting statistics have only been kept in the last decade, but as of right now, you’re totally ghost-free. No, no, that isn’t lead paint – though I still wouldn’t advise licking it. Oh, you want to see more? Okay. Let’s take a walk to the other end of the house.

You have a good eye there, Ted Williams. Your optometrist must be proud. Since I can see you’ve noticed the back room, which I only show to serious buyers. Because once you’re inside, you will have seen enough. Come on, let’s go.

That’s titanium-reinforced steel. Yup, this room is windowless. Good catch. It’s what we’re dubbing, “The Moral Panic Room.” The Internet won’t work in here. Don’t bother trying. We’ve made it so that the electricity barely registers a pulse. Your cell phone will be rendered useless. And even your brain waves will only function at a reptilian level – enough to keep you alive, but not enough to keep you asking annoying questions. Inside here, you can forget what’s going on out there – in the real world. There’s no news, no TV, no radio, no podcasts, no articles, no nothing. Yes, there’s a single pillow if you must sleep. That’s a hot plate for your dinners. Cans of pickled everything are in the crawlspace should you get hungry. Visitors? I don’t think so. 

When would you leave? That’s up to you. I would say, given the current state of the world, it might be best to hunker down for a few more months. Stay as long as you like. Remember that no one knows you’re in here, which raises the possibility, however remote, that you’ll be declared dead before the closing date. Just something to keep in mind as we’re signing papers. But that’s nothing a few strokes of a pen and one big press conference can’t fix. I’ll make some calls. You’ll have plenty of room to breathe. Although, if you notice your CO2 levels going up, hit that red button in the corner – it connects directly to the Fire Department. 

But I should really get going. I’m showing a houseboat down at the marina in 20 minutes and high tide is in 15. We’re pitching it as an “unmoored home for an unmoored human.” Catchy, I know. The trouble is that without a mooring, there’s a real risk of losing the boat to the ocean.

I’ll lock you up on my way out.