I am visiting my parents in their suburban Chicago condo. Last night I walked through the building’s front door, and what I saw stopped me cold.
I was transfixed by the machine, which was so intricate, so arrogant, so perfectly still and diabolically precise – all at once it was clear that selling my childhood home and moving to a condo had been their dire mistake.
Something is wrong here. Very wrong.
I think that Werker Werker is controlling the building -
- and every seventy-something in it.
Werker Werker is making them wear tracksuits. He forces them to clip coupons and eat dinner early, and Werker Werker demands the wearing of house slippers and the playing of cards.
I heard that nice Edie and Moe in 416 went down to the building’s garbage room and never came back. Recycling, they said.
Thank goodness I’m here. I believe it is not too late to save my parents but still, I am seeing signs, little things. Grocery carts in the lobby. Whispers on the balconies.
I am certain that Werker Werker has gotten to my father. He…he…
…he joined the condo association board!