Shakespeare in the Limelight

Frock You?

Father Sky's house was what a real estate agent might list as a bespoke mix of Spanish Colonial revival with a sensual palette of Mediterranean stucco. The other landscapers referred to it as "Casa donde vive el Colonel Sanders" or "Casa donde vive el Viejo Rico de ojos locos, (the house where the old rich man with crazy eyes lives). Father Sky's staff had set out a buffet table for me and the other landscapers. The table was stacked with higher-end fast food that his staff had picked up from various food trucks. His staff also prepared crudités, but none of the other landscapers touched it. I grabbed a few gherkins, not wanting to appear rude.

Father Sky was sitting by himself at a glass lawn table sipping what looked like a mint julep, though it could have just been lemonade. He waved me over to sit with him.

"How's your food?"

"Finger lickin' good."

"Excellent! A solid meal is important after a hard day's work."

"I'm sure I'll have a solid shit later. At least, I hope I will." I looked at my plate piled high with potato salad, nuggets, a hot dog, and gherkins. A shit was definitely in the works; its consistency yet to be determined.

"Say, I wanted to ask you something, Scooter. After tomorrow, you and the other landscapers will be done here, correct?"

"Basically. We don't like to rush things, but I think we should be out of your way once we add those flower beds to the front of the estate. Why?"

"Well, I was wondering if you could stay just a few extra days."

"Me? Maybe. I'd have to check with Jim first. What for, though?"

"I really want to get this micro-farm up and running, but most of my employees who'll handle the day-to-day operations don't know much outside of making semiconductors in a laboratory."

"I could see how that could be a problem."

"They're a smart, highly dedicated lot, but they could benefit from a little extra guidance from an experienced landscaper such as yourself."

"Sure. I'll ask Jim."

"You know, I was thinking, celebrity is a fascinating stock and trade with a singular paradox. On one hand, you're typically loners, introverts who crave attention and the limelight. Then what happens? You find your success, and you become surrounded by all sorts of people, most of them fans if you're lucky, some of them sycophants if you're not so lucky."

"Don't forget managers, agents, and lawyers. The trifecta of parasites."

"Then what happens? The celebrity becomes insulated by their celebrity status, which they have craved all along. My background is in engineering, and I know something about insulation. It doesn't let much through. No heat, no light, no sound. It's a bit of a loner's paradise, a paradox of wealth, fame, and isolation. It's a negative feedback loop in the end, and for most, it seems, it could be downright dangerous. Probably why Hollywood is so full of rock bottom former child stars."

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Did your staff happen to pick up any fish sticks?"

"Actually, my staff prepared something rather special for you." There was that smile again, a little bit of the cat that ate the canary.

A soup bowl was placed in front of me— full of fucking Atomic Meatball Soup! The staff seemed overjoyed. What was nostalgic for them was immediately panic-inducing for me. I began to gag and lose my breath. I tried to stand, to get away from the meatballs, but the entire room spun around me.

"Oh my god— is he having a heart attack?!" Someone cried out behind me.

The last thing I remember was falling on top of the glass table and landing face down in a bowl of orange radiant, wet, hot, soupy meatballs.