FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2020
>>> 7:00 A.M. TO 10:30 A.M.
A door slams.
A young man, M., has just entered a bedroom of a $2 million house atop Red Mountain, in Birmingham, Alabama. He stands over the bed where an older man, E., is asleep.
M. (loudly): Sir, hello. Why are you in my house, sir?
E. (still half asleep): Nahnah…What?
M.: What are you doing here?
E.: You scared me.
M.: What are you doing here, sir? What are you doing here?
E.: Excuse me, what do you mean?
M.: Are you supposed to be here?
E: Yes, I live here. I rent this house.
M.: No sir, I just bought this house off the market. I bought this house and everything in it two months ago.
E.: Uhh…no you didn’t.
M.: Yes sir, I did. I have my whole family here today. I have my whole family here right now. Who are you?
E.: I am Elton Stephens, and I am renting this house.
Elton B. Stephens Jr., to be exact. Seventy-five years old; six feet tall, 180 pounds; gray hair, blue eyes. He is fourteen years retired as manager of the real estate division of EBSCO Industries, Inc., a privately held international conglomerate started by his father. The company’s private holders are Elton’s family, one of the wealthiest in the South. Elton has been separated from his second wife for a year. And for that year he has, it is true, rented the house in dispute from a friend of his (referred to hereafter as Mr. B.), while his new house is being finished.
By way of full disclosure, I should mention that I have known Elton and his family almost all my life. His siblings—two sisters and an older brother—are private, discreet, Apollonian people, while Elton has always had a Dionysian lean toward partying, fast cars, good food, good wines, and pretty ladies. He has an endearing grin, a Deep South drawl, not a shred of pretense or affectation, and a sweet soul. He also has sleep apnea. Every night when he goes to bed, he pulls up an app on his phone called SnoreLab that records his snoring and breathing overnight, along with any other sounds made nearby—such as those of the Kafkaesque nightmare he finds himself waking to this morning, a nightmare for which nothing in his blithe seventy-five years has prepared him.
(Note: Despite the fact that it seems like someone had to have made it up, the dialogue in this article, up to when Elton leaves the house, is taken directly from the SnoreLab recording, though some of it has been edited for clarity and/or reordered.)
E.: So, what now?
M.: You tell me.
E.: You want me to leave?
M.: I need to see some credentials, ’cause I got mine. I think you are lying to me.
Who do you rent it from?
E.: Mr. B. (). M.: Well, I brought my family here to show them their new home. E.: Okay. Can we go in the living room? M.: No, my family is in there. E.: Buddy, you are scaring me. M.: I’m not trying to scare you, bud. If I was trying to scare you, I scare you. I mean, this is just crazy as f **k. I’ve never done any business with Mr. B. I mean, I’ve bought high-end cars from him [], but never any real estate business. I didn’t take him as a crook. E.: So, do you want me to leave? I would like to get in my car and leave, please. M.:
