He said he loved her after
he saw her jump over a fence

My Grandmother 
sewed tank seats at Fisher Body
She ran an industrial flywheel Singer 
stitching canvas for Shermans
While grandpa lay beneath 
that same war machine 
repairing broken tanks 
in the blood and mud of France
Third Army, Second Armored 

He put the tracks back on 
field-dressed iron scars and waited for fuel
He robbed Peter's parts 
to pay Paul's repairs
kept the battle line moving
He marched miles behind rolling cannons 
with a rifle and a tool bag
Normandy, Paris, Dachau, The Bulge
Almost Berlin
The paper trail lost in a building fire 
before I was old enough to want to know

I want to know if he ever sat 
in one of those seats that she sewed

I don't know if they knew 
what the other was doing during the war

I imagine him test-driving a serviced Sherman Tank 
around the motor pool, like it was a GI care package

He peeled the uniform off 
in the half-open doorway
He bare-chested Tom the Second 
for the first time
His wife packed the soldier's things 
into an old dress box
She left five bucks 
in his green pants
a Zippo
I found Chesterfields 
in the right breast pocket
I stole his photograph-
Patton pissing in the Rhine
It still smells like Grandma's house

I wonder if he repaired tanks 
because he worked on cars at home
or if the Army chose him because he was 
five feet, three inches

I wonder if she sewed tank seats 
because she was a seamstress
or if it was the way 
she decided to fight

He called it "the service"
a war comprised of breakdowns 
and beautiful Parisian women
war buddies living
miles and miles from Portland, Michigan
He sold more tires from a VFW barstool 
than at his business address
The tire shop lived 
for a hundred years, almost
No one ever died in his stories 
about the war
No one ever died at The VFW 
until the next morning

They had 7 Children, 33 Grandchildren
sown by wrench and sewing needle
Almost all of them worked at that tire shop
Keusch Super Service
some stayed their whole lives 
most left after graduation

I met him after he quit drinking
sitting in his swivel chair watching baseball
I sat on the floor in my underwear
while Ruth the Riveter 
sewed a patch on my torn blue jeans

He yelled at me once 
for shooting a songbird with my bb gun

She never yelled at me once 
she yelled at him, though

I am certain 
she made the seat cushions
for the wooden chairs 
that circled her dining table
She cooked sausage and sauerkraut 
without irony
we ate pot roast and pancakes 
fresh banana bread with butter
beneath a painting of a old man 
praying over a loaf of bread

They played Rummy every morning 
at that table
following 6:30 Mass 
after she cooked breakfast
a notepad stood on edge
between the plastic salt and pepper shakers

Ruth: 1,453,009 
Tom: 1,424,993

She won the game
He saw her jump a fence
Patton pissed in the Rhine

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Dear Sir,

I was flattered that you read Varhaus No. 11 yesterday. You asked: Is that me? Yes, I was writing to you. No, the character in the book is not currently you.

Camron Galt is, at once, a placeholder and a composite of some developers I know. You may be reading yourself into the book. That’s a huge compliment to my work. Thank you. You give me hope for my writing future.

Art is not about pretty pictures. Gentrification is not a dirty word when it happens organically. The cycle of urban renewal is, in fact, the same idea that God has created to maintain forests. Growth, towering density, decay of discarded growth, organic decomposition, wind, lightning, wildfire, prairie, regrowth. Renewal.

Unpredictable, yet trustable. Wonderful.

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Varhaus, the novel, ends in the middle of the cycle. The artist has left. What did he leave? What is of utility to those who come later? What can be used?

He’s left an activated building with an army governed by an unbreakable philosophy. A theology stripped down into a verse and three operating points. All held by a coffee mug, more: held by the act of sharing coffee. Hospitality.

He’s left a permanent exhibit that has travelled the country touching folks. This is a central theme. Send it out into the world, get it back. Varhaus’s reach is not confined to the city limits and those who live within them. A new chef from Detroit. An operator from New Orleans. A staff of professionals tied together with like thinking.…..with individual talents…serving others to serve God with the gifts God has given them.

Not only the shed...but this hospitality is also spread digitally, through snail mail, through traveling art festivals.

The artist has left a self-realizing building and business. It can make its own physical items, affect its own aesthetic and change it overnight.

There are many other after-effects, but the best, most valuable thing that Jason leaves with Varhaus is the story.

Story creates value. Varhaus says: come discover our stories. Come and see. It asks, almost demands, that the observer actively participate to realize the value.

Something to see, something to do, and something to believe.

The stories and the mechanisms that deliver them always reverse on each other. Varhaus uses its local population to create interest outside its city. Then it reverses that outside interest, bringing a wider legitimacy home to its neighbors. It makes a boys event for the enjoyment of the children to allow parents to enjoy the world like children.

If I may be so arrogant: I have pulled an even more clever paradox dupe on you. I wrote Varhaus before it became a thing. If someone jumps in to make it real, they don’t start with an empty building. They start with a story people already know and want to see happen.

And if you’ve already read the book, watching what actually happens becomes another story altogether.

Vice versa too.

So the question is not: “Is that me?”

The question is:

“Could it be me?”

Space and time, Cam.

Jason

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This letter is in reaction to a story. The story starts here…

April 26, 2029
3:30 Pm
Varhaus

Dress rehearsal. Ruth managed the chaos without moving her feet. Her voice boomed and her finger pointed. “Is the banner up outside? Where’s your uniform? Is Andrew here yet? Hey, go ask AP to come see me. Forty-five minutes! We’re going to get together for final check in forty-five minutes. Ninety minutes to showtime.”

Varhaus now had employees. Long-time listeners, first-time callers. A Kool-aid-drunk hospitality army. Their new Varhaus jumpsuits showing creases from folded packaging. Their hair, perfect. Makeup. Sensible shoes scurried from place to place checking the final readiness of the wine tasting bar or the coffee station. The new gift shop was taking its final shape. Mugs were merchandised...Go to Heaven...faced toward the customer...right next to individually boxed whiffle balls and artist-signed Varhaus Novellas.

Austin St. Pierre was what-up-doe Detroit. Hundred. He wasn’t dressed like one of the bots, Jordan 1’s, jeans embroidered with colorful flowers, skewed baseball cap with the Old English D. Crispy white chef coat with a Varhaus logo and script A.P.

As he walked from the kitchen, interrupted from assembling his stainless steel puzzle, he pointed to people and tasks with a nodding cap. Runner Mats. Squeeze bottles. Wet spot on the floor. Nothing escaped his attention to detail. He directed whoever was closest to the object he found in disorder: “Fix that.” His demeanor punctuated the unstated urgency: now!

He found Ruth in the same spot he left her an hour ago as the employees brought the whole operation directly to her.

“What up?” Ruth turned and smiled at AP’s greeting.

“How you doing back there? You ready?”

“How long does it take to make rice pilaf?”

“I’ve never made it so I don’t know.”

“Well, it takes 22 minutes, but if you open the doors in 16 minutes, it takes 16 minutes.”

“So you’re ready.”

“Bet. How can I help you?”

“This pre-shift meeting is a huge deal. We’ve decided that we want you to lead it. We need to get the staff to move from thinking to acting. To service. From ideas and details to people. We need you to lead with your heart. The tone is more important than the information. Day one. What are we going to do today, Brain?”

“Take over the world.”

“Exactly right. You’re gonna kill it.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Thank you. I’m on it.”

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4:00 pm
Lansing Chamber of Commerce Convention
Lansing Convention Center, Michigan Ave

While the chaos of Varhaus was being organized into an experience, Cam Galt was speaking at The Michigan Chamber of Commerce Annual Meeting. He had the opposite goal. Tear it down to the studs.

He trapped the audience with his opening lines.

“Let me tell you how I developed two empty blocks of Lansing into a destination with visitors from the whole country in five years. And since I’ve been asked to speak on this topic to you, the movers of business in our State, the answer is obvious. I did it without you. I did it without thinking like you.”

He paused and let his insolence hang in the room.

“Now that I think about it more seriously, I didn’t do it at all.

And neither can you.”

“I think what I’m trying to tell you, most of our problems of lost industry or flat populations cannot be answered in this room. We rub shoulders and press the same hands. Same questions. Same answers. If we rub two shoulders together, it’s a hug. If we only rub one, we move around in a circle, like having one foot nailed to the floor. Do what you always did, get what you always got.

Here’s the story. Five years ago, I owned an empty 12,000-square-foot building on Michigan Ave. Former Oldsmobile dealership from the fifties. All enclosed. No lot. Arched tall ceiling. Decaying art deco. You all know the building without seeing it. I had been sitting on it for a few years. I just loved the building and I bought it right. One day I received a box in the mail.

It contained three things: a coffee mug, a small paperback book, a beautiful Easter greeting card. It was not Easter time. I looked at the box. No return address. I opened this card:”

He held up a pink, yellow and purple Hallmark.

“Dear Camron. You are a fucking asshole for owning the coolest building in Lansing and not doing shit about it. It’s probably a sin. I wrote a book about what it could be. The mug enclosed holds the philosophy of what we need to do. If you’re going to sit on the building for five more years waiting for someone to pay for it, you may as well allow me to use it to create real value. Figure it out.”

Camron put the card down and waited a second before adding context.

“Weird, right? But, I know this man. I’ve known him for 20 years. A friend, but not an intimate one. I know him as a serious person. An artist, but a serious person. I know him well enough to know that he called me an asshole to get my attention, not to cause offense.

But, he failed to get my attention. I had 3 huge projects going on, plus 20 buildings worth of tenants to manage. A major re-fi. My assistant just had her first baby. I’m busy. Distraction. I absentmindedly took the package home. I recognized that Jason put a lot of effort into this package, plus it was a free coffee mug.”

“The next morning I went to the kitchen for coffee. I found my wife drinking out of the mug, flipping through the little book using the Easter card as a bookmark. She just looked at me like wives do when you missed something. ‘Have you read this?’ She knew I didn’t. She followed me around talking to me about it. She sat on the toilet and read the first chapter while I was showering. Chapter two was for shaving, etc. When I was about to leave, my phone blowing up, late for an 8:00 am inspection, she stopped me in the doorway.”

“She grabbed my shoulder with one hand and the book with the other. ‘I need two minutes of your undivided attention to hear this.’ She read this to me:”

The artist moves first.

Then the little coffee shop. The convenience store. A new builder trying his hand at renting lofts with his own cash. A brewery needing to spend resources on equipment and raw material, not triple-net. Synergy of makers. Small development. Someone buys a city block because it’s still cheap.

Critical mass. Rumblings of activity. A vlog article. Did you hear? Cultural breakthrough. City zoning to leverage taxation. Big bank takes little bank.

*The artist walks to first base. The rest think they hit a triple.

“Ain’t we neat.”

Monetization. Leverage. Protection. Optimization. Appropriation. Entropy. Decay.

The artist moves first. Space and time.

Camron held up the Varhaus coffee mug and read its text aloud to the audience and continued his speech.

“I live in a world of permission. Beg the bank, beg the city. Boards and clearinghouses. Insurance and assurance. Mother, may I? The creative problem solver has the power of suggestion. Our systems have the power of no, and they say no to anything they can’t immediately understand and categorize. The artist does not fit.

But it just takes one person to say: Fuck you, I’m not asking! The creator is the engine. The Creator of the creator is the reason.

The author of the book is named Jason. He has already left the building. I don’t remember what we were discussing, but he once told me in passing that orthodoxy is the only revolution left to pursue.

You’ll never find him. I know you people, because I know myself...you’ll go looking for something like him. You’ll turn Varhaus into a buzzword and do studies on it. You’ll fuck it up because you’ll forget...the artist moves first.”

He stepped out from behind the podium. “I hope you have questions.”

A hand raised from the middle of seated businessmen and officials: “Are you telling us you just let things happen? You just gave him a key, let him be? You simply got out of the way?”

“No, that would be passive. I actively and purposely got out of his way in the way he needed. I used my personal and business connections to keep hurdles out of his way. I kept you out of his way by never telling you something was happening. For instance, we did not file for one license or submit to one inspection for almost two years. I paid the utilities and kept track of them. He caught me up in two years. For his part, he did not take advantage. In fact, he would lean into the groups and events that were close to my heart. Children. Our Food Bank. Catholic holidays.”

A man in a neat, but inexpensive suit jacket:

“I’m a little confused. You’ve aggressively attacked the institutions represented by this conference. You’ve illustrated that we are not needed, that our connections, our thoughts and education are in the way of progress. Hell, you’ve even admitted to breaking the law in your city. If you don’t need this organization, why are you here telling us the story? We protect the public. We regulate capitalism. And we connect good ideas throughout the state, for a better state. Michigan should be a leader. I just don’t understand your motives.”

Camron extended a friendly smile. He took a step toward the audience. He was over the target.

“It’s great to see you, Joe. Let me ask you a question. The philosophy on the mug. Go to Heaven. Do simple commerce. Show people they are not trapped. To whom do you think it applies as an operating statement?”

“I think it could apply to everyone depending on what they believe.”

“Fuck yes, Joe!”

He turned from Joe to speak to the whole. “I know Joe quite well. There is not a more honest and hardworking person in City Government. He truly tries to do what is right. Respect.” He turned back to Joe.

“The why answers all the other questions, Joe. Why am I giving you this presentation? I am living the mug out in the best way I can. Why am I telling you? Heaven first. Simple honest biz, second. The third point...

are you trapped, Joe?”

Joe gave a slight nod as several questioning hands were raised. Cam Galt took a step toward Joe and almost whispered.

“I was, too.”

5:45 pm

Mike pulled the coach bus in front of Varhaus. A banner: Do what you always did, get what you always got. The attendees of the conference filed down the aisle into the street. A woman on the sidewalk stood waiting as they descended the steps. “Welcome to Varhaus. Take off that stupid lanyard.” Most bristled at the terse demand. They acquiesced, noticing fifty discarded name tags from the previous bus, hanging from her shoulder.

The entry was flanked by ten jumpsuited and pinstriped servers holding trays of beer in frosted mugs. The lobby smelled slightly of Krylon as the scripted message behind the host station dried. Be not conformed...in neon green.

With each beer passed to a guest, a “Welcome home” was extended by the team member. Beer in hand, the customer walked into a hospitality arcade for adults. Huge abstract artworks with prices arrogant enough for Soho. London or Manhattan. Paintings titled with the names of angels and saints. Sprawling candelabras passing lights in all directions. A traditional trio playing chamber arrangements of Tom Waits covers. A woodshop that somehow communicated that every piece of restaurant furniture was constructed in-house by the same hands that were serving beer and driving the bus. Same concrete floor.

The Chamber had attempted to control the impact on their guests. This was their most important member event of the year. They wanted agendas, approvals, signage, speaking time. Sara charged them fifty grand and gave them two things: time and space.

She had worked tirelessly to shut down every preconceived notion they brought with them. Ruth would have canceled them in one phone call. Jason would not have taken the call at all. Sara was the only person who could get both sides to yes without either knowing exactly what they had agreed to.

AP was a bit perturbed at the lateness of the guests’ arrival. Timing is almost everything for a Chef, adaptation is the rest of it. He would learn later that the Q & A of Camron’s speech took a whole hour. He held his horses, his cooks and his roasted tenderloins, but had to re-prep and re-fire all the miniature Yorkshire puddings. Not the worst restaurant opening by a long shot.

The guests settled and explored in groups. A man walked up to Cam and pushed his shoulder in, causing a circular dance and laughter. People nodded from across the room. He was so busy talking he didn’t get a beer until Ruth quietly pushed a coffee mug into his hands mid-conversation with a city official from Flint.

The members socialized for forty-five minutes. Stripped of their identification, they were forced to treat everyone they encountered as potential value. Not knowing allowed real discovery, like chatting with strangers in a small coffee shop for no reason.

The service staff circulated Duck Confit and Caramelized Mango, Cubes of Frozen Goat Cheese with Molten Beet Syrup and Fresh Thyme presented on an artist’s palette knife. Varhaus loved puns. Of course, the powdered sugar of fresh beignets seemed to hang in the air like atmosphere. AP had nailed the tone. The staff moved purposely looking for opportunities to serve like the members of The Chamber of Commerce had arrived in their homes. Not for the gratification of tips or thanks, but simply because joy is found in the doing.

Ruth took the stage and asked for attention. Her pearls glistened in the new light fixtures. Pink-soled heels taller than before. Tailored coveralls. She held up a mug, her mug.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thanks a million for being here. You may not know, but this is our dress rehearsal for the new Varhaus opening next week. Most of you just learned we exist an hour ago. A perfect introduction.

We’d like to thank the Chamber for being here and trusting us to say no to just about everything they’ve requested for this event. For instance, Director Johnson wanted to speak and welcome you. We told him no. They wanted to meet your expectations for a post-conference send-off. As they should. But we see a larger opportunity. A larger value for you, for the Chamber and for us.

We took your lanyards. We serve first names, not last names. We don’t serve work or affiliations. People. We serve people. We believe that when you make something with purpose and put it into the world, you don’t get to decide what happens to it. Sometimes it comes back as something more.

We have a special guest here tonight to illustrate our biggest project of pushing good into the world. If you look behind you and to your right, please. That space used to be an artist’s working studio. The artist who made the paintings on our walls. Now, it is the resting place for The Joyful Mystery.”

The group turned their collective head, some moved their feet to view a sliding velvet curtain revealing a beat-up graffitied garden shed.

“Please meet Andrew Sand. We call him Andy Sandy.” Andrew stepped out from inside the Mystery and smiled.

“We made this shed a couple years ago and revealed it at a Christmas Party. Andy is responsible for all the metalwork including the truly magnificent Crucifix inside. It traveled the country for two years accumulating the prayers of all who wished to pray. It has returned to live here as an exhibit. As proof. Send it out. Get it back.”

The shed rests quietly as a person who has seen the world. Weatherworn. Accidentally dropped off the trailer twice. Adorned with the names of thousands of hopeful prayers. Desperate prayers. And those prayers we dare not share with anyone but God alone.

As if it was supposed to be there all along.

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Jason got fired from his own idea.

“Hey. Gotta sec?”

“Of course, Mike.”

“We had a meeting about Fathaus. I want you to hear about it from me. We decided that you can’t be involved with it.”

“It’s my event! You had a meeting about it without me? I’ve thought about this party since the beginning, longer. It’s my fucking dream event, Mike. I want to do it for BB.”

“BB was in the meeting, dude.”

“huh?”

“Look Jason. All of your ideas about Fathaus were discussed. You’ve been driving us crazy about it. Everyone argued in favor of carrying out your dream with you. Then, BB said: ‘it will never be as good as he sees it in his head no matter how hard he tries’. Everyone agreed. So, you’re out.”

Silence.

“Ruth said that the idea was so real in your mind that you were blinded to what is actually possible. You’re trying to force it.”

“I can see that.”

“You’re not fired because you can’t do it. You’re fired because we want to do it right, for our guests. We want you to enjoy it for once. We’ll send you the invite. We can’t wait to see your reaction in three weeks.”

Jason hung up the phone. He went back to the front of his festival tent. He checked for customers and finding none, he sat down.

He smiled.

February 10, 2029
5:15 pm

A white shipping tube arrives in the mail. FATHAUS. By now, you know what a package from Varhaus means. Party. The tube is too heavy to contain paper goods. Something bulky slides back and forth as you tip it. You set your work bag down to open the tube.

A little umbrella? You walk back out to your front porch to expand the folded nylon to its full dimension. You open the parasol to reveal a white hanky hanging from the spokes of it’s armature.

The white linen handkerchief is embroidered in purple:

March 5, 2029.
Look Dope.
Dope = Purple, Gold & Green.
There is a patch sewn into the linen. QR code.

March 5, 2029
6:00 pm

You’d been directed to an address six blocks from Varhaus. This is your third rodeo. The address is no accident. You pull up to a dark corner to find people are gathered round the curb cut. They’re wearing jumpsuits and each carries a parasol like the one in your backseat. You pull up.

A young woman leans down to declining window. Her unexpected accent directs you.

“Good Evening. Park anywhere facing the street. Stay in your car and wait for the beignets and coffee. The parade starts in thirty minutes. You betta be ready to dance. Did you bring your hankie?”

You produce the linen from your purse and drive on. You look around for the coffee and find nothing. So, you sit.

You scan the lot from looking for familiar vehicles. Who else is here? You notice many rental car plates on the cars to your front. Still no coffee or sweets. The lot is lit only by one flashlight at the entrance and the running lights of the parked cars.

You look left, a group of women laughing in an Enclave. Right, two familiar faces in a little black car. You know them, but they seem out of place, limiting your recognition. The woman was driving. The man sits quietly, impatient or anxious, but still.

A fire engine pulls in, full lights and making that low buzzing noise they make when there’s too many sirens. Not a warning, but an ‘I’m here’ sound. It stops halfway into the lot allowing a pickup truck pulling a teardrop-shaped camping trailer enter. The folks holding the flashlight follow behind the gold, purple and green trailer. It stops, they gather, and turn toward the cars carrying trays of Styrofoam coffee. Some carry brown paper bags seemingly stained with hot popcorn butter.

As Cafe au Laits are delivered, a parade begins. More firetrucks, towing wreckers, police cars. They go by slowly, lights, no sirens. They disappear down the street as you finish the last bite of warm beignet.

“What’s this parade all about?”

“That was just something to look at while you eat your treats. The real parade starts in a few minutes. Stay close to the women. They’ll show you how we get down for Mardi Gras.”

“We’re the parade?”

“Yup. Don’t worry. You’ll know what to do. Laissez les bons temps rouler.”

Two vehicles pull up in the street. A police cruiser pulls to the far end of the block. A ladder truck stops short of the drive. One large siren blast. Pay attention.

Handkerchiefs are waved at the cars. Get out. Let’s go.

A man walks to the police cruiser and sticks his head in. He comes out pulling the police officer’s microphone out the window. His left hand hits an air horn even though everyone is already watching. He brings the mic to his mouth and broadcasts through the cruiser’s speakers:

“YOU KNOW, I USED TO LOVE HER, BUT IT’S ALL OVER NOW!”

In one move, the entire lot is illuminated by men carrying brass. The lights flicker. Three tubas have mounted the firetruck. A low bass line. A beaten trumpet and plunger emerge in the bandleaders hand as he returns the policeman’s tools. He’s wearing a hat you’d find on a man operating a trolly. Parasols go up with the women’s voices:

“BABY USED TO STAY OUT, ALL NIGHT LONG.”

A line of musicians, women strutting and dancing while waving parasols and white hankys. They make their way to the front line of cars, they stop and play a verse. The women go car to car removing the passengers from their mini theaters. “Come on! Where’s your umbrella! Wave your handkerchief like this! You got it, girl! Let the good times roll!”

The ensemble weaves thought the cars from near the street to the back of the lot converting passengers into participants for their Second Line Parade. All end on the sidewalk between the parked emergency lights. The band gathers and finishes the song.

“TABLES TURN AND NOW IT’S HER TURN TO CRY,

BECAUSE I USED TO LOVE HER, BUT IT’S ALL OVER NOW!”

The second line band breaks it down, tuba bassline short bursts. The bones keep a soft march. The main trumpet. The man steps forward.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! They call me Crawl-Daddy. These are the wondrous, most fabulous, world-famous, gritty, grimey, down and dirty Bayou Thunderbirds. You Yankees don’t know nuttin’ about a Second LIne Band. I ain’t gonna explain it to ya. Cause you in one, now. You betta dance. C’mon!”

Clapping and laughter. Silence. A huge man carrying a tuba stepped through the crowd: “My spyboy tell your spyboy, sitting on the bayou”

Crawldaddy: “My spyboy tell your spyboy, i’m gonna set your tail on fire,
talkin’ ‘bout”

Thirty cajun Thunderbirds joined the chorus and began the march:

“HEY NOW, HEY NOW,
IKO, IKO, AN DAY
JOCKOMO FEEENO AH NAN DAY
JOCKOMO FEENA NAY”

You gingerly set off waving your hanky trying to look as cool as the culture you’re following. An army walking down Michigan Avenue dressed like a King Cake led by police lights and trailed by a firetruck.

You dance three blocks to a song you’ve heard in movies and never understood. You ask. Nobody really knows what the words mean, but everyone knows how it feels. The procession stops on the corner of Michigan and Penn. The hospital. The band turns to face the guests. Crawl-Daddy holds his hand up. Points to the entrance.

“A lot of people ain’t got it like we got it. Lots of people having their worst day in there. So we gonna give ‘em some of what we got. Let’s have a moment to think about them, let’s ask God to help. Ya’lll ready?”

The band plays a soft parade through automatic doors of the hospital. The common area’s perimeter, occupied folks in gowns, assisted by folks in scrubs. Wheelchairs and walkers and rolling IV trees. Families and friends stand with hands on the shoulders in front of them. Single file, the Thunderbirds slowly gather with the patrons in the rear.

In the middle, a baby-grand opened wide. Crawldaddy sat at the piano and set his trumpet aside, bell down. The brass gathered behind the bench. He made no introduction.

“I’VE SEEN TREES OF GREEN, RED ROSES TOO”

Upon finishing his Satchmo tribute, the band played for two more songs. The ladies handed out handkerchiefs to the crowd. Danced with the families.

A woman in a Varhaus jumper appears and walks directly to a man in a beard. You recognize her. Her name is Ruth. He’s the anxious man you saw in the car next to you. He and his wife smile. She motions. Come with me.

The music ends shortly after. Crawl climbs to stand on the piano bench.

“Ladies and Gentlemen. We are the Bayou Thunderbirds. We are celebrating Fat Tuesday and the beginning of Lent with our friends at Varhaus, down the street. We live in New Orleans. You may know what happened there during the hurricane. It’s a tough place. Six months ago, I was walking down the street. Outside this church was a little shed. It looked like shit. It had graffiti all over it. It seemed like a million people wrote their names on it. I don’t know why, but I had to check it out. I later found out it was called the Joyful Mystery. The Door was open, so I went in. The inside was the same as the outside. Names and names and names. There was a huge Crucifix made out of old rusty nails and I could tell that the walls used to be beautiful. It was a prayer room of some sort. There was a place to sit and a place to kneel. I found a little card on the chair. I have it here.”

“Let me tell you what it said: ‘The Joyful Mystery. Pray here. Especially pray the Rosary. Write the name of the person you are praying for. We’ll pray for them too. Will you pray for us, too? So I did!”

“I found out that this structure was made in Lansing Michigan. Never heard of the place! I found out that a group of people made it to send around the country. Now, those people are my friends.” And he raised his voice for one more line:

“WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD”

A quiet drumroll from the back of the band.

“The Joyful Mystery has returned home. In the last year, it’s been to 12 states and 50 cities. From Venice Beach to Venice, Florida. From Millennium Park to Mobile, Alabama. Do you want to see it? It’s right over there. Let’s go look at the prayers and leave some of our own.”

The crowd moved slowly around the corner. The parade waited for the sick to go first. As the group arrived, a man and a women could be seen holding hands through the open door of the shed. They realized that the group had arrived and exited as if they were interrupting.

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The exit from the hospital is one block closer to Varhaus. The band passes through the double doors, the sound explodes like a trumpet’s mute was removed. The bones buzzed at the firetruck escort. “We’re ready.”

The hospital trip stays in your blood for last leg of the second line march. The parasols go back to work. You try to make your hankie dance like the cajun queens leading the charge.

A block away you see a building in a floating purple aura. A glowing regality. A spotlight shines golden from the building across the street. As you get closer, illuminated and dancing on upon the facade of Varhaus, a giant Fleur-de-lis, welcome to Fathaus.

You cross the street to the entrance. The leading police car keeps driving into the night and back to work. The last marcher plants his foot on the Michigan Avenue curb as the trailing firetruck speeds away with full sirens.

The band steps to either side of the open entrance and allows the guests to enter. Parasols reduced for good luck. The Thunderbirds follow, tubas bowing forward to avoid the doorframe above.

You crowd into the entrance to make room for those behind you. Pitch Black. Silent. Slightly uncomfortable close murmuring. Boom, one illumination from behind you to a wall directly in front. A sparkling and beaded message bounces light in a million little disco ball directions:

LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL.

The man in your front lets out the gasp of a little boy. He regains his composure as you step to his side to view the signage. A woman approaches him with a mug and a hug. She plants a thought in his ear and he nods. His wife, leaning in, nods too, and receives her hug. The wife grabs the man’s hand as if to say: hold still for moment.

From an unseen location, a lone trumpet invites you into the party. It takes a minute. The crowd moves together past the entrance inside the building, but into the night. A cobblestoned floor, lined with trees smelling of southern perfume. The trees secured to the earth by a million sparkling hanging strands of beads. Old tennis shoes. Lacy bras. A whiffle ball bat. Somehow outside. Somehow in a city. Welcome to Varhaus.

The cobblestone path leads you to the fat cheeks of the trumpet. The soloist plays a familiar tune, slowly, so slow in and with so many extra accents, you can place it, but you can’t call the name of the song.

The women with the hankies meld into the soulful virtuoso. They move as if the music lives within them...and they pass that energy through their fingers into their kerchiefs.

Without warning, parasols are popped. The spin like a kaleidoscope restricting your view of trumpet and dancers. They form a sort of creole version of the spartan phalanx. The parasols sidestep to the left, left and left...leaving an almost empty stage save one small boy in a tuxedo.

He raises his hands from his waist and softly fills the silence with his falsetto:

“WHEN THE SAINTS, GO MARCHING IN, WHEN THE. SAINTS. GO. MARCH. ING. IN”

He takes his time with the standard. His arms remain outstretched and his bright facial expression reaches out to you. Welcome to my home.

A long tall woman enters behind the boy...she peers over his shoulder approvingly. As the boy begins the second stanza, she adds a low moan repetition slightly behind the cadence of the cherubic performance. They complete the chorus and he looks back at her without moving his feet to do so. As if to say: “now?”

A whiskey growl comes from both of them...

“THERE IS, A PLACE, IN NEW ORLEANS, THEY CALL THE RISING SUN.”

An amber bath of edison bulbs come softly from the light fixtures. Red, Green, Gold paper confetting falls like Mardi Gras snow. Crawldaddy and the Thunderbirds go for broke.

You don’t realize you need a drink until Hurricanes arrive.

“He hasn’t said one word. He’s just sitting out there watching people dance and party. He’s thrilled by Crawldaddy though.”

BB was washing her hands while directing her voice over the bathroom partition. A voice answered.

“Has anyone tried to talk to him? It seems funny that nobody asks him any questions. Not like, ha ha funny. Maybe the event takes over the focus, not the creator. I know he likes being a little in the background. But I wonder if it matters to him?”

The bathroom door opens.

“Good timing. We must have had the same number of drinks.” Sara checks the mirror by BB and smiles.

“How’s he doing?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re blowing him away.”

“and you?”

“I’m in heaven already. This is my favorite thing you guys have ever done. I’m biased though. Are you having any problems?”

“We only have one problem: controlling Crawldaddy. He’s the genuine article. Legit performer. Just have to make sure he doesn’t run away with the show.”

From over the stall door: “It’s the best problem to have! I say wind him up with Sazerac and get him talking about us!”

“Hell yes, Ruth. That’s why you make the big bucks!”

BB dried her hands and began to leave: “Let me know if I can help.”

From the toilet: “You’re already doing your job keeping Jason out of our hair.”

Sara smiled and cocked her head at BB: “Just go dance. We know you’re dying to shake it up.”

The party keeps moving and the Hurricanes flow until the bricks holding the building were drunk. Mardi Gras Marches. Blueberry Hill. Sazarac and frozen yards of iced alcohol.

Three people step on the stage. Ruth has the Mic.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome to Fathaus. It is our joy to share our favorite place with you: New Orleans.”

She handed the microphone to Sara. “Bonsoir. Laissez les bons temps rouler. Let the good times roll! How about a giant applause for Crawldaddy and the Cajun Thunderbirds! Being a Louisiana native, living here can be a little lonely, I’m thrilled to share some of my home with you. I am as thrilled to have some of my home come to me. Before we eat, I’d like to ask our entertainer for the night to say some words!”

“Thank you Sara. Thank you Ruth!

They call me The Crawldaddy, but my momma calls me Marcel Baptiste. These Thunderbirds are family. Nola is a hard place. Floods and huge bugs and thick air. New Orleans is an old city...dirty and kinda raw. We have the best music, the best art and the best food. We don’t have the best culture. We are the best culture. Pressure makes diamonds and humidity makes joyful souls.

So why am I here? Some crazy yankees sent a prayer shed to my neighborhood for no reason. I had to find out about these people, here. It all boils down to one prayer:

Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and Blessed the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God,” He stopped and looked at the crowd knowingly.

“pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death.” He nods his approval toward the crowd.

“Some people say that this prayer changes the world. It travelled the country collecting prayers and names so we can pray for others and they can pray for us. I found it. That led me to Varhaus and you. It now rests in the hospital down the block and will eventually end up here.

The people making this party sent it out into the world like bait, and caught the Crawldaddy.”

He hands the microphone to Ruth while they waited for the applause to end.

“Before we reveal tonight’s Fat Tuesday meal, the last feast before Lent, I have one request. When you head to the kitchen, you’ll notice cameras. Give them a wave. People from around the country are on the other end, people whose names and prayers helped fill the Joyful Mystery. After dinner, you can interact with them in the art studio.”

And now, Let’s eat.”

Mike spent months building a functional kitchen event in the Garage. A taste of Nola. Crawfish Boils and Jambalaya. Poboys and Grilled Oysters. Without ventilation, he devised the cooking area outside the open garage door. He created a tent with a huge door screen to keep bugs out of the food and out of the eating area. He designed a dining table that fit 40 people with an inset trough.

People sat down and Mike carried a restaurant-sized pot to the table and dumped boiled crayfish, shrimp, crab, corn and sausage in front of them. The best mess possible.

A sign hovered over the entire operation:
Varhaus: Ruining your clothing since 2026

Ruth’s furniture expertise provided a varied and unique options for eating. Standing tables, little bar tops near the cooking stations. All sorts of arrangements. 2 people or 10. Near the oysters or near the Etoufee. You could try one oyster or get a boil or just ask for a piece of andouille and never leave your seat.

Around the table Mike build were simple chairs save one. An executive armchair with a name card: Jason.

Jason saw it immediately but resisted acknowledging it. He stood and watched Mike work, smiling gently trying to have his attention. Mike was too busy for such sentimentality as Jason’s comfort. BB grabbed him by the hand gesturing toward his place at the table.

He resisted with all his might. He even told her no explicitly. She persisted with a wife’s slow emphatic, almost patronizing, head nod. Yes. He sat in the chair and BB sat next to him. The others joined him at the table.

“What?” He asked.

Ruth reached into the pocket of her Varhaus Jumpsuit, producing a purple envelope. She handed it to Jason.

He opened the envelope, a card that said “Acme” on the front cover. He opened the card and another card fell out onto the floor. He leaned, retrieved it from the floor.

A gift certificate. Acme Oyster House. $500

He laughed and thanked them.

“It’s not from us. Read the card.”

“Jinx, you owe me a coke, BB.”

“Dear Jason,

Thanks a million for talking about us.

We think we figured it out.

Enclosed is a $500 gift certificate and 200 pounds of oysters for Fathaus.

You’ll have to come visit us for the butter beans.

Lagniappe!

ACME Oyster House

P.S. Tell Crawl-Daddy we said hello.”

There were 100 signatures on the card.

His friends and loved ones wanted his response immediately, but he could not give it to them. He sat and stared, reread and smiled. He pretended to read every name written like they didn’t know he was hanging on by a thread. Finally, he put his head down. BB grabbed his hand. Mike came behind and gripped his shoulders. He reached for his coffee mug. Lifting it, he read it for the 1000th time. He raised up to hug every single player without saying a word, except Mike who was already back to work.

A new friend.

“Hey Marcel, I’m Jason. Thanks a million for what you’ve done. I have so many questions about how you got here.”

“I got some for you too. We’re already brothers. When you coming down to visit me?”

The rest of the crew went back to work. Marcel went wild on the stage. Jason sat down in his oversized chair next to his wife. They set out to discover how many oysters they could eat.

March 6, 2029
9:12 am

Cam Gault woke up late the next morning. Too much Hurricane. He got up, grabbed his phone and hydrated. He sat down in the kitchen while his coffee brewed and opened his messages.

5:00 am. Jason.

“It is finished. It’s ready. They’re ready. Can you find me a 1000 sf unit? Tall ceiling. anywhere close to our house.”

Cam replied: “Are you sure? You want to talk about it? How do you want to get paid?”

Immediately: “Who is John Galt?”

“That’s my uncle.”

“Lol. I have some ideas about how to set it up. Catch you next week?”

“Yup.”

Thanks for reading!

Lagniappe!- a little extra.

Dr John. IKO IKO & It’s All Over Now

Back outside.

We played home run derby in KK’s back yard. Sometimes Dougie played with us when he didn’t have teenage sports to play. Sometimes Nathaniel played with us when he wasn’t acting four years younger.

We taped the whiffle balls so they would fly more true. We taped upon the hemisphere with any tape we could find. Electric tape worked best unless it rained. “Duck” tape worked in all weather but it frayed and separated from the adhesive.

We were always experimenting with the ball and the bat. Cover some holes and see what happens. Tape down the middle or offset to one side. Now, throw submarines like Trent Tekulve. Wind-up like Louis Tiant. Leg-kick like Jack Morris. Senior Smoke. Dirty fingernails on cheap plastic. KK’s knuckleball was nasty, but his spitball was disgusting…especially if you hit it. We taped the sweet spot on the bat barrel for more weight. An explosive thud compared to a plastic whack.

The red Bomb Bats were for little underhand kids. Whiffle balls never cracked and whiffle bats never dented. They stuck in the wire fence backstop without going through which kept the action moving. Eavestroughs are the whiffles only natural enemy. A long fly ball onto the pitched roof quickly converts an all-star shortstop into a part-time bicyclist until dad gets home from work.

Mostly, we played spot ball. One on one. JK versus KK. Pitcher, batter, ghosties and pitcher’s hand. Hit it there: single. Hit it past there: Homer. Hit it in the garden, get yelled at. “Out of my tomatoes! We made our own rules. KK’s Mom made the boundaries.

We knew all the players from baseball cards and television. If Kirk Gibson was up, you had to bat left-handed. If you were Willie Hernandez...you had to pitch with your left. Screwball. KK batted left, threw right. I was righty, righty. We narrated the whole game like Ernie Harwell on a hot summer’s night in Detroit. “He stood there like the house on the side of the road and watched it go by.”

In my memory, every summer was like this.

In June of 1984 I was ten. KK was about to be eleven, one grade ahead of me. The Tigers won the world series that year. My dad bought me a Sports Illustrated with my hero on the cover.

World Series MVP.

Forty-two years later, he’s still my hero.

Alan Trammell batted right. Threw right. Played right.

Just like us.

It’s Fathers’ Day. My dad told me something several times when I was a kid. “You can be anything you want to be, if you’re willing to work for it.” I have a problem with that statement: I still believe it’s true.

At 52, I can still look up to my Dad and say: the fucker was right. The purpose of this transmission is not to write about my Dad. However, I would not be writing it at all, without him. I could write for twenty Sundays about my Dad, but I can sum it up in one thought:

My siblings are the people I admire most.

What follows is a series of links to the nine published editions of the Varhaus story. I think that the serial process on this platform may be difficult to follow along as a reader. The story moves quickly through time. Miss one email, you may lose the whole plot.

There is one chapter here that I am most proud of: No. 8 No Moms Allowed.

It reads as a chapter about little boys being little boys in the best way. My intention was to write about the magic of boyhood, instead, I think I wrote a celebration of Fatherhood. Of Mentorship. Of Men. Men and how they love through teaching and modeling. Men standing on True North. Real motherfucking men.

Healthy men.

Fellas, you may find yourself in the pages of No. 8. A thing you taught, or a thing you were taught. Or both.

One man, if he reads this, and if he reads closely, will find himself permeating every page of the whole book; the result of the raising a grateful son.

PS. This is Million Dollar Garage’s 100th article!

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The first visit. A stranger walks into an empty building, pours themselves a coffee, and watches a man paint through glass walls with Wu Tang shaking the room. Nobody explains anything and somehow that is the whole point.

A few months later the place has already transformed. Ten paintings where one used to be, a woman named Ruth who has made herself indispensable without anyone asking her to, and a purple curtain hiding the next thing.

A Christmas party that begins with a cryptic invitation and ends with a nail crucifix inside a garden shed that stops the room cold. The night Varhaus stopped being an idea and became something people would remember for the rest of their lives.

Before any of it. One man gets the keys to a wreck of a building and moves in alone with a shopvac and ten pounds of coffee. The origin story, told without romance.

Jason destroys a painting in the driveway and declares himself finished, which is when BB sends him to bed and calls Ruth. The first time he gets fired from his own dream, it costs him nothing and saves everything.

nnnnnn

A city reporter spent a year trying to crack Varhaus, got handled beautifully, and published the most honest thing he could: what twenty other people said about it instead.

Sara Douglas joins the inside of the operation for the first time and Ruth immediately tells her not to lose herself to the shiny thing. In the next room Mike says something he doesn’t know she can hear.

The one. Sixty boys take over Varhaus for a day and every man in the building shows up to teach something. It reads like chaos. It is actually about how good men love.

Gabriel Thomas finally gets Jason on a podcast and Jason spends the whole episode talking about someone else. Mike walks in, refuses to sit down, yells one sentence, and leaves.bout someone else. Mike walks in, refuses to sit down, yells his motto at the microphone, and leaves.

Varhaus: Built in Imagination First

I’ve been building Varhaus in my mind for years, long before I had names for any of this. Before Million Dollar Garage, before newsletters, before pricing ladders, before trying to explain myself.

Million Dollar Garage was the first iteration. Necessary. Small. Personal. A place to learn what could be made with limited means, stubbornness, and whatever was in reach.

Varhaus is the larger endeavor.

A place for doing cool shit. Art. Food. Experience. Motion. Surprise. Attraction. A destination people hear about from someone who says, you have to see this place. A room that keeps changing. A business that earns its keep. A place where discovery is part of the product.

It is being built. Slowly. On stubbornness and grace and the right people showing up at the right time.

So I built it first in public imagination.

The work becomes energy. The output becomes memory.

This is the serialized account of how it’s actually happening.

Begin with Varhaus No. 1.

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*Inconformation has no sponsors. To fill the gap in the podcast where you are used to fast forwarding past live reads for dietary supplement advertisements, we’ve included some businesses that we use every day. We would like to thank Puma for their sweatpants and Discount Mugs .Com. Thanks to Chico’s Bail Bonds and The Quality Dairy Store on Michigan Ave. Hi Wanda. A special hello goes to all the discount stores and Tom Izzo. Now, Varhaus presents: Inconformation.*

“Welcome to the show! Before we start with our topic today, I need to give you some background. It is background that I really don’t have other than my own observations. Our first guest is a bit hard to nail down. There’s been a significant negotiation happening here for a month.

How do you get someone to talk that doesn’t want to? I feel like the owl trying to get to the center of a tootsie pop. How many fuck no’s does it take? It took 7. In the end, I pitched seven ideas to discuss with Jason, today. He said no to every one.

Last week, he called me at 5 am on a Tuesday. ‘I know what we should talk about.’

I’d like to introduce you to an abstract painter, the founder of Varhaus, Jason (Last Name purposely left out.)”

“Good morning Gabe, I’m excited for your podcast. You’re gonna kill it. Please don’t confuse my evasiveness with a lack of enthusiasm for you. I’m happy to be here.”

“Thanks you. I know you’re here to talk about someone else. But for the sake of the podcast, can we give a little background on you and Varhaus? I know you sell art all over the country. I know you were a chef. I know you built a rosary shed that is currently traveling the country. I’ve been to your events. We’ve had dinner together. I know you’ve attracted very interesting and specially talented people to Varhaus. Can you define yourself for me? Like, are you a painter or primarily, or some sort of philosopher?”

“I’m more of a song and dance man, really.”

“C’mon dude...already with the Dylan quotes? Really, how do you see yourself?”

“I’m a Catholic Husband, Father and Son. I like ideas more than I like things.”

“And Varhaus?”

“It’s just a word I made up to hide behind when I was tired of hearing my own name. A sort of anti-brand.”

“I was at a friend’s house the other day. They offered me coffee in a cup with your anti-brand. The same one I have at home. The same one that everyone drinks wine out of at your events. It says: Go to Heaven. Do simple commerce. Show people they’re not trapped.”

“Figure it out, dude.”

“We had a bet in the back about how long it would take you to tell me that. I think I won 20 bucks. Is there a reason that the coffee mug is so important? I’ve never seen another piece of merch for sale or it duplicated anywhere. And why are you so coy about the meaning?”

“It’s on the mug because the rosetta stone to figuring it out is hospitality, like you received at your friends house. There is also a decoder ring: Romans 12:2-10”

“Be not conformed...”

“Indeed.”

“How did you assemble this idea?”

“Don’t push dude. I already said more than I’ve said in 3 years.”

“One more question?”

“Take a shot.”

“Why do you refuse to explain yourself?”

“Penance.”

“We’ll be back in 30 seconds after our fake commercial for ACME Oyster House.”

Do you work for ACME Oyster House in New Orleans, Louisiana? Do you know someone there? Do you own the place? We’d like you to sponsor our podcast. Our prices are very reasonable. 2 Dozen Charred Oysters and Butter Beans with Tasso will get you a whole year of Varhaus advertisement

OYSTERHAUS

“That’s a great ad, Gabe. Who gets the butter beans?”

“Figure it out.”

“Touche.”

“You said you wanted to discuss one person today. Do you want to start the conversation? Do you want to tell me who it is?”

“I do. There is only one person that needs Varhaus. Conversely, Varhaus only needs one motherfucker. His name is Mike Miller, and he is the most special man that I know. The whole operation lives and dies with him.”

“Really? I love Mike and I know he’s important. I just don’t know why, exactly.”

“Luckily I am here to tell you. Because without him, nothing would happen.”

“One summer I started working at the building. I was cleaning and organizing trying to hack out an art studio, a wood shop and a little office for myself. I have no man-skills. I hate mowing lawns. It just grows back. I had childlike tools. A saw. A drill. A couple destructive implements.

This guy knocks on the window. He says he is there to work on the electrical box. Also, to check out the roof. A handyman of sorts. I didn’t hire him. Cam Gault, the landlord called him.

He goes on the roof for an hour. Comes back, jiggles some wires, I have light! I poured him some coffee. No logo. We sit down on this old leather couch I borrowed from Ruth.”

We drink coffee and shoot the shit. I asked him some questions, but I could tell that he didn’t want to discuss himself. He blasted me with questions, though. What are you doing? You’re an artist? What are you going to do with all this room? The place is a dump...but has potential. We talked for an hour and drank a few cups. I told him everything I knew at that point. He leaves.

I didn’t really think anything of it. Nice guy. But other than that...I went back to work.

I showed up at five the next morning. Covid made me an early riser. I must have said something to Mike about it. He was there art 5:30. He asks me if the back garage door works. I said, yes, but it will take two of us to lift it. He tells me to meet him in back in 10 minutes.”

Gabe: Let me stop you right there. “Folks, we’ll be back in 30 seconds for the rest of the Mike and Varhaus story.”

Do you have an interest or a talent that nobody but you believes in? You want to try something that you think will make a difference in this world? Seems like nobody else gives a shit? Come see us at Varhaus. Maybe we can help? Maybe not, but we’ll listen.

Maybe you too could be sponsored by Chico’s Bail Bonds or Puma, like we hope to be someday.

...be not conformed...Varhaus.

“So what happened at the back garage?”

“I go back and open the people door next to the garage door.

He says to me: ‘I’m going to back my trailer in so I can unload these materials.’

To what end? Are you starting the roof already?

‘No, I’m going to fix your studio. You really don’t know what you’re doing. Somehow yesterday you showed me that good things can happen in this world. I don’t even like art, but I like yours. I don’t even know your last name.

I don’t have a dime, Mike.

‘you don’t need one. My daddy taught me when you see someone trying to do something without a care for what others think, help that person. It’s like people who eat alone are special. I’m not asking.’

If I owe you, Mike, I cannot do what I need to do. If it’s hanging over my head, it could crush me.

‘I’m not asking. Shut up and take the help.

What do you get out of it?

‘don’t worry about me. I suspect I’m already getting it.’”

Gabe: “He just showed up and started helping you? For free?”

“yup.”

“What’s his back story? Where’s he from? What’s he do other than work with you?”

“I want to be careful about this part.”

“typical.”

“No, it’s not the usual caution. Mike has a terrible and wonderful story to tell. It’s not my place to say, really. I hope he tells it somehow, someday. Because it matters to everyone. Literally everyone. We all have our tragedies and periods of personal crisis. Mike lost everything he had...his business...his family...his home...all in one afternoon. The very fact that he is standing upright is a miracle to me. But to do what he’s done and how he’s done it. It makes me so ashamed and humble in my heart that I don’t want to spoil it with words.”

“Let’s skip the commercial break and keep rolling, Doc. Please tell me more.”

“I can’t. I won’t be able to get out what feel about him. I don’t even want to try because anything I say more will diminish the power of the story and the results. I can only tell you how he affects me daily.”

“and how is that? I’ve know Mike for about a year now and he always seems to be doing something, too busy for me to get to know.”

“You nailed it on accident. I know what I know because it was just him and me for 2 years before Ruth came along.”

“Can you tell people about Ruth so the audience has some context?”

“You want me to boil Ruth down into a couple sentences? Impossible and probably inaccurate.”

“Give me five descriptive words about her.”

“Translator. Powerhouse. Old Testament Feminist.”

“Good enough.”

“Here is what Mike taught me. Something I suspected but I’ve never seen it modeled so directly. If you put out effort into the world and you are aligned with your nature, it comes back to you, but never how you expect it. Somehow you become attractive to people because they want to break out...they’re so inundated with this bullshit world. I put an effort in. Mike recognized it. He joined in, not in the way I thought I needed, but in his way...probably the way I actually needed..”

“And what is Mike’s way?”

“Quiet. Unbelievably capable. Unflappable. Productive. Honest.”

“That is what I think of you.”

“Very wrong. I’m usually trapped in my head and that hinders my ability to act. I am constantly trying to tap down my ego- it’s a real battle.”

“You said that Mike is the only person that needs Varhaus and the only person Varhaus needs.”

“True.”

“Why does he need it?”

“It’s not my place to say that. I hope he will say it someday.”

“Okay. I know most of the people do work at your place. You have this assortment of different people. Talented and special folks. Not to be disrespectful, but from my view, without Ruth, the whole place would sink. Why does Varhaus only need Mike?”

“You’re right to bring all those people up. It takes all kinds to spin this world around.”

“and Mike?”

“Because Mike puts the mug into action without thinking about it. He lives it without considering it. His nature is Varhaus. Not the idea. Not a slogan. A life. But, instead of showing people that they are not trapped, he, in every action he takes, un-traps them.”

Inconformation is the official Varhaus Podcast. Sponsored by Little Debbie Nutty Bars, Black Coffee and Whiffle Ball. Figure it out.

Now, back to the blithering...

“Can you tell me some things that Mike has done to illustrate your point?”

“Sure. He built the Rosary shed, my office, my easels, and every set we use for our events. He made a flying ceiling contraption so we can change lighting anytime we want. He made my car work. He build a trailer for the shed. He makes unreal sandos.

He remodeled the landlords office, fixed the roof and makes doors quit squeaking.

He turned my art studio into a batting cage that looked like Fenway Park.

In short, he makes cool shit. He makes our ideas possible. He built this podcast setting with Doc.”

“That’s a lot of work. How does he earn a living?”

“He is the only person that has payroll at Varhaus. Everyone else eats what they kill, individually or together. He gets paid on that too.”

“It seems like many tradesmen could accomplish these things.”

“Its not the what. Its the why and the how. We’ve covered that already.”

“We have?”

“figure it out.”

‘I HEARD YOU GUYS ARE TALKING SHIT IN HERE.’

Gabe: “Hey Mike! Sit down at the mic so people can hear you clearly.”

“No, thanks. I got shit to do.”

Jason: “Hey Mike...don’t sit down then. Stand right there and yell at the microphone your motto!”

“DO WHAT YOU ALWAYS DID, GET WHAT YOU ALWAYS GOT.”

“Amen.”

“On that note:

Thanks a million for listening to the first edition of Inconformation, a Varhaus podcast.

Varhaus: do what you always did, get what you always got.

Til next time, I’m Gabriel Thomas. Figure it out.”

The whiffle balled rolled around the mailbox like someone forgot they hid it there. A message on the ball was written with old blue embossed label tape:

No Moms Allowed
Eat bugs, Play ball inside, See cool stuff

A sticker with a QR code leading to a registration page.

11:45 am

Functional family vehicles circled and parked around Varhaus. It appeared that moms were dropping their children off at a five alarm fire. Wailing firetrucks, flickering ambulances, an extended ladder above the entrance. One Dalmatian puppy held by an hulk in a hi-viz, sooted, fire coat. Next to the chaos, a graduation tent with a sign: No moms past this point.

The mothers led their ten year old boys to the registration area in the tent. No one was registered. No names were checked, nor any payments confirmed. Just a couple people welcoming boys from behind a banquet table with a t-shirt and a point to the front door.

The boys pulled on their shirts: Club Haus

Etched upon the front door: We’re all big brothers.

Noon

Doc had rigged a camera system complete with indoor flying drones, stationary cams, live feed and projected 12 views onto a screen in the tent. There was a bar, seating and a betting rail for the parents.

Inside. You’ve never seen a cooler melee of a shitshow. Varhuas was nine different cars, a batting cage, a cafe sized for 10-year old boys, a disassembled motor, a barber shop, a batting cage, the most ridiculous collection of legos ever assembled. There were men in baseball uniforms, men in mechanic coveralls, men in three piece suits, a chef, firemen and a man in a gorilla suit. There were drones flying above the heads of the boys, but beneath the danger of the sprinkler heads.

The boys moved in groups and couples that broke ranks when a particular discovery led one boy to forget the safety of his friends.

12:15 pm

Jason’s art studio was draped in athletic netting, a whiffle ball batting cage. He sat in a chair and pitched and pitched. Some boys came in whack whack whack...some boys were uncomfortable and uncoordinated. Jason had help. A man with a mustache would help the boys align their feet, pull their hands back in a ready position and say: “see the bat hit the ball”. 3 swings. Some contact...some docile misses. Next. Get back in line. Unsure misses and Violent whiffs. Big hits and foul balls.

The man with the mustache was helping a boy who’d never played baseball. The spectators talked amongst themselves as if nothing interesting was happening.

“Stop.”

He looked at all the boys waiting in a circular line surrounding cage. He made himself large.

“I need your attention on me please. Billy is trying his butt off to learn to hit a baseball. You see he hasn’t had enough practice? But guess what! Everyone can hit a baseball. I have a big problem right now. I need you to solve it. I don’t hear enough cheering for Billy. Where’s the encouragement? Do you remember when hitting was hard for you (he pointed at 3 particular good players.)? The sign on the door here says: We are all big brothers. Let’s act like it.”

“LET’S GO BILLY!” the boys responded. All sorts of encouraging phrases, 10 year old boy noises and clapping.

Miss. Bad miss. Still cheering. Really bad miss. “keep your head down”. Miss. “good swing, buddy!” Miss. “C’mon pitcher, throw strikes!”. Foul tip: eruption. “yes, that’s it!”. A little more contact, a dull roar. A shot slapped right back where it came from, smack into the chest of the seated painter.

Cheers and high fives all around.

“Billy! Billy! Billy!”

Billy, for his part, smiled and made an amazing bow like he practiced being famous in the mirror. He came out of the cage, there was no longer a line, they bunched around the opening in the net to congratulate him. Jason was lying on the floor laughing. The man in the mustache looked for the next victim of his optimism.

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12:30 pm

The registration tent was now a hang out spot for grounded helicopter moms. They drank red wine blends and coffee out of varhaus coffee cups and chatted, pausing occasionally to check the monitors for the child’s current status. When his arm got tired, Jason would come out and try to stoke apprehension.

He’d approach Sara and Ruth in the tent. Just loud enough to not be a secret: “Its mass chaos in there. I though it would be a great idea for boys to get haircuts before school started, but its not what I expected. I saw three Mohawks already.”

“Sid Vicious or Mr. T?”

“I keep hoping for Sid Vicious, but more like Taxi Driver.” Jason would walk away without looking.

“You talking to me?” Sara’s best impression.

Ruth, glancing over her shoulder to the guests: “He’s kidding. They’re fine.”

The women laughed and continued talking, but many, after an appropriate amount of time, nonchalantly got up to check the monitors.

1:00 pm

A gang of boys gathered around a 1970 Sebring Yellow Cutlas 442. Above it, on a lift, the 1968 version of the same car. The wheels were removed from the ‘68 Oldsmobile and another group of boys stood below, looking up. They traced the direction of the pipes from the motor to the trunk. They looked at the fat tires stacked four high on the concrete. There was a full motor hanging from a hoist. Next to the exposed engine a man in coveralls with “Super Service” stitched on the breast.

“Gentlemen, these cars were made right here in Lansing from almost 60 years ago. Maybe your grandfather or his father assembled them. These were the baddest cars on the road when I was in school. Do you know how cars work? Do you want to learn about combustion engines-the controlled explosions that make cars go?. This car makes almost 10,000 explosions to drive a mile.”

One boy had climbed on top of the stacked tires sat crosslegged with his hand up.

“My dad drives a f-150. Its old and super loud. Is this car loud?”

Super reached into the steering column through the window and turned the key. Roar.

“Can I get in the car?”

Super opened the driver’s door and pulled forward the bucket seat. Nine boys squished into the back. He climbed in, and put his foot halfway to the floor.

“Do you think it’s loud?” He said out the window.

Every activity stopped in Varhaus. Some boys ran to the noise. Some covered their ears. Super Service had all of their attention.

Now, there were 60 boys and 2 hovering drones gathered around 10 people stuck in a ‘70 Cutlas. Some were eating sandwiches. Some clamored to get closer. A few were looking at the undercarriage of the lifted car. One boy watched intently while absent-mindedly holding a whiffle-ball bat.

Super cut the engine, the exhuast would be too much, soon. He exited the vehicle and walked to the motor.

“This is a four-stroke engine with eight cylinders. So, in eight little compartments are eight pistons that go up and down. He made a fist above his forearm and moved it up and down. The cycle is Intake, Compression, Power, and Exhaust. Can anyone tell me what intake means? Right. And what is being took in?”

“Gas!”

“What else?”

“Air!”

“Yes! Great thinking”

The men had gathered behind the boys. They didn’t have anyone to play with anymore.

One of them yelled out to Super: “air and gas are the same thing!”

Super turned to the boys. They yelled as one: “Gasoline!”

“Right! You guys are smart. We need fuel and air. What kind of Air? Oxygen. The same air we need live. What kind of fuel? Gasoline.”

Jason Leaned against a column and watched his father teach. He looked at Mike.

“There will be hundreds of lawnmowers taken apart by next Friday. We may be doing more harm than good.”

“The parents thought this party was going to be cheap. They just paid 35 bucks for the right to buy a new lawnmower.”

2:00 pm

In particular, the mothers monitored the barbershop activity most closely. A dedicated camera feed over looked the checkered floor and the six men backing their chairs. There were two televisions near an old, but operational Barber Pole. Ruth had borrowed pole from one of the professionals volunteering his time. One of the televisions was set to Animal Planet-wild predators. One played a 4-hour long ‘worlds greatest fails’ compilation that Jason, Mike and Doc had watched beginning to end for ‘research’. It was not the four hours spent watching the video that annoyed Ruth and Sara; it was the two days spent watching hundreds of similar videos trying to find the right one.

The barbers took their time, careful to explain the finer points of men’s hair and style. They presented example photos and talked about fades, tapers and sideburns. They showed them famous people with different hairstyles. Ryan Reynolds to LeBron James, Harry Styles to Chris Stapleton. Ronaldo. Messi.

Every man has to know how order describe his haircut. The boys and men laughed at people passing out on giant catapults and kids falling off their skateboards. They counted the dollar bills stapled to the wall and asserted their emerging logical skills regarding the existence of the Easter Bunny. The googled “Jackalope” together.

The boys were cautious when they first entered the Club Haus Barber Shop. After getting lined up, many made their way to the front door to accept their parents approval. The new Independence led them back in to show off and encourage others to get their lettuce chopped or their lid flipped...and never used the word haircut once. Check it out! That’s dope! All boys speak with exclamation points.

2:30 pm

Raphael has two younger brothers and two older brothers and a much older sister. He held his whiffle ball or shoved it in his pocket to do other activities. He didn’t have to share it with anyone. He got a hair cut in the kitchen every week on Sunday. A chair, a tablecloth and his mother. 1-2-3-4-5 after dinner. Then bath time, then bed.

He stood at the edge of the barbershop watching the other boys get their grass clipped. Apprehensive. Six Chairs, five boys, five barbers. As he watched them, a man appeared from behind him, carrying a beverage.

The man turned and faced, knelt down to the boy’s level. “You have really nice hair, dude. Want me to clean it up?”

Raphael paused. “I thought only women cut hair. My mom cuts mine and all my brothers.”

“Does she cut them all the same? What’s your name?”

“My name’s Rafa. We do kinda look the same, but we don’t act the same.” Rafa held out his hand out like his sister told him.

“Pleased to meet you Rafa. I’m Charlie. You’re lucky. I only have one brother.”

A drone flew past and stopped, hovering in front of the boys in the chairs, rotating slightly to capture each face.

“Your mom does a really good job. You know, a haircut says a lot about a man. It depends on what is important to you. Do you want to fit in at school or do you want to be different? Do you want to be just a little different and unique? Do you want to look like a business man or a hockey player or a rock star?”

“I like country, Mr. Charlie.”

“Yuk! Do you know what else is special about us, Rafa? All of our hair is a little different. Each of our heads are shaped a little different. Just like people. We like different music. That’s what makes the world special. We’re very alike, but we are also very different. Come over to my chair and we’ll do some research, then you can decide.”

Outside the tent, Sara was watching the monitor. “Hey Angela, don’t look now but your middle is about to get a haircut. Less work for you. And, less control.”

Angela never understood Varhaus or what it meant to her friend Sara. Now, her feelings about the place was teetering on dislike.

She watched her boy climb into the barber chair. He and Charlie were looking at photos of men’s hair. Charlie would point, Raphael would shake. Rafa would point, laugh; Charlie would nod. They were pleased to be interrupted by the boys laughing at a video showing dogs peeing on the wrong things, like their master’s shoes. Or, a cat.

Charlie stood behind the chair and held the two finalists in front of the boy. Charlie pointed to one. They nodded in unison. As he grabbed the cape to wrap around him, his client stood abruptly. He turned and looked Charlie in the eye. One nod.

Angela, Sara and now Ruth watched as he left the viewfinder of barbershop cam. They traced his path through the live feeds until the front door of Varhaus opened: Figure it out.

He looked about briefly, found his mom, walked straight to her.

“Hi Ms. Sara. Mom, will you help me decide on my hair? Mr. Charlie is really nice. Will you talk to him for me?”

She smiled and pointed to the sign. No Moms Allowed.

Ruth interrupted. “We planned for this, Ang. You can only be invited in by your boy. Just like any clubhouse.”

She pulled a pink fuzzy sleeping mask out of her coverall pocket. “You have to put this on.”

To Raphael. “Lead your mother to Barbershop. She can take her blindfold off for 90 seconds. Then, you have to bring her back.”

Raphael grabbed his mother’s hand and smiled, pulling her gently toward the door.

“Don’t worry, Angela. It will grow back.” Sara whispered

3:15 pm

The chaos was like opening a closet door to find your self standing on railroad tracks with a freight train coming at you. Rafa waited for his mother to pass through the open door. She stood still. Realizing that she could not see, he took her elbow to guide her through.

Rafa had to yell.

“I’ve got you mom, you’re safe. We are going by the batting cage now.”

KABOOOM. She did not see that her son didn’t even flinch.

She bent down and whispered. “What was that? That scared the crap out of me.”

Rafa laughed and gave an invisible shrug. “That’s just Mr. Mike. He’s been blowing up lego sets and dollhouses with firecrackers all day. You get used to it. Kinda boring now.”

A loud adult voice was the first to yell: “Girl!” A few boys joined the identification.

One very funny boy yelled: “Captain, the wall has been breached!”

She could feel the fingers pointed at her. In unison, eventually, 60 boys chanted.

“No Moms Allowed. No Moms Allowed. No Moms Allowed.”

She hadn’t met the Mustache man yet.

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll tease their moms too. Mustache Man is super funny.”

Rafa narrated his mother past each activity, the boys continued to play. The men stopped playing and followed Rafa and Angela. They walked near the workshop and Mike joined. They passed the garage and Super came along. On her walkie, Ruth had already instructed Doc to catch every moment of this interaction. She, as well as every adult in the tent, wanted to see how this turned out.

Is he a mama’s boy? Is he trying to make the right decision, and being uncertain, reached out to the person he trusted most? Would he go through with it? Would she let him? Different men would think differently.

But super said: “I want to see how little boys treat their mothers these days.”

“Hey Rafa, I dare your mom to eat that stinky cheese!”

3:30 pm

With the exception of a glancing shot from a batted whiffle ball, Angela arrived to the destination safely.

“Mr. Charlie. This is my mom. Take your eyes out, mom.”

She took off the mask and pretended that she hadn’t been able see through it.

“Would you like a fade too, ma’am?”

3:25 pm

“Excuse me. You seem to have a line on what’s happening here. Can I ask you a few questions?”

Ruth turned and braced for the same questions she’d had to answer for a couple years. She did not reply to the man.

He was filagreed in simple business attire signaling enough wealth to wear what he wanted with an attention to detail that wanted you to know about it.

“We’re not from around here. My sister is sick and going through treatment and my wife and I are here to help with the kids. I simply don’t understand what is happening right now. This event seems to be a random day camp for boys, but I feel there is something more, I just can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Your first perception is accurate. I’m sorry for your trouble.”

“Thank you. It’s been rough, but I think she’s gonna be alright.”

“That’s terrific news. I’ll put her in my prayers. You’re a big man for taking care of your family. We’re about that, here.”

“The first thing I want to tell you is I have not seen my nephew in 4 hours. I check the monitor once in a while and he is always doing something, and he is smiling. With his mom’s sickness and all, he hasn’t left one of our sides in weeks. He’s been velcro. I don’t know what you are trying to accomplish here, but you’ve made a very good day for him. Sometimes forgetting is enough, I guess. So, thank you.”

Ruth’s eyes watered. She mumbled her thanks. She made a fake cheers with her mug.

“Did I upset you? I didn’t mean...”

She became Ruth again. “No. You validated me…us. You understand more than you know.”

Ruth straightened. She had a fish on the line. HIs compliment made her want to explain what was happening.

“I’m an investor of sorts. I was an athlete. Now I go looking for opportunities to help good people. Are you a nonprofit?”

Ruth pointed at the mug.

“What does do simple capitalism mean?”

“Our response to that question is always the same. Figure it out.”

“Are you for sale? Are you looking for partners?”

“Everything is for sale, baby. But we can’t be bought. You can buy one of these mugs, though. It’s the best investment I’ve ever made.”

“I’ll buy twelve.”

“Do you think that impresses me?”

“What do you mean? i just want to support you as a thanks for what you’ve provided for my family here.”

“I know that and I appreciate it. We’re built different. You appreciate us and it’s not taken lightly. You have money. I clocked the detail of your shirt. Your money is a hammer, but we’re not a nail. Gratitude is thanks enough. Truly, your comments made me cry. If you truly want to understand, buy one mug and figure it out.”

She could see he was a little offended. Business people tend to crave certainty.

“What sport did you play?”

“I played professional baseball for eight years.”

“We can use that. Do you want to find out about us?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you see this man?” She pointed to the batting cage in the art studio on the screen. “Go inside and see him. His name is Jason. Tell him I sent you and that I think his pitching arm is getting tired.”

“Really?”

“It would be a million dollars worth of help. Really.”

“My name is Darren.”

“I know. I love baseball. I’m Ruth. This is Sara. Go have fun.”

3:33 pm

Charlie, Raphael and Angela had sorted out the lettuce. A tight fade like some friends at school and a lightning bolt carved from the sideburn, over the ear, to the back hairline.

“Take your mother back to the tent, Rafa. Then, we’ll get to work.”

Forgetting to tell his mom to put the blindfold back on, he grabbed her hand and led her back to the parents waiting area. He greeted people as he went...Hi Super! Hi Doc. He pointed to the cars. 442. Model T. El Camino. Ruth’s 1978 F-150. They passed the workshop splattered with the shrapnel of exploded legos and melted barbie plastic. Raphael waved to a man wearing ski goggles and wearing monkey pants. They quickstepped past the gasps and overreactions of ten boys eating stilton cheese as a mass dare. Two boys were cutting bananas for the peanut butter sandwiches they were constructing with the chef. He stopped at the batting cage.

He looked into the batter’s box as if playing centerfield and yelled loud enough to be heard: “we want a pitcher, not a belly-itcher.” He laughed to himself and pulled Angela toward the front door. He didn’t even look up.

She remembered the divider that acted as a windbreak near the front door from her first visit with Sara. It was now a message made of duct tape and cardboard: “Be not conformed to the patterns of this world....”

Rafa walked ahead and simply opened the door. He stood and held it like she was a disinvited house guest.

“Thanks for coming, Mom.”

Ang walked out the Varhaus door, past the sunlight and into the tent to find Sara.

“Lightning bolt.”

Sara handed her a mug of Zinfandel. “The hardest part is the first 18 years.”

4:00 pm

Around 4 pm, more parents began to file into the tent. Working parents who left earlier were returning for the duration. Parents who had dropped their boys off and ran their errands. The tent was lively and mostly full. People who knew one another gathered in groups. Folks stood near the monitors and socialized.

Jason came out to talk. He mingled and smiled. Said hi. Introduced himself. While he did so, Ruth and Sara set up a large projector and pointed it to the side curtain of the tent. More people required more views. Doc was flying drones so the tech was a little slow to materialize.

BB arrived in her scrubs. “How’s it going in there? Is my dad behaving?”

Jason hugged her. “He’s off the hook in there. We may need a special insurance to have him here. Completely amazing. The boys are calling him Mustache Man”

“I’m glad. I told you he’d have too much fun.”

When the A/V was set the whole event was projected upon the inside of the tent, giving everyone an unimpeded view of the chaos inside of Varhaus. Jason stood on a chair.

“Thanks a million for trusting us with your boys. Welcome to Varhaus, The Lord of the Flies edition. It’s been a fun day for us. Your sons are wonderful. We hope you’ll relax with us for a while, have some wine, enjoy the company. There’s a shit-ton of pizza on the way.

We made an excuse to get a bunch of boys around the best men we know. Men who know how to interact with kids without making them grow up too fast. Men who still know how to play. My Dad is here somewhere, that alone makes this thing a million times better for me.

We are a philosophical outfit. This event fits our values, but we don’t really care, today. Boys need days like this. Men need days like this. Just fun for fun’s sake. Just to find out what can happen. Thanks again!”

Sara replaced Jason on the chair. “As you’ve seen, there is some wild stuff happening inside that door. Let’s make it more fun for us. The varhaus prop bet casino is now open.”

She produced a wad of fake dollar bills from her jumpsuit pocket.

“Everybody gets 20 bucks. The three top earners receive a special invitation to our next adult event. You can win a mug or a t-shirt. Jason is offering up a 48x48” abstract painting for first place, tonight.”

Ruth hit a button revealing one shot on the entire projector. It was from the point of view like a workers view of a retail booth at a market, looking out toward the customer.

“This booth is called I freaking Dare You.”

Jason and BB began to hand out the money.

“Place your bets! Will your son eat the stinkiest bleu cheese or a whole anchovy? Chocolate Covered Earthworms. You won’t let your kids eat bugs, but we will.”

“My son will eat bleu cheese if he can gross out the other boys. Antihero shit.”

“My boy at a worm yesterday!”

“I ate a worm yesterday.”

“There is no way in hell that your kid will eat that!”

“Five bucks.”

“My boy is lactose intolerant!”

“Does he know it?”

“I’m not sure if he does.”

“C’mon five bucks.”

“You’re on!”

“Bet!”

“Bet.”

With the parents fully engaged, Jason left the tent to stir up mayhem with the boys. Upon arrival he found the chaos did not require his services.

8:00 pm

Mustache Man and Super sat on the tailgate of a 1978 Ford truck. Cold pizza in one hand, cold beer in the other. Heads shaking, they talked about all the wild shit they saw.

The night had devolved into a total war of whiffle ball madness. The Battle of Whistling Curve Balls. There were some temporary tears. Snipers. They’d be picking up balls for weeks.

Sara jumped on the tailgate between them. They scuttled to each side.

“Thanks so much for helping us today. You guys were a real hit with those boys. One boy asked his mom to get your business card, Super. Another boy invited Mustache Man to his birthday party.”

“I feel like a piñata, for sure.”

“We were just talking about how amazing you are, Sara. We’re proud of you.”

“She should be proud.” Ruth entered with the top half of her jumpsuit tied around her waist. T-shirt and pearls.

“We made a difference today.”
“We made a difference today.”
“We made a difference today.”

“Here’s to making a difference. Salut.”

“Who’s gonna clean all this shit up?”

Next Chapter:

NO. 7

Friday
February 4, 2028
Home
7:28 am

My name is Sara Douglas without the ‘h’. I’m not fancy like that. I’m the mother of two boys, 7 and 9. I’ve been a single mother for so long I forgot about it. I like checklists and calendars and organizational hacks. We have enough money to live smartly. I talk about my passion for children on my blog and Instagram. It pays enough for private school. shit...

“We gotta go, boys. Shoes. Coats. Lunch. Backpacks.”

Varhaus
9:45 am

I parked a block from Varhaus. Daddy told me only idiots take parking spots from their customers. When I drove past I noticed a familiar green and white striping. Reminded me of home. As I walked closer to the entrance I figured out why. The front door had a giant fleur-de-lis etched upon it. The negative space of the etching: FATHAUS. Figure it out.

I’d socialized with Ruth before I had children. I didn’t know her well, but I never forgot her name. Some names fit better than others. She was sitting on the bottom step of an a-frame ladder looking up at two potted trees. They seemed too large to fit through the doorway. Her eyes were level with the myrtle spilling from the tops of the pots. The floor surrounding Ruth was stacked with unopened Amazon boxes. I inhaled deeply.

“Tea Olives! Are we doing Mardi Gras? Tell me we’re doing Fat Tuesday!”

I smelled the trees, and then I picked up a different scent. Chicory. I put it together in my head before Ruth could respond. Green stripes. Fathaus. Tea Olives. Chicory Coffee. Cafe du Monde. Naawlins...

“Welcome home, Sara. Are you ready to be on the inside of this monster?”

“I am. Where is everybody?”

“Mike and Doc are picking up the Beignet-mo-bile. Jason is in Florida for two more weekends. That’s all of us.”

“BB?”

“She’s got a real job.”

“How are festival sales in Florida?”

“He crushed Tampa, got rained-out in Lauderdale and Boca. Naples weather is looking good.”

We walked back into the “boring” art gallery where my work table was situated. I’m still blown away by the way it looks and works. It’s so large that I feel like I could take over the world sitting at it and never have to get up.

“I’ll be right back.” Ruth disappeared behind the purple curtain hiding the art studio. Country music began playing. She emerged carrying a couple of boxes. One, like a dress box. One, smaller and rectangular.

“Here’s your uniform and a new mug. We wear the jumpsuit for events. We like to customize them to our personalities. I had mine tailored and embroidered. I hemmed the pant legs for heels. I love shoes like you do. You can do anything you wish.”

I opened the box with the grey jumpsuit. It was a working person’s uniform until you felt delicate pinstriped and textured details. I opened my new mug. The boys broke mine playing ball in the apartment.

The mug was just like the rest of them. Logo and three rules. Inside the cup was a handwritten note on folded legal paper:

NOLA
Cafe du Monde NOW
Fathaus 2029
second line band
Indians??? Respectful!
Royal Street
Acme Oyster Haus
Mardi Gras Floats? Parade?
Riverboat Model?
Giant King Cake?

Children
BOYS
Back to school
Late August 2028
backpacks
batting cage
Barbershop
Cars and Trucks
General Destruction

MOTHERS
your call.

“Holy fuck. This just got real.” I’m not sure if it actually came out of my mouth.

“Do you know about this list, Ruth?” She pointed to sweet olive trees as she grabbed a fistful of purple beads from the Amazon boxes.

“Help me decorate these trees, Bayou Queen. We can talk about the list all day, if you’d like. First, though...Did you to finish your work today? Did you publish already?”

“No, I don’t post until Sunday. The photos are ready. I just have to give the copy a once-over before I hit send.”

“Good. I need you to understand something clearly. There is only one person who needs Varhaus. It isn’t Jason. He would piss in pop cans because there was no bathroom to have a place to paint. No hyperbole. I don’t need this place. I can sell the things I collect anywhere. The landlord, Cam, he doesn’t need us and he doesn’t need this property filled. The people who enjoy what we do didn’t need us before and they won’t need us when we’re gone.”

She looked at me dead-eye to make sure I was tracking. She held up her finger to keep me from responding.

“This is not a co-op or a team exercise. This is a group of folks who make, sell and do cool shit. Varhaus is nothing more than a blank canvas. A place where bad motherfuckers come together to make things that they cannot make on their own. This is a group of people who believe the mug. Not like a mantra in a cult, but like an obvious statement that says: There’s no other reasons to do anything in this world.

Varhaus is here to serve you, not the other way around. Do not fail to do your work. Do not fail to grow because we’re making shiny things.”

I was a little scared at her intensity. It was like she was scolding me to be myself. Like she wouldn’t tolerate me not being original. I was trying to figure out who needed Varhaus. I felt like she would have told me if she wanted me to know. She took a drink from her logoed coffee mug. Same design. When she set it down on the table, the goals were not written on it.

“Somebody sent this mug to me in the mail today.” she said.

It said: “Old Testament Feminist”

“Someone knows you well.”

We busied ourselves decorating the Mardi Gras olive trees and talked about the list. It was nice to work with someone. As we were working I noticed an odd sight in front of the building. Two men pulling a green and white camping trailer down the street. I think it’s funny that they parallel parked it and paid the parking meter. Doc and Mike walked into the space.

“Did you see that fucking article!” Mike was hot. And he was sweating from pulling the trailer.

“The trailer looks amazing.” Ruth, standing at the window. “Yeah, I saw it. Jason called me at 4:30 this morning giggling like a schoolboy. The I am Arturo Bandini quote got him going.”

“I don’t know who that is, but people really don’t understand how hard we work to make these events. People just don’t get it.”

“Do you understand it, Mike? Like, all of it?”

“I didn’t for a long time. Now, I do. I love it so much that I want to share it with everyone so they can too. Hell, I need to be here.”

“We love it because it’s ours. It’s ours because we had to figure it out. We have to let them find out, too. Bandini is a fictional character from a novel. He’s a terrible writer who dreams of being great. I wouldn’t be surprised if that quote was actually Jason.”

“I guess, I don’t get all of it.” Mike smiled.

I was walking out the front door to get a good look at the beignet-mo-bile with Doc.

The conversation stopped me halfway out of the door. Holy shit.

I did a once-over around the trailer. Standing in the middle of the left turn lane, I found the other side of the trailer was painted white with no decoration or marketing.

“We’ll save that side for a different party.” Doc walked back to the front door.

A school bus drove by and I remembered my pee-wees, checked my watch. I had to leave in fifteen minutes to fetch them from school. Padre Pio’s Elementary was pretty strict about the pickup line.

I decided to ask Ruth a question about my list. I had a couple of minutes.

“Why aren’t we doing, what I assume to be, a Mardi Gras party this year? Only a little coffee truck? Seems like a half-measure compared to everything else.”

Ruth counted the reasons on her fingers.

“We don’t have the money. Easter is too early this year. There’s a small other detail. This is the only event Jason wants to do for himself...for BB. It’s not an event for the public like 12/12. It’s real fucking personal.”

“That’s the second time you’ve freaked me out today.”

“Don’t be. Now’s not the time. The coffee and beignets are like a bat signal to the public. We’re not explaining it. Just gonna run it through Easter. We wont make any money, but we won’t waste the effort.”

I was twelve Subarus deep in the school pickup lane, I considered what I thought I knew. The only thing I knew for sure is that my boys would want dinosaur chicken tenders and chocolate milk for dinner. That was enough for one day

Jason sped south down I75 toward Naples thinking about Fathaus. Remembering the first time he and BB let the good times roll. He was angry and relieved that they wouldn’t try to pull the party off this year. “This event may kill me.” He switched the radio from AM and tuned in his audio book: Wait Until Spring, Bandini by John Fante.

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Next in the Varhaus Series:

Free Press Extra

I Know Varhaus. I Can’t Tell You...

By Gabriel Thomas

February 1, 2028

Downtown-

I heard about this place the way you hear about everything worth knowing in this city. Sideways. From someone who wasn’t supposed to tell. An event. A chapel inside a building on Michigan Avenue. Singing kids. Best sandwich bar anyone had ever seen. I wrote it down and forgot about it.

Then I heard about it again. Different person. Same look on their face.

I started making calls. Nobody would talk on record. One person laughed when I asked. Another just said go. I had nothing.

Then an invitation showed up with my name on it. Black tie. Food bank. Varhaus hosting. I assumed someone made a mistake. I went anyway. I brought Susan. I had my notebook.

I did not get a scoop.

What I got was a room full of the city’s best people spending real money for a real cause while somewhere behind a pane of glass a kid in headphones ran a live online art auction to an audience I couldn’t see. The paintings were on the wall. The money was moving. The whole thing was engineered to within an inch of its life and looked like it wasn’t engineered at all. Ruth, if that’s even her real name, gave me a glass of wine and a lanyard and was halfway through a phone call before I realized I’d been handled. On the way out she handed me a wooden box. Mug inside. Handwritten note. Chesterton Quote. “Off the record”. A date.

I went back. They showed me a good time. Then another. Then they swore me to secrecy.

I have been played by an artist in sweatpants and a woman who may not be named Ruth and I cannot tell you one true thing about what goes on inside that building on Michigan Avenue because I promised I wouldn’t.

What I can tell you is what other people think.

I asked twenty of them.

“I walked past it for three months before I went in. I thought it was empty.” — a neighbor

“One day I could hear Wu-Tang through the door. Next time I walked by it was monk chanting. I went in but there was really nothing happening.” — a regular

“I saw a guy painting topless in sweatpants through the glass. Like nobody was watching. a little weird...” — anonymous

“I don’t get abstracts. I still don’t. I don’t get it, but I think I understand something new.” — a retired teacher

“Something in there catches the senses before it catches the brain.” — a local artist

“They gave me wine and nobody tried to sell me anything. I kept waiting for the pitch. It never came. I want one of those paintings, I wish I had a wall big enough.” — a contractor

“They asked me more about myself than anything. I didn’t expect that. I’m still thinking about the questions.” — anonymous

“I’ve never had pretentious people care about me. I don’t know what to do with that.” — a single mother

“I don’t know if they’re really arrogant or really humble. I genuinely cannot tell. Maybe that’s the same thing. I can tell that whichever it is, is on purpose.” — a gallerist

“Nobody explained anything to me. I appreciated that more than I expected to.” — anonymous

“I asked what the painting meant and he asked me what I thought. I wanted to leave. I stayed another hour and he let me paint on one of the pieces he was working on.” — a first-timer

“There was a priest there. At a party. On his knees, in a shed, praying the rosary. What a party!” — a friend

“My mom used the food bank when I was a kid. I don’t take that lightly. I heard what they raised at that Christmas party. A room full of art and wine and they doubled the record for the food bank. I don’t know what’s going on in that building but I know that night mattered to real people.” — a mother of 4

“I cried and I’m not going to tell you why.” — a librarian

“I am Arturo Bandini!!!” — an artist

“I’m not sure they play nice with others. I looked them up. They’re not members of the arts council. Not affiliated with anything. Just a building on Michigan Avenue doing whatever they want. What about community art?” — an arts administrator

“The mug thing is either genius or insane. I have three of them.” — a skeptic

“Figure it out. That’s what the door says. I’m still working on it. Assholes.” — anonymous

“I walked in. Nobody there. Good music playing. Coffee was fresh, little sign said help yourself. I sat down in front of this huge blue painting and just...stayed. Never saw anyone. Best hour I’ve had alone in I don’t know how long.” — a local businessman

You see? It’s not just me.

The Chesterton line said something about looking at a thing nine hundred and ninety-nine times and being safe. The thousandth time you’re in real danger of seeing something for the first time.

Most of the folks I asked had only seen Varhaus once or twice. They have hundreds of visits left in them...or maybe they saw it properly the first time.

Either way, Varhaus is a production by thoughtful and united people. Real, unusual, inconvenient thoughtfulness. I can’t prove that in print and I can’t tell you how I know it. I just know it the way you know a good sentence when you read one. Or a cryptic quote. Or a mug with 3 goals written on it: “Go to Heaven, Do simple commerce, show people they’re not trapped.”

They played me. I’m not even mad. There are things I know about that building that I will not put in print. That’s not something I’ve ever said before in twenty years of doing this. I’m still deciding what it means about me.

Go figure it out yourself.

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Next:

I’ve been going hard about this Varhaus story. Thanks a million for reading.

I’ve been living the story I’ve been telling you for ten years. It asks lots of questions. There are many themes. The problem that bothered me the until a couple weeks ago? I could not separate the themes and ideas from each other, or myself.

I have been writing Million Dollar Garage for one year, this week. Including Bento Wiz and this article, I have submitted 240 different pieces. 340 people subscribe to this publication, of which, about half are actively reading the Varhaus serial.

I thought I could attract more people in one year. Though I was working hard on the submissions and marketing (sort of hard on the marketing), and though I have been pretty darn consistent, I suspected something was missing.

There was something that you didn’t know that I had failed to say. My tone was off. Many times, what I thought to be good writing was essentially ignored.

I told you about the pop art gallery I made: Angels and Abstracts. It was great! However, the more people I spoke with, the more I felt like an alien. People are too busy to hear a difficult thing told the slow way.

I need to show people, not tell them. So I decided to build my dream, first on paper and then in actuality.

Varhaus is at once a story and a pitch. The question I ask myself is…

what if someone let me…

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Artifact No. 1

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Artifact No. 2

Here’s a little poem I wrote this weekend. No pic, just text. It was viewed a ton on facebook. It received little interaction. I believe that this natural gentrification. Not the pejorative, but the natural steps of renewal. I don’t intend to impugn any of the players in this cycle, only to say it is a cycle. Maybe the artist receives too much credit in this little ditty, but he is often forgotten.

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Artifact No. 3

Artifact No. 4

Here’s something not so nice. I have had it on my desk for almost 25 years. When I read it then, I thought: “yes! that’s how you tell them.” Now, while I still respect the argument, and FD is still the champion, It makes me cringe a little. Just a little.

Artifact No. 5

Artifact Zero

If you have not begun to read Varhaus, start here. If you know someone that may be interested, please share the story with them. They’re gonna need to catch up, find out how we do things around here, if they want to travel to NOLA with us on Sunday. Beignets and Beads for everyone!

Varhaus No. 5

December 20, 2027
2:25 pm
Home

He stood in the middle of the gravel driveway. He had stomped a painting to death and thrown the broken frame at the garage door.

“motherfuckingshitfuckthisshit. fuck everyone.”

He stopped. “fuck me. I quit.”

She opened the sliding door far enough to call out. “I heard yelling, are you hurt?”

No answer. She found his slippers by the back door, slid them on and came outside. From the elevated porch she could see him looking for something else to destroy.

“Hey!”

He looked up.

“What’s wrong?”.

He wasn’t going to answer. “Nothing. These paintings fell out of the van while I was trying to load them.”

She looked from his face around the drive. Saw the paintings on the ground. Two of the frames broken. Frames he had made himself for paintings she did not understand.

She walked down the steps with her arms open in a ‘come here’ pose. He tried to walk away. She knew this dance. He wasn’t precious about paintings. This was something more than ruined work or frustration. Deeper.

She grabbed one hand and pulled him. He took the other but held himself apart. He was not ready for consolation.

“What’s the trouble?”

“None of this shit matters. Nobody fucking cares. I’m a fool for trying.”

He crumbled and burst at the same time.

She let him. She’d seen it before. Not often, but enough.

His constitution was a four-stroke combustion. Intake. Compression. Power. Exhaust. This was exhaust, not exhaustion.

“Hey dumbass. Stop for a second. How many people came to the event last week? Did you see their faces? I saw Dr. Johnson in the cafeteria and he told me all about this party he went to. He didn’t know I was your wife. Think of the people who are doing things joyfully around you. Ruth. Mike. Cam. Sara?”

“Those people are doing great...because they’re already great.”

“Did you see your Dad’s face when the little boy started singing? Of course you didn’t.”

He cried harder.

She held up her fist grasping an imaginary flower bouquet. “Here, smell these.”

He laughed a snot bubble.

3:05 pm

“Hey Ruth. Yeah, he’s not coming tonight. I told him he’s staying home and sent him to bed.”

She laughed. “You’re right. Sometimes he needs to be told. I told him that he’d done the work and you’d make it pay.”

She listened briefly.

“Oh yes, he’ll be ready for that. Hell, he’ll be fine in an hour, but I’m going to keep him here.”

She moved to the bedroom. The sheepdog passed her on the stairs and jumped on the bed.

“You’re on speaker, Ruth.”

“Jason! Oh my God, I’m freaking out! The collapse of Varhaus. Go to heaven, do simple capitalism, get grounded like a five-year old. What will we ever do?”

She paused her teasing for the punchline.

“We’ll probably have fun for once!”

BB laughed. “Ruth gets it.”

“I’ll be there in an hour or so.”

“No you won’t.” Jinx. Coke.

“I want to be there for Camron. He deserves my appreciation.”

Ruth covered the phone to give a muffled direction and then: “Yes he does. But he’ll understand. Plus he’s going to be so damn busy entertaining and networking. I’ll speak with him.”

“Embarrassing.”

“Trust me, there is nobody ashamed of you. That’s just you talking bullshit. Listen, though. It’s more important that you’re fresh for New Years Eve and the festival tour. I got this nailed.”

“Thanks Ruth.”

BB ended the call and looked down her nose at the reclining artist petting his sheepdog.

“See?”

She cooked the peach chicken dish that she made the first time he came to her house. Followed it with a bowl of ice cream.

“You know my ice cream theory right, BB?” he asked.

“Faster than Prozac!”

“Yup. Thank you. Not only for the ice cream.”

7:30 pm
Holiday Fundraiser

“Good evening. My name is Gabriel Thomas.”

“Thanks for supporting the Food Bank, Mr. Thomas.”

She looked at the banquet table full of name tags. She flipped through an excel spreadsheet, turned to her volunteer coworker, “Thomas?”

“I’m not finding your tag. Give me a quick second.” A tall woman stepped forward from behind the partition.

“You’re with us, Gabe.” Ruth smiled. “Hi Susan. You look amazing. Thanks a million for coming.”

She produced two lanyards from her coverall pocket with the Varhaus logo. Please see me before you leave, Jason left a mug for you.

Confusion. Questions. Gabe stepped to the side making space for the folks lined up behind him.

“I thought I was invited by mistake. I was hoping to crash the party and talk with Jason. I’ve been trying to get an interview for a year.”

“He won’t be here tonight. We respect your hustle. We want you here, just not the way you think we do.”

“People are talking. I keep hearing about your event last week. Something about a chapel and singing children and the best sandwich bar ever built? I heard it was a real banger.”

“It was a helluva experience. Have fun, tonight.” She excused herself and disappeared around the corner. As she walked he noticed she wore an audio rig on her waist...in her hand, a headset like a telemarketer.

He and Susan joined the party. After grabbing a couple blueberry mojitos, they found a corner table and people-watched. Susan liked to watch people interact. Gabe stayed out of the social fray to stay objective like good reporters do.

This was not the orchestrated party he heard about all week. This was a firesale. Everything had a dollar amount. Art. Drinks. Tables. The woodshop. Every blank wall claimed by a donor logo. Wall-to-wall positive people. Silent auction. Pretty dresses, fitted shirts, over-hyped holiday hellos. Still Varhaus, but the guests seemed to miss the artwork entirely. The best gala this town had seen in ten years. Just...monetized. And though it was for a great cause...the best cause...

all tell and no show.

They hung back and observed. Made note of the participants. Look at that. Look at her. State Senator. Neurosurgeon. Developer. Mayor. Socialites.

“They might set a fund raising record for the food bank.”

Boom, a flash. Gabe knew exactly what it was. Sun Gun. A camera. A tall woman standing in front of a painting, talking with her hands. Smiling. The crowd gave them space and watched the production. Professional production? Susan grabbed his hand and they weaved over to see.

Something stopped them. Jason’s painting studio. Usually the centerpiece of the room, tonight the glass garage door was dark and closed. Looking through the etched lettering on the glass, “a prophet is not without value...”, a young man sat with his back to the party. Three large computer screens in front of him. Past the screens, the largest of the wall easels had been converted into a huge chatroom. The primary feed in the middle showed Ruth gesturing to the large painting behind her. The rest of the projected zoom call was filled with people representing a different iteration, a digital Varhaus.

“Sonofabitch” Gabe thought with a smile. He considered the scene a moment. He looked at digital operation in front of him in concert with the party happening behind him.

“Online art auction. Is he using the fundraiser to create ambiance to sell art or is he using the online interest to legitimize his artwork for the fundraiser?” He thought about it a second more.

He looked at his wife. “Who is the customer, here. Which audience is intended?”

Susan smiled. “We are.”

When they were ready to leave, they found Ruth. Two bespoke wooden boxes that rattled a bit. In the car he opened his Varhaus Coffee Mug. He had wanted one since the first time he saw it. To the driver’s annoyance, he flipped on the dome light to read the folded note tucked inside:

“There is a law written in the darkest of the Books of Life… If you look at a thing nine hundred and ninety-nine times, you are perfectly safe; if you look at it the thousandth time, you are in frightful danger of seeing it for the first time.” -G. K. Chesterton

Join us on New Years Eve 5:30 pm

A man’s handwriting: “off the record. bring Susan!”

December 31, 2027
5:35 pm
Varhaus

He wore the Christmas outfit BB picked out. Lululemon that passed as dress pants. A lightweight checked oxford. New 574’s. The strobe in his office indicated the arrival of his guests. He straightened his shirt and walked through the dark gallery to the front door.

Susan and Gabe stood in the flurries. He opened the glass door and stepped back.

“Happy New Year. Thanks for coming.” He reached behind Susan to the wall and flipped a switch. White.

They went blank. “What happened to it?”

“You’ve seen what it can be at times. Now it has to be something else.”

Eight large paintings on the wall, too much space between them. Freshly painted white walls. Ceiling flat black. Concrete clean. It seemed as big as an indoor football field before the artificial grass was installed.

In the middle, a table as big as one of Jason’s paintings. Maybe 12 feet long and 8 feet wide. On top of the table, an ad-hoc tablecloth of unprimed painting canvas. Folding chairs. On the table rested piles...coffee mugs...red wine...paper plates...plastic cutlery...rolls of paper towel instead of napkins.

“We were hoping you’ll have dinner with us. The peeps will be here around six. In the meantime I have a couple things to do. Look around. Kick the tires a bit.”

“Is this a joke? Did the building get sold? Where’s the rest of it?”

“I think Dorothy was a little disappointed when she met the Wizard. Really, look around.”

They headed straight for the back door. The guts. All that stuff had to go somewhere. They went past the woodshop and the motion light kicked on. It looked like a Greenfield Village exhibit. The tools were perfect. No projects were sitting on the benches. No sawdust. They dead-ended into a door and opened it to find a wide hallway stretching the length of the entire building. They turned left down the hall to find a garage containing two vehicles, but space for three. A black Sprinter and a garden shed painted white.

The first view of the shed was the back. No door. Just white exterior walls. The view of the van was the same except on the floor was stacked someone’s luggage, toiletries and guitar.

Walking between, they noticed the shed was on a trailer. Glancing through the side window of the van...geometrically stacked artwork packed efficiently for travel.

“HEY, what the hell are you doing in here!” Very loud and aggressive.

Jason stood at the doorway enjoying his interruption.

“Have you ever been to Venice, Gabe?”

“No, but we really want to go to Italy.”

“Well, this baby is headed to Venice Florida.” He leaned, one hand on The Joyful Mystery. “There’s a really great park there called Myakka River State Park. Mike’s gonna drive it down and leave it. BB’s grandfather is going to care for it. We created a GEOCache for people to find it. Pray at it.”

“You’re not going?” Susan asked.

“Close. I’ll be working art festivals on the southeast coast plus Naples. I leave tomorrow.”

“Who’s gonna handle this place?”

“You don’t know who runs this joint? It ain’t me. I got like 5 bosses.”

“Ruth?”

“Yeah, she’s three of them.”

“I want to write a story about this place. Do I ask her the questions?”

“Look man. I appreciate you have a job to do, but she can’t help you. That’s why we’ve invited you here. Your participation and interest excite us. But not as a journalist. As a person. I offer you this one little suggestion, don’t ask newspaper questions. Find the real questions you need answered.”

“I don’t understand.” Gabe was frustrated.

Susan put her hand on his shoulder to gather his attention. “You do understand.”

“He loves this place. I think he’s a little butt-hurt that it’s not in action tonight.”

“...but it is in action. A different action. A monument in time. This is what I want you both to do: participate and enjoy yourself. Learn by osmosis.”

“Are you trying to be some sort of guru or something?”

Jason flashed anger. Almost embarrassment.

“Look at me.”

“I love the people of this city, just like you. I love a city that sucks. It sucks for lots of reasons. Almost no art market. Nobody doing anything scary. Asking 50 year old questions and answering with borrowed buzzword answers from ten years ago. SAMO. I have some solutions, but they don’t fit with the common outlook. You know why? Orthodoxy and Individuality. I know what I am trying to make. I refuse to ask permission to make it. I hide the truth so people have to look and find it. I do it so I can serve these people that I love the way that I think God wants me to. Guru? Fuck no.

Do you see my passion? Do you see my urgency? Do you see why I can’t answer you?

You see? Your name is Gabriel. I need you to do that job.”

“Welcome to Varhaus”. Nobody saw Ruth come in. “See what I have to deal with? You guys hungry?”

The Varhaus partners were already setting up the dinner table. BB arrived with a dozen pizzas, breadsticks and wings. She sat them in the middle of the table with Mike’s help. There was no seating arrangement. Not everyone sat. Not everyone used a plate. Nobody said a prayer or announced “let’s eat”. The lights were dimmed and music selected.

Jason put on Mose Allison: “Your mind is on Vacation (your mouth is working overtime.)”

Everyone knew everyone. Even the significant others knew of Susan and Gabriel and greeted them like old friends.

Jason stood on a chair. “Yo!”

Ruth looked up. She and BB were commiserating as usual. “Not yet, Sit down. We’re waiting for someone.”

“Who?”

“Just wait.” Jinx.

Gabe and Susan sat with Jason. Pizza, wings, laughing. Writers and stories. Sports and pizza.

Folks played cards. Skip-bo. Others just talked.

At 7 pm BB looked at her phone and headed to the front door. Ruth followed. They returned with a woman carrying the biggest poinsettia anyone had ever seen. She set it on the table and stepped out from behind it. Sara Douglas. The first person to ever walk in off the street.

“Happy New Year everybody!”

Everyone gathered around her as if to congratulate her, welcome her. Like a family member showing up unexpectedly at a family reunion after being gone too long. Her beaming was mirrored by Ruth and BB. A mug of wine appeared in her hand.

While the attention was on Sara, Jason stretched an orange construction extension cord from beneath the table across the floor to the closest wall outlet.

Everyone sat round the table. The table was almost large enough to hold a place setting for each, but not quite. Jason sat at the head with BB. She was in conversation with Ruth to the right and Sara leaned in to the conversation.

“Let’s talk turkey. We accomplished three proofs of concept this month. Each is well earned.”

He held up a framed 8.5 x 11 Paper. It read: 12/12.

“Did we create mystery that encouraged people to discover joy for themselves?”

Everyone nodded.

Another frame: A dollar bill.

“Did we make money? Did we make money for our partners?”

Ruth: “Hell yes we did! Hyman Roth always makes money for his partners!”

Jason raised his coffee to his friends. They raised wine in coffee mugs.

“I’ve been sitting on the last proof.” He leaned forward to reach in his back pocket and produced a silver envelope and held it up. He handed it to BB. “You read it.”

She opened a New Year’s greeting card. A Hallmark message...”Here’s to this year’s blessings informing next year’s hopes...”

“This card is from Camron Galt. He owns our building.”

She stood up straight and read: “HNY! I rented the whole building across the street. I close on the parking lot in February. $245,021.12. Keep Going. PS. I’ll see you in Venice in two weeks.”

Clapping and smiles, but most did not understand the significance of the note.

Mike stood. The rest followed.

“Here’s to not knowing how your energy will be returned to you. It always comes back better when you don’t try to know. Salut.”

Mike didn’t say much, but he always said it right.

“One final thing.” Jason grinned. “One final proof.”

He turned to Sara, BB and Ruth.

“Did you think I didn’t know she was coming? Like, a person who thinks about children’s development all day? A person who grew up in New Orleans? Our favorite place? A person who produces a travel blog for single women with children? There’s not much you two can hide from me.”

BB hit him in the arm. “jerk.”

He turned to Sara. “We have not been recruiting you. We’re not a fucking cult. We have simply been waiting for you to say: “How can I be involved? Welcome home. Anything can be done here.”

Then to mike: “It’s all yours, brother.”

“If you could all step back from the table and remove all the stuff please?”

Mike said: “Sara, we all have God-given talents, skills and interests. This is Varhaus. We live what it says on the mug. We encourage participation through people’s unique gifts. When we lack the gifts of a particular activity, we become the worker bees to support others’ gifts.”

He reached under the table and found the hidden controller. The table rose from dining height to bar height. Beneath, a hydraulic lift, mounted in the center, was revealed as the table’s base. And then he lowered it. All the way down to its full compression, about 16 inches from the floor.

Mike stood on one long side. The rest stood opposite him. He ripped the painting canvas tablecloth away like dad performing a clumsy magic trick.

“We made this for you, Sara. It’s your workbench to inspire young minds.”

They looked down.

It was the painting Sara loved on her first encounter at Varhaus. She thought it was sold. It had been mounted in a thick frame and sealed beneath an indestructible resin finish. The painting depth was changed by epoxy effect. It was no longer pretty. It was useful and pretty.

Gabriel Thomas watched Sara melt into belonging. She hugged everyone as if each embrace was leaving someone out. His outlook had shifted somehow. He suspected his job was not words or articles. Ideas.

“Hey Jason...what does the word Varhaus mean?” Gabe telegraphed his voice across the table.

“I just made it up. I like the way it sounds.”

Here the story of 2027 ends. Jason mounted the van the next morning and drove toward the Keys. Mike followed a few days later with the shed. The building was left as a conventional art gallery, the paintings doing the talking while the city did its paperwork. Camron cleared the hurdles. Varhaus went quiet, preparing for the next thing...like a dairy cow grazing in a pasture.

NEXT: VARHAUS NO. 6

Varhaus No. 4

June 1, 2026
7:00 am

“The power is on. The internet is coming tomorrow. The roof gets patched next week. The furnaces will be serviced soon. Here’s two keys. I know they work in the front door, but I don’t know if they work anywhere else.”

They had walked the space two days ago. Methodically, from the graffiti-tagged windows to the garage in back where the huge overhead door was screwed in place to prevent it from falling off the track again. Jason saw the inside for the first time. Camron, the first time in two years.

They looked at the storage spaces and counted the leaks in the roof. They found no cockroaches. After an hour, Jason faced the landlord and held out his hands as if to say: “well?”

“Yes.”

Reaching into his back pocket, Jason produced a quarter-folded copy of his insurance policy. They shook hands. Camron left. Jason stayed in the building until it was too dark to overpower real objects with his imagination.

“Are you nervous?”

“Not nerves. I fear two things. I fear that this will affect my closeness with my wife. I fear the consequences of making my idea successful.”

“You fear being successful? That sounds stupid to me. Plus, this is low risk for you.”

“From your point of view, it’s completely stupid. I agree with your thinking. But what sort of person writes a 12 chapter novel to an audience of one person too busy to read anything but business documents? We think differently. You’re risking money and time. I’m risking...”

He did not finish.

“Mind holding the door open for me for five minutes?”

Camron creaked the glass door open and watched the items come in.

Brand new shopvac. Two ladders. Light bulbs. Push broom and deck scrubber. Hose. Ryobi screwgun and other amateur tools. Pine-Sol. Camera, laptop. Butcher paper.

He set up a sawhorse pair 12 feet from the door. He grabbed a loose sheet of plywood leaning against a column. The office was ready.

“You’re either genius or crazy, dude.”

Jason smiled and waved.

“Neither. Thanks a million. Have a great day.”

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Jason spent three hours swallowing dust on a ladder while changing lightbulbs. He was planning on soaking all 12,000 feet of concrete floor until he realized that the debris from the ceiling would make it futile.

He rolled out the butcher paper and stapled it to cover the plywood. He found an old folding chair and began to make notes with a black Sharpie. He put his principles down. First: Nobody is coming to save us. He crossed out and replaced ‘us’ with ‘me’. He laid down his three life goals. He wrote down R 12:2. In red Sharpie he circled two dates that he’d written. MDG by June 20. Paint June 21. There were other short reminders. Publish. Free write. Market. Finish Fired.

He did not need to remember these reminders. He needed to remember them together. He often fell into one task while neglecting the others.

He reverse-engineered the work plan based on the dates. A cleaning timeline. Dust the ceiling. Clean the floors. Office function. Easels and studio. Organize the debris. Garbage. Garage door. Events.

This timeline was completed by noon. The first step. He rummaged the building. He took inventory of utilizable construction items. He found cool old stuff, stimulus for his creativity, but dangerous distractions. He stuck blue tape near the outlets that needed service. He wrote it all down, took photographs. He made a video walking from the front entrance to the back garage as a reference.

He sat back down, looking at the space. He had written the Varhaus story in a vacuum. Now the building was telling him what it actually wanted to be. He listened.

After an hour of productive daydreaming, he was overcome by the scale of the project.

“There’s no fucking way...too big...too much...too long.” He looked at his 4x8’ butcher paper playbook. Eat an elephant...

He found an empty space on the paper. Simplify. One area at a time. Tent. Festival rig. Build Million Dollar Garage. Office function. Woodworking shop. Paint studio.

He texted his wife a photo of the front of the building with no text.

“What’s that?”

“Varhaus”

Now it was real.

The next morning he brought a huge barn fan and a 10x20’ pop-up tent. In his pocket, a folded page of graph paper with the dimensions of his current studio: Million Dollar Garage.

This was not his first art studio build. It was his fourth. He had also built and remodeled several restaurants as a chef. MDG was the worst situation. Due to covid, no place to sell art, he moved home, outfitted their broken concrete garage into an art studio and office. Called it a pompous name for a joke.

It was a blessing and a curse. He was isolated more than ever, but he was also home. The pros and cons of the situation caused pros and cons regarding his work and happiness.

A new studio must be lived into. It must fit the artist. This scale was overwhelming.

He determined to rebuild the studio he already had. A spatial replica. He found a natural break toward the front of the building to frame the space. From that spot, he measured 12 feet from the exterior wall. He rubbed his shoe into the dirty floor to mark the spot. Thegarage measures 24x32’. Varhaus studio and office will be the same. He marked all four corners with orange Home Depot buckets and hooked up the hose. He poured 2 gallons of Pine-Sol on the floor directly from the jug. So much that it burned his eyes. He then flooded the zone with hot water. He spread the soap and water for coverage of an area twice as large as needed.

With the floor soaking, he grabbed his ladders and began to sweep the dust from the ceiling, moving cautiously to avoid slipping on the aluminum. In two hours the ceiling was clean enough. The water on the floor was room temperature.

The water ran and pooled twenty feet from the area he was cleaning. Good to know. He built a dam using some old linens he found. He resprayed the area.

He came back with a floor squeegee and the cheapest carpet remnant he could find. He moved the dirty water toward the dam and the waiting shop vac. He wetted the floor once more and wet-vacuumed the entire space. He rolled out the remnant where the office would live. He erected the tent upon it. When the floor dried, he remeasured and duct-taped the border of the studio and office. He figured the size of the woodworking area. The studio was on one side of the office, the woodshop on the other.

Tomorrow he would have a working office. The next day, a place to make frames and size substrates. The day after, a working art studio.

He was ahead of schedule, but the work was yet to be started.

June 21, 2026
3:00 pm

“Hey. Long time. I need a couch, a coffee table, and a media center. Maybe a nice chair. Are you still collecting?”

“Hi Jason. Nice to talk to you. Yes. What style?”

“pimp-ass cigar lounge.”

“typical. Yeah I know what you need. Where?”

“333 Michigan Ave. I’ll trade you a painting to stage it here for a few months.”

“Deal. Next week?”

“Great. Thanks a million, Ruth.”

July 1, 2026
9:45 am

Camron Galt was alone inside Varhaus. He walked the building. All the concrete was clean. He laughed at the white circus tent inside. He wondered why Jason had hung a purple curtain along the front of the building ten feet away from the windows. He would have just papered the windows. Construction 101.

He looked into the tent. Desk, drafting table. Three monitors. Apple. Mini-fridge. Notes and loose papers. Floor safe.

“Where you at? I thought we were supposed to meet? Espresso and everything bagel would be awesome. Are you in line? Ok. I just wanted to ask you why you sent me 250 bucks on Venmo. You did? Nice. First sale here? That’s awesome. See you in a sec.”

He sat down on the tufted leather couch, put his feet on the coffee table, and checked his email.

“This furniture is going to get ruined.”

He heard a door slam in the back of the building ten minutes later.

Jason appeared with four coffees, a bag of pastries, and a beer cooler.

“Yooo...you read my mind. You having company?”

“One for you, two for me, one for Jesus.”

Jason set the breakfast down and headed to the tent. He pulled the side curtain down, dropped his bag on the desk and returned.

“You’ve done a shit-ton of work in here man. It looks awesome. I love the curtains. I would have papered the windows, but that only attracts nosey neighbors and building inspectors.”

“Yup. I don’t want to ask permission from any of those sorts of people. That’s why I asked you to come by. I’m ready to start painting. I’m ready to start making the story.”

He looked around the space for a second.

“I think I am asking you to give me permission to beg for forgiveness.”

“It’s a good time to fly under the radar. I say go for it until September 1. Everybody is on vacation until then anyway. Keep me informed, though. I don’t need any surprises.”

“That’s perfect. Thank you. Did you see the link I sent you?”

“No.”

Jason pointed to a camera mounted in the corner above the entry door, angled to cover the length of the building.

“You can check on the place anytime you want. By the way...I’m moving in for a month.”

A knock at the front door interrupted Cam’s obvious questions.

“That’s Mark.”

Jason wrenched the front door open to a middle-aged priest holding a missal and a square plastic bottle.

“You ready?”

“I sure am, Father.”

Jason nodded to Camron. “You want to hang around while he cleans this place up real quick?”

“Hell yes.”

Mark walked in. He bowed his head. Jason and Camron did the same.

“Heavenly Father, thank you for this day. We ask that you bless the work done here. We ask for your grace in serving others with our skills to glorify you. In Jesus’ name, bless this building and all who enter her. Amen.”

The priest blessed the building’s exterior doors and defined areas with silent prayers. He threw his holy water at each, making the sign of the cross. When it was finished, he turned to Jason.

“You promised coffee?”

August 1, 2026
7:50 am

She popped the trunk and unlocked the car doors. They got out and began to unload. His suitcase and toiletries. Grocery bags full of ham, protein drinks, her fresh sourdough, bottled water. He grabbed the coffee maker and ten pounds of dark roast.

They dropped the items inside the door. She came in with the car still running. Her shift began in 10 minutes.

“I don’t understand why you do things so extremely, but I understand you have to. Now I have to get up early to make sure the dog eats and poops and the cats are fed. The house is so quiet when you leave.”

He gave her a hug and squeezed extra. He hated making more work for her.

“You know you work just 3 blocks away, right? You can come here anytime. Maybe bring the dog and we can have a sleepover?”

She laughed. “You’re gonna have to shower sometime, right?” That was the only thing he couldn’t do here.

He pulled out his wallet and handed it to her. No car. No money. No way out.

“Thank you, BB. There’s nobody like you. Thank you. Someday, it’s gonna pay off for us.”

He walked her to the car. She opened the back door and produced a small box. “Good luck. I’m proud of you.” She sat in the driver’s seat and waved as she sped away.

He waited until she turned left at the intersection to back in. As soon as her car left his sight, he realized he didn’t have his keys.

He found them still hanging in the door. He walked inside.

Everything was in place to accomplish what he needed.

12 Statement paintings. (”fuck you paintings”)
50 couch paintings. (”Furniture”)
Launch the website.
Edit the book for publishing.
Plan the events.

If it took a month...so be it.

If he did it faster, and the work was great, he could go home.

He sat down in the folding chair and opened the box. A white coffee mug.

Go to Heaven
Do simple commerce
Show people they’re not trapped

The only cosign he needed.

Next Edition:

Varhaus No. 1

Varhaus.

Read full story

December 12, 2027
6:30 pm

The invitation arrived weeks ago. Before Thanksgiving. A wrapped white package leaning against your front door. No return address. You opened it on your kitchen table. A blue painting. Flipping it over to look for a signature, you found a message embossed in white lettering on blue labeling tape, like your grandfather’s shop organizers.

Merry Christmas, Sara
Join us on 12/12
5 pm until 10 pm
Look dope.
Bring only the name of the person you most worry about.

Confusion. How did they find me? Bring a name? What the hell? More questions than answers.

You’re driving downtown. The town is dead. Yesterday’s snowstorm has made the city silent. Sure, there’s traffic, but it seems every car is passing through to somewhere else. The storefronts are dark. Parking is available everywhere. Amazon Christmas.

Further on, to your left, fifty cars parked in front of an amber snow globe. You didn’t get dressed up for nothing.

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You parallel park a block away, rueing the certain salty ruin of your best pink soles. You organize your purse beneath the seat and step out. At the rear of your car, you keep your eyes down, avoiding the slush. A valet stands quietly until you look up from your shoes. He’s wearing gray coveralls with white pinstripes and a Varhaus logo. He holds out his hand as you reach the curb.

“I’m sorry if I startled you, Ms. Douglas. I’m Mike. Merry Christmas from Varhaus.” Mike offers his arm and escorts you over the only dry sidewalk in the city.

“When we get inside, I’ll hang your coat. You’ll need this. Your job is to enjoy yourself. There will be a ten-minute program at 7:12. Did you bring a name?”

You smile and confirm you’ve done your homework. One-handed, you pull the lanyard over your head and look at it. “Prima”? Mike opens the door and ushers you inside. You hand him your coat, and he takes it away with a smile.

You pause to gather yourself.

The spray-painted wall. “Be not conformed” in pink, drippy Rust-Oleum. A familiar face smiles and offers you a flute of champagne. She’s wearing the same jumpsuit as Mike, but with a string of pearls and heels.

“Merry Christmas, Sara. You look amazing.”

“Merry Christmas to you, Ruth. Thanks a million for having me. You even look classy in a mechanic’s outfit. This place confuses me so much. What the hell is going on?”

She laughs as if thrilled by your confusion.

“I cannot tell you. I mean, I can’t enunciate it. I’ll tell you this. Tonight’s event is the closest we get to an explanation. We’ve been working on it for a year. Varhaus is something to be understood individually. Describing it ruins it for people.”

“The mug.”

“Yep. The mug.”

To the right, a banquet table: Collectors. Handmade wooden boxes, all different, with red bows. Wood-burned logos on the face of each box. A branded Brand. The largest box, centered on the table: Sara Douglas.

You look back at Ruth. She shrugs and extends a hand, inviting you into the party

Entering the festivities, Varhaus is unfamiliar again.

The main room was long and rectangular. Now it is square, crowned by a hanging four-foot disco ball. Two adjacent rooms are fully opened to the party and brightly lit: the paint studio and the workshop. Ruth’s furniture collections are raised above the crowd and occupied by guests. The far wall is obscured by a suspended curtain of traditional Christmas lights, the sort that only look good when there are too many.

You almost bump into a man playing cello in a jumpsuit, red kerchief, and matching fedora. Somewhere unseen, a piano answers him. The crowd ebbs, revealing a woman with a violin strolling through the sea of conversation.

Sidestepping the cellist’s chair, you look left and observe the guests at a 1950s kitchen table rise from their seated positions. The cluster of people mingling in front of them misses the gesture.

You make a few quick observations about the staged furniture settings. The themes are the same as you remember: grandma’s kitchen table, the MCM lounge, the full-blown content creator’s workstation. Actors. They have actors. At grandma’s table sits a family of five dressed like the cast of My Three Sons. On the mid-century couch and chairs, eight stylish men and women in lounge coats and cigarette pants smoke pipes and look sophisticated. At the computer desk, a twenty-something works while five monitors show a Zoom call with what appears to be hundreds of people. He’s wearing coveralls and audio cans.

When the family rises, the music stops. The conversations continue. Unnoticed, the violinist steps onto the platform beside the actors. She gives an exaggerated nod. Her bow slides across the strings like the first loops of a knitting needle beginning a winter sweater for a loved one.

A voice from nowhere:

“Gloria.”

And the standing family answers in harmony:

“in excelsis Deo.”

Guests whip their heads around, searching for the singers. They turn toward the kitchen as the stylish men and women rise behind them and sing the first verse a cappella, forcing the room to turn again. The piano and cello join. The music caresses the spectators from front, left, and right. Surround sound. They back themselves into the dead corner of the room, trying to position their ears to take it all in at once.

After three songs, the littlest boy in the choir is helped onto the kitchen table by the violinist.

A lone cherub singing in the wilderness: Silent Night.

The music ends, and your feet still have not allowed you to join the party. Your wine is nearly gone. Can a girl get a drink in this place? You move right, toward the painting studio. The crowd gathers to congratulate the players.

A man sits alone in the studio beneath an unfinished painting, drinking from a mug. His face holds only the satisfaction of the first cup of coffee on a winter morning. You have not seen Jason since your first visit. He is wearing gray Puma sweatpants and aquamarine New Balance 574s.

“Are you hanging with all your friends?” You jest.

“Hi Sara. Welcome home. Looks like you need more bubbles.” He smiles, stands, and shakes your hand. Then he reaches into an ice bucket on his worktable, tops you off. “There you go. Thanks a million for being here.”

You’ve wanted to ask him all sorts of questions. You decide you would not receive a straight answer to any of them.

“I love my mug. I love the idea on it. But I still don’t understand what you’re doing in this building.”

He deliberately misreads the statement-shaped question.

“What am I doing? I’m thinking about how much work we’ve done to get to today. I’m counting my blessings. I’m thinking about what to do next.”

“You’re not enjoying the moment? This amazing event? The culmination of your work?”

“I already enjoyed it while making it.”

You make small talk. He escorts you back into the party and introduces you to art collectors, local artists, a retired priest, a real-estate developer, and his wonderful wife.

When he introduces his wife, you observe his joy for the first time.

7:12

“May I have your attention?”

Ruth steps onto a small stage. Behind her hangs a fire-hazard curtain of gaudy holiday lights. No dais. No props. She holds a Varhaus coffee mug. She stands a head taller than most of the gathered crowd.

“Merry Christmas. Welcome to Varhaus. Thanks a million for being here. We have three things to do in seven minutes. Two speakers and a half-done art project we’d like help with. Please welcome Jason.”

Jason climbs the step to the stage. He has not changed his clothes.

“Thanks a million.” He does not smile. “I’d like to recognize two people.

Camron is our first YES. Thank you for allowing us to fill your building with art and philosophy. I intend to repay your trust.

And, our first-ever visitor to Varhaus: Sara Douglas. She is our second YES.” Jason gestures toward where you’re standing. A warm round of applause. You blush. You had no idea.

“The philosophy of Varhaus is manifest in this building. The rules are a coffee mug. The operating agenda is a Bible verse spray-painted on a wall. The why is greater than the what.

That’s all the explanation you get.

I’d like to introduce our partner and reveal our project. Everyone, meet Andrew, my friend and favorite metal guy...”

He is standing next to you. He looks like a ready-to-work lumberjack drinking coffee, waiting for the go-ahead. He wears a graphic T-shirt that reads: Hail Mary full of grace, punch the devil in the face. He is wearing Vans. You think he looks dope.

When your name is announced, he touches your shoulder. You are surprised to be recognized and slightly embarrassed, but his smile says: that’s so fucking cool. You love him immediately.

When introduced, he grabs your hand and pulls you onto the stage. He points at you.

“Number one!”

You step back down into the crowd.

“We think the rosary is the most powerful prayer in the world. We believe only God can save us. Our goal is to amplify our service to the world by building a traveling prayer. Jason, Ruth, and I teamed up to make a crazy idea.

Before Jason was an artist, he made a five-day retreat in a monastery. In the woods of the enclosure was an old shed. The Rosary Shed. People walked from the chapel to this ramshackle one-room pull-behind trailer to say the rosary. Many visitors wrote the names of their prayers on the wall. I visited a few months ago and found it still standing. I found the names of thousands of people who had been prayed for.

So we made this shed. We want to send it around the world. We want to fill its walls with names.”

The gaudy curtain of Christmas lights goes dark and rises, revealing a Tom Sawyer white garden shed, too big for a snowblower and not big enough for an art studio. You guess it to be twelve by sixteen feet.

The entire venue blinks pitch black. Everyone silent. One spotlight strikes the shed, its white skin throwing back an ethereal glow.

You stare at it as if you’ve never seen a garden shed in an art gallery before.

The spotlight clicks off. Still silent. A single candle burns inside the shed. You can see it through the sliding glass entry. In the flicker, a shadow. A murmur from the shape casting it.

A man kneels near the candle. You cannot make out the words, but you went to Catholic school, so by context, you know. After a moment, the whole building lights from within. The soffits beneath the roofline ignite too. A shining shed on a hill.

You forget where you are.

The kneeling figure is the priest you met earlier. Ruth walks to the glass door and slides it open. The prayers emerge.

“We welcome you to come inside and see our shed. We call it The Joyful Mystery. There are paint markers. We invite you to write the names of your prayers on the wall. You may join Father. If you know the rosary, you may give him a wine break. We only ask that you respect the solemnity of others.

Sara, as our most honored guest, we invite you inside first. We cannot thank you all of you enough for being here. Mike and his mother assembled the most amazing sandwich bar in the workshop. Jason will be in the studio. I am here. The music will begin again.”

“Wait!” someone in the back yells. “Tell us more about what you’re going to do with the shed. Where’s it going to go? How will you fund it? How can we get involved?”

Your curiosity about the shed is already pulling you toward it. You hear the questions. Absentmindedly, you call over your shoulder:

“Figure it out.”

Jason doubles over laughing.

“SHE GETS IT!”

You pass through the open sliding door. You are struck. Looming above the kneeling priest, a crucifix of nails.

The cross runs from the peak of the shed to the floor. An untreated I-beam. Rough and used. Chalk marks and handwritten measurements remain from craftsmen who put it to its first purpose. You imagine steelworkers fitting it into a building fifty years ago. Above the body: INRI.

But the body. The corpus. Holy s...My Lord and my God. There must be ten thousand nails arranged in the shape of Christ. The sharp tips point downward toward his feet, except for the crown of thorns and the spikes securing the Messiah. The brutality of metal shaped into flesh weakens your knees. You sink onto the kneeler beside the priest. He pauses.

“Who do you want to pray for?”

“My Aunt Jenny. And, if you don’t mind, and, if it’s not too selfish...”

He finishes your sentence.

“I have already prayed for you tonight. When you get home, will you pray for me?”

“I will. Thank you, Father.”

You rise and grab a paint marker. Then you fall back to your knees and reach toward the cross. You write her full name on the I-beam beneath Christ’s feet. You pray. You kiss the priest on the cheek.

Ten people wait behind you, craning their necks to see what you’ve seen. Others write the names of their whole families on the outside of the shed. You decide to have a sandwich and find your champagne flute.

You give up on the glass and enter the woodshop. Ridiculous sandwiches.

A sixty-year-old woman in a Varhaus jumper points a spatula directly at your stomach.

“You look hungry. You’re Sara, right? You and me are going to make you the best sandwich you ever ate. Look, I shaved this beef tenderloin so fine. I sliced this chicken from my neighbor’s coop. It has rosemary and thyme. I pickled these beets and made my grandmother’s special relish. I have seventeen cheeses and nine meats. Three kinds of bread. Jason calculated that with all the toppings and meats, we can make 5,287,680 unique combinations.”

You walk away shaking your head. Roasted pork loin. Rosemary chicken. Goat cheese. Smoked gouda. Wax pepper mustard on warm fresh sourdough. Now you’re looking for water.

You set your food beside a pleasant couple at the MCM table. The woman smiles and says hello. You spend an hour talking about life and art. They flew in from Fort Lauderdale to see Jason for this event. They own several of his paintings and just bought another. They bring up the abstract painting inside of The Joyful Mystery. You admit you missed that part. Mostly, you talk about the cold and how to drive in snow.

You are preparing to leave. Shoulder tap. You remember him. He was sitting at the workstation with all the monitors.

“I have some people who want to meet you.”

He lifts your glass from the coffee table and guides you toward the office-stage setup. Jason and his wife are seated at the desk with headphones and microphones. It hits you.

“I thought you were a prop. An actor. You work here?”

“Um, sort of. I’m a broadcaster of sorts. Currently we’re livestreaming to 127 people in four countries. I’ve been meeting them for months. They’ve been asking to meet you. As the first visitor, they want to know your impressions. You don’t mind, do you?”

“I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“It’s easy. Just be yourself. You’ll figure it out.”

Jason and his wife wave bye to the streamers. They stand and greet you.

Mark fits you with headphones and a microphone. You sit down. 124 webcams wave. 72 coffee mugs rise in a digital toast.

“Wow. Hi, guys. Thanks a million...”

One week later, on December 20, Camron hosted a gala at Varhaus for his business and the community. Ruth represented Varhaus and its interests. There was no spectacle that night. The people were the attraction.

Seven paintings sold for $42,000. Jason donated a large black-and-white to the live auction. Another $22,000 was raised for the food bank. Ruth sold two furniture arrangements.

Just in time. The new year was coming.

Varhaus needed room.

Next…

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Varhaus: Built in Imagination First

I’ve been building Varhaus in my mind for years, long before I had names for any of this. Before Million Dollar Garage, before newsletters, before pricing ladders, before trying to explain what I was after.

Million Dollar Garage was the first version. It was necessary. Small. Personal. A place to learn what could be made with limited means, stubbornness, and whatever happened to be within reach.

Varhaus is the bigger endeavor.

A place for doing cool shit. Art. Food. Experience. Motion. Surprise. Attraction. A destination people hear about from someone who says, you have to see this place. A room that keeps changing. A business that earns its keep. A place where discovery is part of the product.

Maybe it can be built. Maybe it can’t be built on an artist’s paycheck. That part is still unresolved.

So I’ve decided to build it first in public imagination.

The work becomes energy. The output becomes momentum.

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October 19, 2027
Noon

It’s been a few months since you visited. You’re in the neighborhood with an old friend.

“I have to show you something.”

There are two fine cars and a beater truck parked in the parallel parking spots in front. There’s now a back lit professional sign: Varhaus. Etched on both sidelights of the door installation: Figure it out. Figure it out. Figure it out. On the Glass Door, hours of operation, a phone number for appointments and a huge number 12.

The door opens effortlessly and slowly comes to rest behind you. Your view is blocked by a large wall painted white, perfectly painted eggshell white. It is covered with a message written in a sloppy golden graffiti. “Be not conformed to the patterns of this world, but be renewed by the transformation of your mind”...you take a moment to decipher the scrawl and continue past the wall to the open room. More questions than answers.

You were excited to show your friend the painting you discovered on your last visit. It is nowhere to be found. Instead there are 10 huge paintings on the wall. You scan them all to find the one you’re looking for. No luck. You find a welcome desk just past the entrance with a dozen bottles of wine, crystal set up like a cocktail party and a professional coffee pot circled by the very same mug you have in your cabinet at home.

As you help yourself to a couple of wines that you’d never heard of, a woman’s voice greets you from an unseen location.

“Thanks a million for coming. Look around. I’d love to hear what you think.”

The middle of the room is quite dark except the odd spotlight located above various furniture arrangements. The arrangements are eclectic but seem curated. One, looks like your grandmothers home. One looks like a mid-century modern couch and chair sitting area. One is a modern office desk set up with three monitors and full-blown video production rig with soft-boxes. New rugs cover the concrete floor beneath each setting creating a sense of completion to each lounging package. These are comforting spots to talk and hang, but upon further inspection you realize that their positioning, every seating place, has a perpendicular view of an artwork.

The paintings and the walls glow in white light as if one little shadow could ruin the whole show. A slight music plays in the background, gregorian chant or some form of calming music.

You’ve stopped looking for the painting you came to see and carry on toward the back wall to see if the artist is in. The glass is pitch black. The woman, standing near a partition is talking on the phone while sitting at a small desk. She smiles at you with her eyes, but continues to speak into the phone: “You’re right, the photos just don’t do it justice.”

Your friend plops down in a replica Eames at the MCM area. She crosses her ankles and puts her wine down. It’s the first time she’s sat down in three days. She expects you to sit too, but you begin to meander. Some of the paintings are better than the one you saw previously. Some are not quite to your taste. But they are massive, energetic and colorful. They are so large and so abstract that you feel as though you may walk into them, proceed within and exit through back to a new world. Like the back door in the wardrobe to Narnia.

You seek the information relevant to the paintings. Low, to the right of each is a small placard where you would expect the details of the work: size, year, medium, price, etc. But no. You’ve learned in two trips to Varhaus that nothing is obvious. The card simply says: figure it out.

Somehow, your gaze and investigations have been limited to the back and left of the building. With the exception of looking for the darkened painting studio near the back wall and to the right, you missed 2/3 of the right hand side. You observe your friend, relaxing and drinking her wine, you notice a great curtain behind her. It’s purple and it looks lush and regal. It hangs from the ceiling to the floor.

As you’re pondering this, you remember: “Where is the artist?” This thought comes to you as the woman from the phone enters your space with an uncorked bottle of wine. Before greeting her, the question leaps from your lips as she tops you off.
Where is Jason?

“He’s in New Orleans with his wife. It’s been his busy season. A pop up in the Southampton. Festivals in Tampa, Naples and Miami. They are celebrating her birthday in their favorite place. He says that NOLA refills him to paint.”

“I was here six months ago and he gave me a coffee mug. The place is so different, it’s evolved. There was only one painting. It had a different energy. It’s calmer now and not so dramatic.”

“Do you want to see his new studio?”

She pushed a button on her phone and the purple drapes retracted revealing two full glass garage doors. When the moving curtains came to a stop, the lights came on behind the glass. A white hot light. On each pane of glass was a different saying. Some were from the coffee mug. Some Bible verses. Some inspirational quotes. The largest etched graphic, pasted over two of the larges panels in the glass door: “Remember, Remember the Twelfth of December.”

You don’t bother to ask what it means.

You walk over to peer in. As you approach, the garage doors rise silently. With the exception of the huge easels, it was spotless. The table in the middle of the u-shaped workspace was like quartz. Anything could be made in that studio. It could have been a chocolatier’s kitchen. An electronic technician’s lab. A lunch room.

“He hasn’t moved in yet. When he gets home, he’ll set up for paint. The studio you saw on your last visit will become the workshop.”

“workshop?”

“The workshop builds frames and sizes substrates for the paintings. But, more importantly, it’s the engine for making the ideas. Between the workshop and the new studio is Jason’s personal office and space.”

Your friend joins the two of you. She’s now invested in the speaker. She inquires into the woman’s position.

“I walked in here one day, just like the two of you. It was sparser. He was painting and basically ignored me when I asked him about the painting that was in progress on the easel. He asked me to have a beverage and sit down for a few minutes, he’d talk when he was finished. An hour later he sat down with a coffee. I asked him what he was doing with this space. He sidestepped my question and asked me fifty. His questions were probing about my belief system, my interests and why I was drawn to interrupt a working man. Not rude, intense.”

The conversation concluded when he handed me a coffee mug.

“I’m looking for people like you. You can come by any time. We can do anything here.”

Your friend interjects: “but what do you do, here?”

The woman smiles. “Sometimes I sell paintings. I sell the historical furniture arrangements that I love and collect. I talk to people like you two. I follow the rules on the mug, not because they are rules, but because they fit me.”

“I suppose my accidental job is to soften the intensity of the artist. I’m Ruth.”

“Nice to meet you, Ruth.”

“He’s an asshole, then?”

Ruth tops off your wines with a smile.

“Only if you misunderstand him. Let me put it to you like this: even chocolate cake tastes bad when it’s shoved down your throat. I cut nice slices.”

You share a smile. Women know.

You hear a door open from the back of the space. Men talking, voices coming nearer. Two men walk by, one in pinstripes, the other in casual wear. They pause their gait long enough to nod pleasantly and say hello. They continue in tandem out the front door and into the Range Rover and Chevy Suburban parked in front of Varhaus. They speed away leaving the beater truck parked alone.

Ruth excuses herself. She heads back to where you first found her and begins to dial the phone. Full glass of wine, you proceed granny’s kitchen arrangement near a baby blue painting. More questions than answers.

Your friend goes silent for a few minutes. She looks into the painting intently.

“I see so many things in this painting. I don’t know if they are on purpose or by accident. What does it mean?”

You remember: “The why is more valuable than the what. The reasons are on the mug.”

To yourself: “What does it cost to do this?”

Next in the series….

Varhaus: Built in Imagination First

I’ve been building Varhaus in my mind for years, long before I had names for any of this. Before Million Dollar Garage, before newsletters, before pricing ladders, before trying to explain myself.

Million Dollar Garage was the first iteration. Necessary. Small. Personal. A place to learn what could be made with limited means, stubbornness, and whatever was in reach.

Varhaus is the larger endeavor.

A place for doing cool shit. Art. Food. Experience. Motion. Surprise. Attraction. A destination people hear about from someone who says, you have to see this place. A room that keeps changing. A business that earns its keep. A place where discovery is part of the product.

Maybe it can be built. Maybe it cannot be built on an artist’s paycheck. That part is still unresolved.

So I’ve decided to build it first in public imagination.

The work becomes energy. The output becomes memory.

What follows is a serialized vision of a place I hope to make real through work, time, luck, and grace.

Begin with Varhaus No. 1.

April 2, 2027.

3:05 pm

You approach an old building with a new sign: Varhaus

On the glass door, etched lettering: “figure it out.”

You pull the door open, it swings off-true. No bell rings. No electronic alert. You slip through. The door slams behind your feet, then settles halfway in the jamb. You expect the commotion to announce your presence. It does not. It seems empty. The place is old, but uncluttered. The concrete floor is untreated but patched and clean. The walls are flat white. The ceiling is high and flat black. A few furniture groupings sit around the room: used chairs, coffee tables, an ugly but clean couch. Directly in your path sits a dais. Or maybe a hostess podium. No one staffs it. A single spotlight shines from above directing you to a pair of fine crystal wine glasses, an opened bottle of Pinot Noir. On the same pedestal sits a full pot of coffee and one simple mug beside the wine.

Below, on the face of the stand: “thanks a million for coming”

You pour yourself some coffee. You take it in. The coffee is too rich and bold for the environment. The room is long and narrow, yet large. You realize you are only seeing part of the footprint. The flat white paint and the sparse decor make it feel larger than it is. The coffee pot sits roughly 15 feet from the front door and with sixty feet of room running to the back wall. There is no evidence that this is a store or a place of business. To your right, a partition seems to block an opening to the rest of the building.

Some people would ask what is going on here.

You think:

Anything can happen here.

On the back wall, as if your senses have been subtly cued a line of sight to move your eyes from the welcome java to the main attraction, a massive abstract painting. It pops off the wall like a greeting. Good to meet you! Aside from a singular spotlights placed above the furniture like nightlights, the art is lit fully and professionally. You stare at the painting from your fresh coffee stance. A hum becomes noticeable.

You don’t know too much about art, but as you slowly walk to the back wall, the painting draws you in, the vibration gets stronger. You stop thinking. The deep bass becomes white noise for your focus. You observe the painting without attempting to add meaning.

..a flash of light to your right.

You whip your head right and see a man in a human fishbowl. Hidden behind the partition and the painting, he has no idea you’re watching. It is not a fishbowl but an art studio encased in repurposed glass. Three temporary 2x4 easels hold twelve-foot paintings....similar to the size of the painting that drew you in. In the middle of the U-shaped arrangement sit huge tables scattered with paint, tools, and objects whose purpose you can’t guess.

The hum? Music in the fishbowl. Apparently very, very loud.

The artist wears cutoff Puma sweatpants, a steel chain with medals and saints, and half-dried paint on his bare chest. You find a chair and watch while you drink your coffee. The artist moves with purpose or not at all. There is no middle ground of wasted action. He is either deciding or executing. Thinking or painting. Never a second guess. Never a move to reconfigure. Paint, stop, paint, stop.

The bass shakes the glass of the studio. You recognize it. Wu Tang...He has no idea you’re there. His concentration, his craft, and “Protect Ya Neck” keep him fixed on making. The studio door bears an etched sign in the same font as the front door and dais:

Artist Working.
Interrupt with Caution

You watch until he breaks routine and reaches for a coffee mug. Finding it empty, he heads toward the door toward you. He observes your presence for the first time, turns around, turns down the volume, and pulls a baby blue hoodie over his head. Varhaus on the chest.

Hello, I’m Jason. I need coffee, would you like some more?

He comes back with the coffee and a third mug wrapped in a branded box. He smiles appreciatively and gifts you the mug:

VARHAUS
GO TO HEAVEN
DO SIMPLE CAPITALISM
SHOW PEOPLE THEY’RE NOT TRAPPED

You ask what the painting means. He points to the mug, shrugs, then turns the question back at you. He nods at your answer.

“The why is more valuable than the what. The reasons are on the mug.”

Next…

Varhaus: Built in Imagination First

I’ve been building Varhaus in my mind for years, long before I had names for any of this. Before Million Dollar Garage, before newsletters, before pricing ladders, before trying to explain myself.

Million Dollar Garage was the first iteration. Necessary. Small. Personal. A place to learn what could be made with limited means, stubbornness, and whatever was in reach.

Varhaus is the larger endeavor.

A place for doing cool shit. Art. Food. Experience. Motion. Surprise. Attraction. A destination people hear about from someone who says, you have to see this place. A room that keeps changing. A business that earns its keep. A place where discovery is part of the product.

Maybe it can be built. Maybe it cannot be built on an artist’s paycheck. That part is still unresolved.

So I’ve decided to build it first in public imagination.

The work becomes energy. The output becomes memory.

What follows is a serialized vision of a place I hope to make real through work, time, luck, and grace.

Begin with Varhaus No. 1.

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Jason Keusch, with the guidance and help of Traction and Camron Gnass, for the last month, residing at 615 E. Michigan Ave in Downtown Lansing, has presented a full exhibit of his current Abstract Art as the work pertains to the Holy Angels, The war of Good v. Evil, the discomfort of attempting to live authentically, and the stated goals of the Artist’s life (go to heaven, do simple capitalism and show people they are not trapped).

Many artworks have been purchased and are due to reach their new homes from Dallas TX to St. John’s MI at the end of next week. Many desirable and strong works remain for acquisition.

There are three days left in the exhibition as of writing on April 3. Today, Tomorrow and a closing event from 4-8pm on Tuesday, April 7. You can find the invite below. All are welcome.

This release is not intended for media, per se, but as a marker in time regarding what has happened, what has been made, and the media produced that should last forever in the digital world.

Facebook Event: Buy-Bye Lansing- Angels and Abstracts Closing Event

A Few of the 40 Available Works

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Meijer- Capital City Market

Courtyard by Marriott - Downtown Lansing

Gallery Shots

Find his latest writing about Fly-fishing following the answer to his question.

Chris:

I want my life to feel like you feel when you are fly fishing.

Simple Commerce is to directly make and sell an authentic product to people.

I seek authenticity in my person, my work and therefore, my collectors. One person or family buys one painting that only exists because I created it.

Bank notes and financial pressures limit my ability to be authentic. Leverage makes me try to create vanilla sale-able artwork, not special artwork. Mass production to the mass consumer does not excite me. Repetitive products do not fit with the entirety of my goals.

How is this simple capitalism like fishing? You know that feeling when you’re trying to catch that whopper that you know is sitting on the ridge by the weedbed? That one-of-a-kind trout that God made like no other trout? I’m fishing for paintings. Authentic paintings bring authentic people, like minded people.

Those people complete my service, fulfill my goals, and allow the paintings to live on beyond me.

The operation of fishing and painting are similar to all fishermen and painters. But, I am talking about the feeling of fishing and painting. The feeling of eating what you’ve caught. The feeling of a painting hanging in someone’s home.

You cannot accomplish this feeling with farm raised fish or mass produced artwork. You accomplish it on silent mornings, alone.

When you are fishing you feel no leverage, nor do you have any to wield. It’s just you, your wits, your gear and your willingness to hunt fish. I’m trying to make my business feel like that. I’m attempting to be so aligned with my God-given blessings that I attract people with similar values.

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While I build that level of acumen, I’m practicing a few things.

I delay gratification as long as I can.
I focus on process before outcome.
I get creative with what I use in my studio and how I live.
I only buy what I can afford. I reuse and repurpose anything I can.
Most of my money goes to paint and board.
I cut out anything doesn’t serve the work.
I make exceptions for my wife and the people I love.
I fail over and over.
I forgive myself for failing.
I do the work. Again and again.
I think more.
I pray.

Many people will read this and say: He’s out of his gourd. It is understandable for folks, real good honest hard-working folks, to think that I am ‘touched’.

To which I say: Nobody gets out of here alive.

I tell you, Mr. Fisherman, that simple capitalism does not work for most people. this world rewards borrowing capital to make wealth. This world rewards scale over authenticity. This world leverages comfort and security, no matter how precarious or illusionary, over originality.

Notice I did not say bravery or courage. I am neither.

I simply see no other way to achieve my goals.

1 Go to Heaven
2 Do simple capitalism
3 Show people they are not trapped

“And be not conformed to this world; but be reformed in the newness of your mind: that you may prove what is the good, and the acceptable, and the perfect will of God.”

Romans 12:2 Douay Rheims Bible

If I am to go to heaven, I must use my God given abilities to glorify Him and serve humanity.

To do so, I must keep the business activity simple. Let my yes be yes and my no be no. Camels. Eyes. Needles. I’m not trying to be rich. I’m trying to have enough to paint until I die.

To serve people, I believe I have to be able to say to them: You are not trapped, brother. You are wonderful. If you choose to use your authenticity to serve the world, you’ll see just how wonderful you are. And you don’t have to go to my extreme, just a little action according to your natural self will reveal more gifts.

How is fishing like simple commerce?

It is like standing in a river with an empty basket and a full heart. Even a bad day fishing is better than the best day trading authenticity for the illusion of safety.

…but it ain’t easy.

Christopher Higgins

Why do I fly fish?

“Why do you fish?” A frequently asked question. One I like answering. One that causes some self-reflection. One that brings back good memories of vibrant orange sunrises and the purplest of purple sunsets. Memories of running from storms and hiding from relentless winds. Memories of countless stories, endless lies and more sunburns than I care to sha…

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5 months ago · 12 likes · 8 comments · Christopher Higgins

This painting took me to task. It said:

Shut up and listen.

I sit in the corner of this gallery, a wonderful presentation of artwork that has deep meaning to you. You have created something wonderful. And you’re pissed.

You have worked for 6 months on this project. You have poured it out onto these wooden boards. You have dug deep to bring meaning and truth to the world. You have done a brilliant job.

Before I go on, before you look honestly at my composition, I must tell you:

You do not waste anything in this world. No effort goes unanswered. No energy leaves and fails to return.

You are not throwing pearls at swine. You are not teaching dogs to perform card tricks. You are learning.

You are learning that this is a long haul. You are learning that your thoughts, while steeped in God and honesty and hope, are dangerous concepts for this distracted era.

Your thoughts have not been tried and found wanting. They have proven difficult to accept. Or they have been observed as difficult and avoided.

You are standing directly over the target. Bombs away!

Trust it.

Just look at me for a second. Look and do not try to apply meaning. How do I make you feel? How do I teach you? To most, I am just a pretty picture that is a bit scary. Scary because looking more deeply may lead to a change in thought, a challenge of mind and a difficult pill to swallow.

You have already accepted the truth about this world and the world beyond. You are already fighting the war of souls.

How do I make you feel? Calm? Hopeful? No. I make you feel acceptance that there is a whole world askew and believes it is upright. Nobody is safe. Nobody is secure. Nobody gets out of here alive. Only God can save us.

Remember:

“There is a law written in the darkest of the Books of Life, and it is this: If you look at a thing nine hundred and ninety-nine times, you are perfectly safe; if you look at it the thousandth time, you are in frightful danger of seeing it for the first time.”

— G.K. Chesterton, The Napoleon of Notting Hill[1]

This Gallery is about Art, life and God. It is about truth and Lansing. It is about your goals:

1 go to heaven

2 do simple commerce

3 show people they are not trapped.

Your mission to serve God is being comprised by your impatience to be successful as an artist, to sell art and to be heard.

You have done the work. You have done it with great intention and purpose. Let go, let God. Someday, you will know how your effort and energy will manifest. Until then: Pray unceasingly and do not worry.

You were not made for comfort. You were made for greatness.

And so is everyone else!

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First! Angels and Abstracts

The Gallery has an opening on Wednesday from 12-9. Regular hours until April first are published on the Facebook page. You can see the details by following the button below. It will take you to the event page and from there, you can rsvp or follow along to the actual page for more information.

Join me for Wednesday Public Viewing

Second! New Digital Print (free for paid subscribers)

This print is the jump off for the entire show. One of the themes: You were not made for comfort, you were made for greatness was on my mind when I made it.

The format is 16x20 and can be downloaded from my site and sent to any printer or used as a screen saver or phone screen. 25.00. Free for paid subscribers using the code behind the paywall.

You can find it here:

Joy and Angels and Greatness

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