I’m living in this huge house that’s populated by what feels more like a family than a commune. But it’s clear that we’re not all related, so it’s definitely a commune. The house isn’t necessarily Victorian in style but it’s very large and has many rooms. It has not been divided up into apartments the way that most houses of this style have in Vermont (if we’re even in Vermont) but there’s also the distinct feeling that this isn’t a co-op either. There’s about 20 of us gathered in this wide but shallow living room, watching an old broadcast on an old TV when we hear lots of commotion coming from outside.
I rush into the foyer to observe that there’s a gang of movers who’ve widened the doorway (!?!?) and are trying to usher an extremely large desk into the house. The desk is a very dark wood (but not mahogany) and is laquered to a mirror polish; it’s absolutely enormous and six of these movers are struggling to get it inside. Behind them, I see the truck and many more matching pieces inside – – a complete set! Standing by is a well-dressed woman with expensive foundation covering her face, pearls around her neck, and her hair tied up in a tidy bun.
With the rest of the commune behind me, I order them to cease. I stare right down on the woman and launch into a protracted explanation of why she can’t possibly move in. I explain that she (as a person) is welcome but that her furniture is not. That we are not accepting of that decadent lifestyle. By the time I reach the end of my speech, the movers have withdrawn but she is resolutely still trying to make her entrance. The commune members have dwindled behind me, disappearing like Morlocks into the bowels of the house.