On the day that the whales came to rot, the seaside town of Prince-au-Mer, which existed in a perpetually indecisive state, found itself teetering on the precipice of complete disorder. Dr. Rutherford and his handsome assistant, who was not a doctor and had spoken very little in public, so was assumed to be as unintelligent as he was handsome, believed that the carcass should be ignored and left to decay naturally.
There are many ecological benefits to allowing the whales to decompose naturally, said Dr. Rutherford.
Indeed, said his handsome assistant.
It is, in fact, quite advantageous if one considers the nutrients that will be provided to our natural seaside scavengers, as well as to the sand and soil, said Dr. Rutherford.
Just so, said his handsome assistant.
The beach residents, holding their noses as he began to launch into a dreadfully fact-filled monologue about phytoplankton, argued with the backing of their own personally funded research.
They’re ugly, said Mrs. Withers.
And they stink, said her husband.
The townsfolk shouted out their findings all at once then, with no great regard given to either hearing or being heard. Most of these arguments were founded upon the basis of aesthetic and concern for the general well being of community members whose homes were settled within sniffing distance. If one might imagine, the beach residents were of a somewhat higher echelon of Prince-au-Mer, and consequently quite accustomed to raising their voices at questionable scents and sights that might threaten that comfortable position.
Once everyone had made their points, they looked to the mayor, who stood with his belly resting atop the podium they’d carted in on a U-Haul. In case of media presence, they’d told the driver, who had shrugged and told them that they might find something smaller next time, more cost effective.
Wonderful points, said the mayor, wiping a drop of sweat from his brow. We shall take these all into account while we deliberate our next moves.
The townspeople groaned. The handsome assistant rubbed a subtle finger along the hand of the doctor, who sighed and shook his head.
The solution is obvious, came a voice from the back.
Mr. Rothschild-Dupont flashed the beachgoers a disproportionately whitened grin as he approached the podium, parting the crowd with nothing but the silent command of a man in a suit on a hot day.
We have many families who have been unable to pay rent, and more still who have been displaced completely from their homes. Now, six whales appear on our beach, like an answer to a prayer.
The mayor placed a considerate hand beneath his chin.
I say, continued Mr. Rothschild-Dupont, that we use this as an opportunity to better our community. Why, I only just gave an eviction notice to Mrs. Matheson this morning. I’m sure she’d be much more inclined to leave if she was given low-cost housing right here on the beach.
It is a fantastic location, mused the mayor.
And they are large enough to fit at least a family of three, said Mr. Rothschild-Dupont.
They are large because they are filled with combustible gas, shouted Dr. Rutherford.
The mayor waved a careless hand in his direction, like one might swat at a gnat that was being only moderately troublesome.
We could charge a small fee for rent, and for cleaning of course, and for general maintenance, continued Mr. Rothschild-Dupont.
Yes, yes. Maintenance will certainly be costly, said the Mayor, a hand upon his chin.
Combustible gas, repeated Dr. Rutherford. By which I mean that they will combust.
And we must charge a small fee for insurance, of course.
It’s only fair.
Well, said the mayor, feigning deliberation for only a half-second before clapping his hands together. It seems we’ve come to an agreement. How fortunate for our less fortunate! A truly brilliant idea from our finest mind!
The mayor’s assistant mimed a motion of applause toward the crowd, and the mayor took a small bow as the audience murmured and dispersed.
#
Mrs. Matheson sat upon the tongue-rug at the entrance of her whale-home, stirring coffee that she’d made over a fire at the edge of the sand. Dr. Rutherford had come to all of their whales with warnings about flames and gas and the inevitable fate that beheld them. They had all replied with the same hopeless response. It was this or a hot span of sidewalk, and at least the whales had roofs and a breeze.
Mr. Rothschild-Dupont had also come to visit the new residents, bringing with him an envelope in which he collected the change they’d gathered together as a security deposit after spending the majority of their funds on moving trucks. Mrs. Matheson had to leave her electronics, of course, but she was able to keep her clothes and blankets, which she’d hung from the teeth as a makeshift doorway.
Had there not been so many visitors, she would likely have used them to lay upon. But each day, there they were. A stream of interested landlords and news personalities, flashing their cameras and asking for comments that Mr. Rothschild-Dupont had warned them against. It had apparently become quite a popular idea, using natural housing substitutes for those who could not afford the brick and mortar.
Each day, there were new problems, which meant new costs to fix them, but Mrs. Matheson would not complain. Not even when the whale became just as expensive as her home had been, what with continued maintenance and cleaning, such as weekly tongue scrapes to keep the blood and bacteria at bay. Not even when the stench became so overwhelming that she had to rush outside and throw up into the ocean, so that her already frail body had begun to decompose at seemingly the same rate as that of the whale. Not even when she found her neighbor, Mr. Johnston, choking on a shrapnel piece of bone that had fallen into throat as he slept, creating a domino effect of belly sleepers and ladies who added tying a rag around their mouths to their nightly beauty routine.
#
This little town is changing the world one whale at a time, announced the smiling, bouncy haired newscaster. Low-cost, low-energy, low-maintenance. Not to mention this gorgeous view!
The camera panned out to the sea, and then back to the row of whales.
How charming! Said the newscaster, crooking a finger at the camera. I mean just get a look at this decor. Dried fruit hanging at the entrance, bringing in the sweet scent of citrus on the morning breeze. Imagine waking up to that!
Mr. Rothschild-Dupont gave the woman a thumbs up. Mrs. Matheson stood beside him waiting for her cue.
Here we have one of Prince-au-Mer’s very own cetacean residents. Mrs. Matheson, tell us what it’s like to live in a neighborhood that many are calling “the Future of Bohemia”.
Mr. Rothschild-Dupont urged her forward, and Mrs. Matheson tripped a bit before clearing her throat.
I couldn’t be happier, said the old woman.
Mr. Rothschild-Dupont motioned for her to continue.
I do not miss my home at all. Not candles, or microwaves, or a stovetop meal. Not a toilet, not showers, or chairs with legs that sit on top of the floor instead of sinking into bleeding skin.
Well, how would you! Exclaimed the woman. Modern conveniences sure seem silly when you have God’s gifts right outside your door. I tell you, I sure would love to trade in my shower for a moonlit dip in the ocean.
Why don’t you? Asked Mrs. Matheson.
What?
Why don’t you trade your shower in for a bath in the ocean?
The woman hesitated for hardly a second before breaking into uproarious laughter.
If only we were all so lucky!
#
After three weeks of media coverage, Mrs. Matheson was asked to vacate the premises on account of an incoming guest who had requested the whale for a short vacation stay. Only three nights, during which time she and the others would be able to stay in a smattering of tents that had been set up for them in the forest.
But it’s my home now, said Mrs. Matheson, and I don’t want to stay in a tent for three nights.
Mr. Rothschild-Dupont had sucked in a breath and reminded her that she hadn’t signed a lease, and that a lease couldn’t really be signed anyways, since there was no real owner of the whales. Except for the town of course, as it was their property that the whales resided on. As for her furniture, it would be safely deposited in a shipping container down the way, and she could have a moving truck come pick it up after the guest’s departure.
So she packed her essentials—a couple of books, face cream, glasses, and a set of spare teeth— into a yellowing pillowcase and watched as the mayor brought in truck after truck of furniture and decor. By nightfall, each whale had a private bathroom set up beside it, along with a cord running up through the blowhole, connecting to a generator that sat beside the rotting tale. They painted the whales with pastels and hung fairy lights all along the beach. A silk curtain hung where her tattered blankets had once been, and inside she could see shadows of furniture lit by soft lamplight.
Maybe it’s for the best, she said to her neighbors as they followed the long trail into the forest.
At least we’ll have light now, said one.
And bathrooms, said another.
The list went on and on as they walked. Electrical outlets, scented plug-ins, perhaps a silky curtain or two. By the time they arrived at their tents, they’d made up a game that had never been played before, and would likely never be played again. It was titled What Will Your Whale Home Hold For You? and they played long into the thunderous night.
#
Three nights turned into seven. Seven turned into fourteen. And on the fifteenth day, they were told that the town would now be using the whales as resort cabanas. A crew came to block the area off with rope, and the former whale residents watched from their tents as the mayor and Mr. Rothschild-Dupont toasted to their grand success. The mayor’s assistant arrived with a bag of celebratory paraphernalia, and then rushed back to the office, where she would spend the night writing the mayor’s speech for the grand opening.
Champagne was popped, and popped again, and popped once more. After the men had shared three bottles and many pats on the back, they dug into the bag and found the finest set of fireworks left over from the New Years celebration. It was meant to be the finale, but the firework operator had blown his thumb off in a rushed Roman candle debacle, and had suffered weeks of subsequent social leprosy as punishment.
Mrs. Matheson and her neighbors watched in reverential wonder as a litany of limbs and fire burst into the sky above the ocean, declaring in blinding red, white, and blue: The Best is Yet to Come!
Madeleine Hollis is a New Orleans based writer whose previous work appears in Ellipses: A Journal of Art, Ideas, and Literature, and New York Moves Magazine. She has a keen interest in the strange and magical details of everyday life, which she hopes to explore further as she moves towards an MFA.
