The Curious Case of the Porcine Portrait by David Roe
A vainglorious landlord is mortified to find his property defaced by amusing graffiti.
I've always wanted to be a hero. That's why I became a landlord.
This country is in the midst of a housing crisis. Such trying times demand a champion, a man of noble intentions. And what could be more noble than providing a home for the downtrodden at fair market rates? So, when my father asked me to manage one of his apartment buildings in Lexington while he attended to important business across the fairways of Florida, I leapt at the opportunity. In the end, I suppose I didn't seek greatness... it was thrust upon me.
My job requires many talents. I must be a master of duct tape and patchwork. I must be able to paint a two-bedroom apartment in less than twenty-five minutes - electrical panels and kitchen drawers included. And I must be relentless in the pursuit of rent, ability to pay notwithstanding.
But today calls for a new set of skills. Today I must be a detective.
Exhibit A: a spray-painted abomination on the street-facing side of my building. I must confess a grudging respect for the vandal's skill. The mural is rendered in such fine detail that there is no mistaking the identity of its central subject. It's me - an unflattering estimation of my musculature and body hair, to be sure, but it's definitely me. And I'm performing an unspeakable act upon a pig, which seems none too pleased with the treatment.
I'm aware some of my tenants call me "pig fucker," since they often do so to my face. Some people are just ungrateful. What do they expect, free room and board? Whatever. This pig fucker has skin thicker than any hog.
I'll get to the bottom of this.
No hero acts alone. Batman had Robin. Sherlock had Watson. Even Paul Revere had his horse. So, I enlist the aid of this city's valiant protectors: the good people of the Lexington Police Department.
Despite the logic of this course of action, I soon suspect I have erred. The dispatcher sent neither detectives nor forensic investigators. Instead, a regular squad car pulls up, disgorging a pair of uniformed grunts sporting orange-tinted Oakleys.
"I can see why you're upset, Mr. Porker," the officer called Grantmyre says.
"It's Parker," I say, ignoring his partner's snickering.
"Right, sorry. Parker." Grantmyre adjusts his utility belt around his prodigious belly and studies the ribald mural. "Do you know who did it?"
I throw my hands in the air. "Of course not! That's why I called you."
Grantmyre scratches his chin and returns his unmarked notepad to his vest pocket. "Well, an incident like this really falls outside our purview. If you can identify the culprit, we'll press charges."
"Unbelievable! All the taxes I pay, and this is the service I get?" I hang my head. "Fine. I'll investigate this crime myself."
"You do that. In the meantime, we'll need to take a few photos for evidence."
The other officer snaps a series of shots while Grantmyre performs vigorous hip thrusts in front of the wall. I'm beginning to suspect these photos won't end up in a case file.
Let no man accuse me of sloth. If these overpaid civil servants choose to shirk their duty, then I'll roll up my sleeves and do their job for them.
I launch my investigation on foot, working through my building from the ground floor up. I ask each tenant if they know anything about this heinous crime, and whether they can confirm their whereabouts the night before.
"You've got time for this nonsense, but not for fixing my hot water?" demands 1B.
"If you ask me, that mural really spruces up this shithole," opines 2F.
"Eat shit and die, pig fucker!" yells 4D.
I flip through my notebook after enduring an impromptu and expletive-laden lesson about tenant rights from 6C. I've gleaned nothing useful from this cavalcade of abuse. My word, when did everyone become so uncouth? Must be all that social media.
Social media - that gets me thinking. Maybe I'm going about this all wrong. The cops are layabouts, and my tenants can't see past their own rent obligations. No, I must spread the word of this injustice and appeal to the silent majority. Surely most people understand that landlords are the glue that holds our society together.
I post pictures of the mural across every social media platform I can think of and provide my contact number to serve as a makeshift tipline.
The response is swiftly disheartening. Most of the comments find inexplicable delight in the defacement of private property. There's also a great deal of admiration for the artistic skill behind this felonious act, utterly ignoring its offensive nature and the suffering inflicted upon its principal victim. The tipline is equally unhelpful, quickly becoming a procession of increasingly unlikely suspects, such as the Dalai Lama, the CIA, and Bigfoot.
Another dead end. I delete the posts and contemplate my next move. I wander back outside, hoping to find inspiration at the scene of the crime. When I round the corner, I'm surprised to see a small crowd gathered at the wall. People are lined up to take their photo with the mural. There's even a news van.
"What's going on here?" I ask one woman in the crowd.
"This art piece is a viral sensation," she says.
"It's not an 'art piece,'" I reply angrily. "It's a crime scene! And how did it go viral? I posted this thirty minutes ago."
"The internet moves fast, man." She pauses to study my face, then turns to the wall. "Hey, that's you, isn't it?"
"That's really not important."
"Hey everyone!" she shouts. "It's the guy from the mural! It's the pig fucker!"
The crowd swarms me, repeating this puerile epithet. I retreat inside as the jeers grow louder.
I spend the evening on my balcony, nursing a glass of whiskey. This case is starting to take a toll. The chant of those lawless hecklers still echoes in my ears. The horrible mural is emblazoned on my eyelids, taunting me every time I blink. I look out at the glittering lights of Lexington and release a deflating sigh. What has happened to my fair city?
My phone chirps. I wince when I see who's calling.
"Hey Dad."
"What the heck's going on up there, boy?" he growls over the phone.
"We got vandalized," I say. "But don't worry. I'm taking care of it."
"I've already handled it. Some eccentric millionaire wants to buy the building to preserve the mural. Says it 'really captures the zeitgeist,' whatever the hell that means."
"You sold the building?" I cry. "I can't believe what I'm hearing!"
"Well, believe it," he says. "Made a helluva profit, too. This fella also gave a boatload of money to the artist, and commissioned him to do more work around town."
"They found the vandal?"
"Yeah. The tenant in 4D came forward to claim the money. He paid a little fine, but that doesn't matter much now, does it?" He laughs. "Apparently, he's been appointed the building's new landlord. Anyway, it's almost tee-time. We'll talk later."
I stand outside my stolen kingdom, stewing in ignominious exile. I stare into my own caricatured face, contorted in the paroxysms of ineffable pleasure. Where did I go wrong?
Perhaps I need to reexamine my life. I'm not a hero. I'm certainly not much of a detective. No, I'm a man who fought for the betterment of my people, even when they turned against me; who was denigrated by the authorities; and who was sacrificed by his own father for the greater good.
I'm really more like Jesus.
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| Image generated with OpenAI |
This country is in the midst of a housing crisis. Such trying times demand a champion, a man of noble intentions. And what could be more noble than providing a home for the downtrodden at fair market rates? So, when my father asked me to manage one of his apartment buildings in Lexington while he attended to important business across the fairways of Florida, I leapt at the opportunity. In the end, I suppose I didn't seek greatness... it was thrust upon me.
My job requires many talents. I must be a master of duct tape and patchwork. I must be able to paint a two-bedroom apartment in less than twenty-five minutes - electrical panels and kitchen drawers included. And I must be relentless in the pursuit of rent, ability to pay notwithstanding.
But today calls for a new set of skills. Today I must be a detective.
Exhibit A: a spray-painted abomination on the street-facing side of my building. I must confess a grudging respect for the vandal's skill. The mural is rendered in such fine detail that there is no mistaking the identity of its central subject. It's me - an unflattering estimation of my musculature and body hair, to be sure, but it's definitely me. And I'm performing an unspeakable act upon a pig, which seems none too pleased with the treatment.
I'm aware some of my tenants call me "pig fucker," since they often do so to my face. Some people are just ungrateful. What do they expect, free room and board? Whatever. This pig fucker has skin thicker than any hog.
I'll get to the bottom of this.
No hero acts alone. Batman had Robin. Sherlock had Watson. Even Paul Revere had his horse. So, I enlist the aid of this city's valiant protectors: the good people of the Lexington Police Department.
Despite the logic of this course of action, I soon suspect I have erred. The dispatcher sent neither detectives nor forensic investigators. Instead, a regular squad car pulls up, disgorging a pair of uniformed grunts sporting orange-tinted Oakleys.
"I can see why you're upset, Mr. Porker," the officer called Grantmyre says.
"It's Parker," I say, ignoring his partner's snickering.
"Right, sorry. Parker." Grantmyre adjusts his utility belt around his prodigious belly and studies the ribald mural. "Do you know who did it?"
I throw my hands in the air. "Of course not! That's why I called you."
Grantmyre scratches his chin and returns his unmarked notepad to his vest pocket. "Well, an incident like this really falls outside our purview. If you can identify the culprit, we'll press charges."
"Unbelievable! All the taxes I pay, and this is the service I get?" I hang my head. "Fine. I'll investigate this crime myself."
"You do that. In the meantime, we'll need to take a few photos for evidence."
The other officer snaps a series of shots while Grantmyre performs vigorous hip thrusts in front of the wall. I'm beginning to suspect these photos won't end up in a case file.
Let no man accuse me of sloth. If these overpaid civil servants choose to shirk their duty, then I'll roll up my sleeves and do their job for them.
I launch my investigation on foot, working through my building from the ground floor up. I ask each tenant if they know anything about this heinous crime, and whether they can confirm their whereabouts the night before.
"You've got time for this nonsense, but not for fixing my hot water?" demands 1B.
"If you ask me, that mural really spruces up this shithole," opines 2F.
"Eat shit and die, pig fucker!" yells 4D.
I flip through my notebook after enduring an impromptu and expletive-laden lesson about tenant rights from 6C. I've gleaned nothing useful from this cavalcade of abuse. My word, when did everyone become so uncouth? Must be all that social media.
Social media - that gets me thinking. Maybe I'm going about this all wrong. The cops are layabouts, and my tenants can't see past their own rent obligations. No, I must spread the word of this injustice and appeal to the silent majority. Surely most people understand that landlords are the glue that holds our society together.
I post pictures of the mural across every social media platform I can think of and provide my contact number to serve as a makeshift tipline.
The response is swiftly disheartening. Most of the comments find inexplicable delight in the defacement of private property. There's also a great deal of admiration for the artistic skill behind this felonious act, utterly ignoring its offensive nature and the suffering inflicted upon its principal victim. The tipline is equally unhelpful, quickly becoming a procession of increasingly unlikely suspects, such as the Dalai Lama, the CIA, and Bigfoot.
Another dead end. I delete the posts and contemplate my next move. I wander back outside, hoping to find inspiration at the scene of the crime. When I round the corner, I'm surprised to see a small crowd gathered at the wall. People are lined up to take their photo with the mural. There's even a news van.
"What's going on here?" I ask one woman in the crowd.
"This art piece is a viral sensation," she says.
"It's not an 'art piece,'" I reply angrily. "It's a crime scene! And how did it go viral? I posted this thirty minutes ago."
"The internet moves fast, man." She pauses to study my face, then turns to the wall. "Hey, that's you, isn't it?"
"That's really not important."
"Hey everyone!" she shouts. "It's the guy from the mural! It's the pig fucker!"
The crowd swarms me, repeating this puerile epithet. I retreat inside as the jeers grow louder.
I spend the evening on my balcony, nursing a glass of whiskey. This case is starting to take a toll. The chant of those lawless hecklers still echoes in my ears. The horrible mural is emblazoned on my eyelids, taunting me every time I blink. I look out at the glittering lights of Lexington and release a deflating sigh. What has happened to my fair city?
My phone chirps. I wince when I see who's calling.
"Hey Dad."
"What the heck's going on up there, boy?" he growls over the phone.
"We got vandalized," I say. "But don't worry. I'm taking care of it."
"I've already handled it. Some eccentric millionaire wants to buy the building to preserve the mural. Says it 'really captures the zeitgeist,' whatever the hell that means."
"You sold the building?" I cry. "I can't believe what I'm hearing!"
"Well, believe it," he says. "Made a helluva profit, too. This fella also gave a boatload of money to the artist, and commissioned him to do more work around town."
"They found the vandal?"
"Yeah. The tenant in 4D came forward to claim the money. He paid a little fine, but that doesn't matter much now, does it?" He laughs. "Apparently, he's been appointed the building's new landlord. Anyway, it's almost tee-time. We'll talk later."
I stand outside my stolen kingdom, stewing in ignominious exile. I stare into my own caricatured face, contorted in the paroxysms of ineffable pleasure. Where did I go wrong?
Perhaps I need to reexamine my life. I'm not a hero. I'm certainly not much of a detective. No, I'm a man who fought for the betterment of my people, even when they turned against me; who was denigrated by the authorities; and who was sacrificed by his own father for the greater good.
I'm really more like Jesus.
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