I Considered Buying a Town

I was sitting on my beer crate Tuesday afternoon, enjoying a cup of coffee and the rare pleasure of having absolutely nothing to do, when I came across an advertisement that nearly changed my life.

A whole town was for sale.

Belden, California. Population fifteen. Asking price $4.75 million.

I read it twice. Then I looked at my own house, the garage door that needs painting, and the patch of lawn I’ve been meaning to repair since April. For some reason, buying an entire town seemed more appealing than dealing with either of those things.

Four million seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars is quite a lot of money, of course. But you have to consider what you’re getting. Seven cabins, eighteen hotel rooms, a restaurant, a bar, and a river. Around here, that sort of money might buy you a nice house with a swimming pool and a neighbor who complains about your recycling bins.

Belden has fifteen residents. I already know more people than that through our Christmas card list, and I don’t particularly like all of them.

I started thinking about it seriously.

Not seriously enough to check my bank account, obviously. I’m not an idiot. But seriously enough to imagine what life would be like if I owned a town.

For one thing, I could probably call myself mayor. I’m not sure that’s legally how it works, but I suspect that when you own the buildings, the bar, and most of the chairs, people will let you get away with certain things.

I’d be a good mayor, I think. My first official act would be to remove unnecessary signs. The world has too many signs. There’s a sign near our supermarket telling drivers to watch for pedestrians, positioned exactly where a pedestrian would have to stand to read it. I’ve always wondered who they think they’re helping.

My second act would be to introduce a compulsory afternoon quiet hour. Nothing unreasonable. Perhaps from two until three. No leaf blowers, no pressure washers, and absolutely no conversations beginning with the words “While I’ve got you here.”

I would make exceptions for emergencies, naturally. Although I would need a fairly strict definition of emergency. A missing television remote would not qualify, regardless of what certain people might think.

By the time my coffee was half finished, I had developed a fairly complete system of local government.

I even considered inviting Captain Leafblower to relocate. He could have a cabin at a reasonable rate, provided he agreed to leave his equipment in Silverdale. I thought that was generous.

Then I started wondering about the residents.

Fifteen people is a manageable number until you remember that people have opinions. I imagine even in Belden, somebody thinks the restaurant closes too early, somebody else dislikes where the garbage containers are kept, and there’s probably one fellow who has been arguing about a fence since 1996.

You can’t simply buy a town and expect everyone to agree with you.

I know this because I’ve been married for more than forty years, and I haven’t yet managed to establish a consistent household policy regarding the thermostat.

Then there’s the maintenance.

The listing mentioned hotel rooms, cabins, a restaurant, and a bar. All very attractive things until you remember they have plumbing. And electricity. And roofs.

Eighteen hotel rooms means eighteen opportunities for somebody to call you at eleven in the evening because the shower isn’t working. Seven cabins means seven places where a guest can discover a spider and decide it constitutes a management emergency.

And the restaurant. Imagine owning a restaurant. People would expect it to be open when they’re hungry, which seems terribly restrictive.

I hadn’t even considered the sewage system.

A town needs somewhere for everything to go, and somebody has to make sure it gets there. I pictured myself standing beside a septic tank on a Sunday morning, holding a wrench and wondering why I’d spent nearly five million dollars to become the only available plumber.

That cooled my enthusiasm considerably.

Around four, my wife came outside carrying a small basket of laundry. She found me looking at photographs of Belden on my phone.

“What are you looking at?”

“A town.”

“Why?”

“It’s for sale.”

She put the basket down and looked at the screen. I showed her the river, the mountains, the little buildings. I explained that it came with a bar, which I thought might interest her.

She listened patiently.

“How much?”

“Four point seven five million.”

“I see.”

I told her about my plans for the quiet hour and the signs. I explained that fifteen residents wouldn’t be difficult to manage, especially if we got along with most of them.

She considered this for a moment.

“Now, Marcel, you haven’t managed to get the gutter cleaned on our own house. What makes you think you can look after an entire town?”

I pointed out that a mayor would delegate such things.

“To whom?”

I had no satisfactory answer.

She picked up her basket and went inside.

I sat there for another twenty minutes, still looking at the photographs. It really is a beautiful place. The river bends past the buildings, and the mountains rise behind them. I could easily imagine spending a quiet afternoon there, watching people come and go.

Eventually, I put my phone away.

Just before five, Mr. Three Trips arrived home from the grocery store. He carried two bags into his house, returned to his car for a carton of milk, then went back once more for something he’d forgotten in the passenger seat.

I watched him make all three journeys. He gave me a little wave on the last one.

I waved back.

There are perhaps thirty houses on our street. I don’t own a single one of them, and I have very little influence over what happens inside.

Still, I know which porch light comes on first in the evening, who brings in the neighbor’s trash cans, and which driveway Mr. Three Trips will be walking up again tomorrow.

It’s not a bad little town, when you think about it.