I sat waiting in my car in the apartment parking lot. Feeling anxious, I checked the time and scowled out the window at a raccoon climbing a nearby palm tree. The animal’s paws rustled the tree’s fronds as they scrambled along its branches, searching for a nearby trash bin. A discarded drone with broken wings lay in the backseat; alongside it, a laptop displaying captured footage of a license plate. This was the third apartment complex, but still no sign of the mysterious Moon Man. After narrowing my search to only four addresses, perhaps tonight’s the night?
Staring at the apartment door from the driver window, I imagined the confrontation: I would first pretend to be just another resident trying to enter a nearby apartment, then storm the target immediately after he unlocked his door, trapping him inside. I tried reading my phone to pass the time, but the advertisements frustrated me, so I ended up staring coldly out the window instead. The hotel prices weren’t cheap; in fact, I’d nearly spent my paycheck to drive out west to confront him. Tracking down his location was almost a bust, too—until I learned he was working night shifts at a popular fast food chain, dressing as the company mascot. What does he do? He holds a large sign and pantomimes singing stupid, catchy songs from the online advertisements. I expected better—or at least that he wouldn’t be such a fuckup.
There he is now, approaching in that old sedan. He’s thirty minutes early—no doubt playing hooky and leaving his coworkers to finish closing. He’s tall and awkward, stumbling out of his compact car. After regaining composure, his gait is relaxed: he almost leans back, his long arms swaying side to side with each step. Under his arm is the large crescent moon face mask, wearing sunglasses and an entertainer’s grin plastered permanently across its lips.
I exit my own vehicle and start approaching him from behind, checking my phone to avoid raising any suspicion. I’m closing in on him, and can hear his jingling keys as he squares himself to unlock his apartment door. With only a moment to spare, I rush forward and shove him into his apartment, quickly closing the door behind us. He cries out in surprise, then whirls around to face me while still lying on the floor. His face is pale with fear, and I feel self-righteous standing in his entryway—no lights on in the apartment, everything covered in the same darkness and confusion that I felt. I’m nearly twice his size, and I know he’s unarmed. The moon mask lays on the floor, its grin stretched into a grimace, begging me not to take things further. I take a step toward my victim, ready to deliver my monologue, when—
“What are you doing?” he asks firmly. I’m standing a few meters from his doorway. I didn’t make it in time to barge into his apartment: he saw me approaching from afar. I struggle to reply. I had a monologue prepared, but things have gone off script. I don’t know how to start.
“Those your Massachusetts plates?” he nods toward my car. “I’ve seen them several times: at the restaurant, on the highway, and here… You’re following me.” He states this information matter-of-factly, then waits until I regain my composure.
Finally, I do.
“Yeah, asshole. You owe me my money back. I brought a little something for you.” I begin reaching into my pocket when he quickly puts on his moon mask.
“You fucking asshole. You think this is a joke? I have a court summons for you. Do you know what that means?”
As I cut into the masked man, his behavior grows increasingly strange. He curls his arms and forms a strange pointing gesture, then rhythmically starts pumping his arms—in and out—widening these motions as if ramping up to the start of a performance. After reaching a near fever pitch of movement, he sags his shoulders and drops his head forward—as if he fell asleep. Suddenly, he jerks his body into a striking pose: arms out, hands flattened, fingers pointing to either side, legs spread and feet facing forward and outward.
Still posed, the man speaks, mockingly emphasizing each word: “I’m. Not. Gonna. Do. That!” He chuckles, then bellows, “I can move anywhere with this gig, you know. You just can’t put the Moon Man down!”
I watch, appalled, as he continues: dancing, and now singing, his way across the apartment complex.
“You can’t wait to lock me away?
Well, don’t ever directly transfer your money my way.”
I take a step back, looking around to see how many folks are disturbed—quite a few lights have turned on.
“Oh dear, I can’t send you the gear,
And there’s no money in my bank,
But I sent you a five-thousand dollar check today—
While you’re at it, cash it, and send the rest my way?”
Still singing, he points and pretends to shoot at me. A few neighbors begin to shout.
“You’re a smart man, or are you?
Well, take it from me, that human kindness ain’t a virtue.
I know it ain’t right, me stealing from you, but—”
He arches his head back as he repeats his final mantra:
“I said I know that stealing from you, it ain’t right,
But come on baby, let’s make it Mac Tonight!”
As he bellows the final lines of his song, I hurry back to my car. The moon casts a glow across the apartment complex, illuminating the Moon Man, now positioned on the balcony—his hands raised above his head like a Broadway performer. The only light that rivals the pale yellow hue of the moon’s reflection on the grinning meretricious mask comes from a pair of golden arches glowing in the distance.