Marc and Lizzie will tell you they are collectors. Lizzie likes to think she has a better eye than her husband, but “Marc has that dash of rash”, she’ll tell you, “He’s really a genius!”
They were obsessed with things and shopped continually. Saturday mornings they were first at every yard sale. They pet and pampered and fetishized their things. They have a storage unit here in town and when they visit they can’t help themselves and they are haggling over the abandoned objects available for purchase at the front
In reality they are hoarders. In reality they have supplanted the value of human beings with things, betting on imortality, perhaps. They are old and possibly they hope shopping and amassing will keep them from dying. After all, how could they die before they have had the time to inventory and archive and display all their precious possessions.
After a few months in Key West, to get to know his new environs, Marc went on some ride-alongs with the police. The cops whetted his expectations by hinting at the lewd scenes they’d be coming across and he was titilated. He also learned about the Baker Act, a Florida institution whereby the insane are
divvied up from regular garden-variety miscreants. Marc will tell you he found the ride-alongs, “Fascinating.”
Everyone who knew them remarked on how well they got along. “Soul mates”, people said, and it appeared Marc and Lizzie had a storybook romance.
What nobody saw was how they argued, at home alone in the evenings. Most often the topic was money. A familiar scene was where he was standing over her, screaming at her. “Woman you’re spending all my savings! At this rate you're going to leave me in a trailer.”
“You're crazy!” cried Lizzie, sipping her wine. “And you're going to make me crazy too!”
Marc hollered, bearing down on her, “You’re going to send me to the poorhouse! I'll kill you before I let that happen!” All Lizzie could see of him was his wide open jaw, like a howling wolf, and feel the flecks of his spittle.
Lizzie leapt on Marc and scratched at him. Her nails pealed strips of his skin and blood puckered before leaking into the lines of his face. He would have been able to hold her off if he hadn’t been filming her with his cell phone. Still screaming at each other he called the police.
In front of the officers Marc spoke softly and compassionately toward his evidently batty wife. Lizzie, feral with indignation, was unable to contain herself and continued mouthing off. The policemen rolled their eyes in sympathy with long-suffering Marc and they clasped Lizzie’s tiny wrists in handcuffs and placed her in the back of a cruiser, off for an overnight at the loony bin.
Marc had no intentions of pressing charges but it was now on record that his filly was one step removed from the nuthouse. And he had it all on film.