ZONGO

i.

Let’s start with some ground rules. Rule actually. Because there’s really just one. If you get up and walk away or even try to leave this table, I will kill you. I know that sounds like a joke coming from a guy in a propeller hat with bright orange glasses and a daisy pinned to his polka dot overalls but the .45 on my thigh is all business. Make a run for it, I will pump you full of lead in the middle of this Applebee’s, so help me God. Take a look. Am I lying? Wait—the hostess is—okay now. Cool, we have an understanding. So, here’s how this is gonna go: you’re gonna sit there and enjoy these hand-breaded coconut shrimp and I’m gonna tell you a story. I’ll tell it once and I’ll tell it fast. You should listen. Because there’s gonna be a quiz at the end. And it’s very, very important you pass.

We good?

Our tale begins on the way to The Beacon Theater, just a 30 minute drive from Jersey City. It’s Sunday. I’m taking the fam to see - you guessed it - Zongo Live, a matinee performance by their favorite bespectacled and propeller-hatted YouTuber. Do I want to go? No. Do I look the way I look now? Fuck no. But my 4 and my 5 are fans. And my wife says it’ll make their year. As luck would have it, we’re on the West Side Highway when - wham - we hit a pothole. Good news is there’s a spare in the trunk. Bad news is tying their shoes was a saga - and with a flat, there’s no way we make the show. My 5 is head in hands. My 4 is screaming “Why” like some scene out of a horror movie. So I call an audible. We book it to the mall.  While they go HAM on some rides, I DM Zongo himself, a Hail Mary that explains where we’ve been, what’s happened, how heartbroken my 4 and my 5 are, and what it would mean if he’d send us a video; maybe - getting old school here - drop an autographed pic in the mail. I’m bold enough to give him my address. And this, you could argue, is where things take a turn. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Couple weeks pass; life is… life. I’m the managing director at an ad agency. That job’s 24/7. Kids don’t love school, one more or less than the other. And sure maybe marriage isn’t the fireworks-slash-fuckfest it once was—but we love each other. All of us. We’ve built a world. Until—well, you know.  

Fast forward to the end of a long day. I ferry home from work. Normally I hole up inside, catch a nap while the skyline rolls by, but that day I stand on the upper deck, let the wind bite my ears. Can’t say why. Maybe I want to wake up instead of conk out, maybe there’s an itch in me only a little pain can scratch, but when I walk through my door, maybe 45 minutes later, I see, seated on my L-shaped West Elm sofa, none other than Zongo himself. I don’t mean the actor. I mean the guy. Full costume, just like the one I’m wearing. And committed, doing the bit. When I tell you I’ve never witnessed my kids so happy, I’m not exaggerating. My 4’s eyes are shining. My 5 has a thousand watt smile that could power the planet. I guess. I’m not sure how watts work. But they’re at the tail end of a private performance and even my wife, who I know can only take so much of this shit, looks pretty damn delighted. Before I make it to the living room, he gives each of them a balloon animal, takes a bow and receives the most epic round of applause ever. The kids hug him. He shakes my wife’s hand, heads my way. “I can’t believe this,” I say. “Thank you, Zongo.” He just flashes that goofy grin, rests five fingers on my shoulder, goes, “You asked for it.” You asked for it. In the moment, I don’t think much of it. I figure he’s referencing my DM, the request and all to make up for missing his show. And before I can turn it over, he’s gone. In his car or an Uber or whatever. And now the hugs are for me. I am showered with adulation. A conquering hero in my home for what I’ve somehow, someway, conjured. And at the risk of oversharing, that night, I score some extra adulation in the bedroom too.

You’d think the glory of this feat would subside in time. After all, what did I do except drop Zongo a line? Put in for an unlikely make-good after a stroke of bad luck. But the praise heaped on me by my fam seems to multiply by the day. My 4 greets me each morning with a strawberry Pop Tart. My five looks at me the way the Aztecs must’ve Cortes, a God on four legs—before, y’know, things went sideways. And my wife? I feel like she’s falling in love with me all over. Not that she’d fallen out. But man, she listens and gives me grace and — you’ll excuse me but—delivers blowjobs to completion. After 10 years of matrimony, 16 years of togetherness, that means more than you can wrap you mind around.

Then—another turn. Wife texts from her 9-5, we’re having a guest for dinner. First thought: one of my kid’s friends. Hope there’s enough Stovetop. Last thought: the famous YouTuber who paid us a surprise visit less than 10 days earlier, back for seconds, only 10% less costumed and yet it is. “Delighted to delight,” he explains, orange glasses gone, propeller hat also conspicuously missing. He’s all compliments when it comes to my wife’s cooking, my kids show him their class projects, beam with pride. And I know - I know - I should be grateful. But beneath the pudding skin of my friendly reception - there’s a heebie-jeebie-ness. A something’s-wonky sensation I want to but can’t deny. One visit is unexpected, two is weird. So I probe. “Busy guy like you must have a hard time making time. Is your tour moving on from NYC? When? Oh and hey, how did you get my wife’s number again?” As he sidles over to the sink, sleeves rolled, dish rag cast over one shoulder (insisting, INSISTING, on cleaning up) he’s got every answer, casually chatting while my better half sponges and he dries. Fans are what make Zongo—Zongo; connecting with them is everything. Tour dates? They’re extended. He’s gigging some more in the city. And my wife’s digits? A friendly exchange when he last stopped by.

In short: no big deal.

A bigger deal, as it turns out… my rudeness. No, my “passive aggressive vibe.” At least that’s how it’s explained to me once Zongo takes off and the kids bed down. Apparently my comments felt more like jabs, my questions like diet accusations; and did I really have to let him tidy up? As suddenly as it arrived, the favor I’d earned from his first visit fades, and the favor I could’ve earned from this one? Squandered to say the least. No one asks me to sleep on the couch, that night, but my wife and I curl up on opposite sides of our mattress and might as well be on different continents.

Now, in any logical universe, this would be a reasonable if strange ending to our tale. Order restored-ish. Hero status having run its course. Lightning would not possibly have the sociopathic audacity, the elephantine cojones to strike thrice. And somehow, SOMEHOW, thrice wasn’t nearly enough.

As the next couple months unfold, Zongo doesn’t just come back, he embeds himself in our lives. Sunday brunch. My 5’s Karate class. My 4’s school play. One day, the furniture’s rearranged. Who helped my wife move it? There’s no grand transgression, no hostile takeover; it’s death by a thousand balloon animals, and I can’t help but notice: every time we see Zongo, he’s a little less—Zongo. Like I said, he’s lost the hat and glasses. Then the overalls go. Next: the orange shirt and oversized shoes. Eventually he’s rocking V-necks sweaters and Levi’s. Stuff that, frankly, could’ve been plucked from my closet. And when I bring it up? My wife’s response is he’s getting more comfortable. Just being himself. Isn’t it nice to have another friend, someone the kids are wild about, who’s wild about the kids, and why the fuck do I care what Zongo wears? What’s the difference?

For obvious reasons, I need to know more.

Fortunately I work in an industry that’s very “of the internet.” I may not make TikToks, but I consume them. My Instagram presence is present; and I can online sleuth as well as any elder millennial. Which makes my deep dive into Zongo that much more frustrating. Because this ubiquitous man-child, this clown with no make up, has tens of millions of followers but no backstory. No bio. No birth name. No birth year. His wiki page: just about his career. His IMDB only lists his stage name. His X, where I’d DM’ed him, is also a shallow pool of non-information; which I have to imagine is a deliberate play to really sell his character in world where kids chronically Google. And when I try to draw more out of him? Nada. A wink, a smile, a joke to change the subject; so, I watch his videos. All of them. I call in sick a few days, see his shows. I’m not sure what I’m looking for but something, anything, a nugget of intel on who he is. Because the worst part? Not the fact that I feel gaslit, that my wife and kids seem to think I’m nuts for questioning Zongo’s sudden materialization in our lives, but that, after achieving my highest approval ratings as dad-n-husband, I’m easily the least interesting person in our house. They like him better than me. They wish I was Zongo. Or Zongo was me. And it’s palpable. I can feel it. He matters. I don’t. I’m losing them.  

So, I do something I normally wouldn’t.

If it’s Zongo they want, then Zongo they shall have. What I mean is—if making myself more like Zongo will, I dunno, ingratiate me to them again, then … why not? I’m kinda willing to do anything because in the oddest way, I feel my people slipping away. It’s not hard to find the costume. Amazon has a million and with Halloween in the rearview, they’re all on sale. 40 bucks and 24 hours later I’ve got the goods. It’s a quick change on the ferry from work, they fit like a glove. And donning my orange glasses, polka dot overalls, propeller hat, and clown shoes, I tip toe through my door, couple hours early and—I’m gonna pause here a minute.   

Y’know, I met my wife in college. We were friends before we were … intimate, I guess, and there’s something profound about that. Our interests aligned, we went to football games together, we loved the same shitty top 40 songs, and exchanged books as often as secrets. We knew each other. So the sight of her, lodging her tongue inches deep in Zongo’s asshole, cheeks spread, simultaneously beating him off, as I stand there in costume is an image so jarring, so destabilizing, I’m still not fully able to process it. And—and I have to say—if that horrifying tableau, that nightmare fresco of an adulterous rusty trombone, were the least savory element here, I might be able—over years and with hella therapy—to work through things. In fact, if Zongo went on to Jackson Pollack my West Elm sectional with his Polka Dot spunk, I still might live. However, what knocks me back, what shocks me infinitely more than the infidelity is the surprise I read from them. Not that they’ve been caught, by me, dressed this way—but that they have no idea who I am. My wife screams. Zongo, who is now completely un-Zongo’ed, inflates his chest and orders me to leave before he calls the cops.  

I… I’m paralyzed. I stand there for 30 seconds, a minute, a year maybe, then bolt.

I’m operating on instinct at this point. There is no thought. Somehow I stumble to the PATH train, head back to the city, drift to my office to seek refuge and presumably pull my shit together. Only security won’t let me in. I can’t find my key card. The wallet and phone I have in my pocket aren’t mine. I see a couple of coworkers heading out of the elevator and hurl myself at them. They recoil. They’ve never seen me either. 

Fuck this shit, I say. I run—full bore—out of the building, across Times Square, up to the Beacon. This home-wrecking harlequin, this monster in giant orange wingtips, has a show to do — I’m gonna get there before he does, wait by the stage door, and break his fucking windpipe. I’m in position too, fists balled. When some handlers grab me, pull me inside. Security, I assume, I’m screwed, but instead they say they’ve been looking for me everywhere, where have I been, do I have any clue what time it is and they throw me, catapult me, on stage.  

The spotlights are blinding.

I can barely make out the sea of faces in the crowd; kids, parents - like me - waiting, watching, eyes wide, frothy with excitement. I can hear a pin drop, the blood circulate through my veins. Then the musical cue—and I know it’s crazy, I know it’s insane but I just … start doing the act. I’d seen the show so many times I know the moves, heard the songs so often they’ve wormed their way into my brain. And when it’s all over and I take a second, third, fourth bow, all to a hurricane of woohoos from happy ticket holders, I float back to my—his—dressing room, and stare in the mirror. What’s happening? What cosmic fuckery has asserted itself? How? I reach for my orange glasses. They don’t come off. Not that I lack the strength. They’re just, woof, glued to my face by a force I don’t have the language to label.

The door opens.

Families with VIP badges flood in. Their tee shirts say “If Zongo is Wrongo, I don’t wanna be right.” Photos and markers are thrust in my hands; I’m signing autographs, big wild flourishes for Zs; tussling hair and posing for selfies; thinking, why can’t they see me, why don’t they know this is not who I am? I’m part of a family—my wife is named… I don’t remember. My 4 and 5 are… names gone too. Everything - everyone - up in smoke. But I still know a few things.  On Sundays, we order from Applebee’s. I do pick-up and sneak in a Mud Slide at the bar. So I make a lethal purchase after hours in another part of Jersey; load the chamber, and bide my time. I’m sure you’ll be here. Just like I’m sure you’re living my life, fucking my wife, and playing dad to my kids. Now, Zongo, here comes the quiz. We’ll start with a softball…

What in the name of holy hell have you done?

ii.

I want to be clear. I don’t know you. I’ve never met you. I’ve never seen you before in my—ow, OW. Okay, okay, I’ll talk. Just quit shoving the gun between my ribs. Deal? Thank you; jeez. For the record, I was never this aggressive. I don’t think the others were, either. And yeah, of course there were others. You think you’re the first dude to get Zongoed?  

Alright, what’s the preamble? What’s the… GOT IT. “Even if you kill me, you’ll never get your life back. No matter what you do, it’s gone for good.” That part sticks with you. So get comfortable being uncomfortable; it took me too long. But here’s the silver lining: a way out exists. I can help you if you’ll let me. Pull the trigger and you’re outta luck, yeah?

Have a shrimp. They’re actually delicious.

Now, it’s my turn to tell a story.  It’s your story too; all of ours, really. And it’s just as important that you listen. Nod or something to let me know you—great, that’ll work.

Once upon a time, you’re the guy you know. You do what you like with who you like. You recognize yourself when you look in the mirror. Then—one day—that all starts to go, the appearance, the identity, even the memories aren’t cut from crystal, anymore. And I’m not talking about Zongo. I’m talking about having a family. We age and we’re replaced; by who? Strangers. Bizarro versions of ourselves. People we’d be embarrassed to be seen with before they snatched our minds and bodies. Fact is I can’t remember who I was before I got Zongoed, but I do remember this: an avalanche of No. No more Me Time. No more buddies. No more style. No more six pack. No, you can’t watch that show. No, you can’t play that song. No, you can’t take that trip; it’s too expensive for four people.

Naturally, it begs the question: if that life is all about No, why say Yes? Well… you don’t love responsibility, but you love your kids. You don’t love ceding liberty, but you love your wife. You don’t love the elliptical but you love looking decent. You don’t love cos-playing as some corporate a-hole but you love feeling like a boss at the office. It’s complicated. And this tug-of-war, these tectonic plates of conflicting desires, working on each other since the dawn of civilization, is what sparks Zongo into being. He isn’t new. He’s existed for thousands of years; more maybe. Other names. Others callings. Unsure of the deets. But sure he was born to be a gift. Think about it. Right now, you get to delight kids without cleaning up after them; no moments that push you to the brink. You get to win at work; you’re rich, famous; no pressure to earn or climb. Physically, fine, you’ve got “a look,” but real talk: the ladies dig it, and you have no idea how many freaks want you to keep the glasses on—

HEY. EASY WITH THE PISTOL. I’M PICKING UP WHAT YOU’RE PUTTING DOWN. Even though we wished him into being, he’s still fake. And the fakeness of him can’t compete with the flawed truths we leave behind. Message received. With no static. I’m just painting a picture of the upside. Because the next part’s not easy. It may sound that way because you’re desperate, but Zongo-ing some other guy isn’t just stealing his job and his lady; you’re highjacking his life.

I—I’m not ashamed to say I almost end it, off myself, at the prospect. Before you, Zongo-ing another dude seemed unconscionable. Keep in mind, I’d been him for six months, trying everything to stick it out. When the YouTube comments quit fueling me, I turned to mid-day cocktails. When the drinks stopped working, I chased them with blow. When the coke didn’t cut it, I dialed some escorts; maybe they could numb me out. But my endurance, my will to don the orange glasses, was fading. Heavy is the head. Then a ding—a digital bell peeled across my bedroom. And I lifted my face from a mound of freshly driven blow, white as a geisha, looked beyond two slam piece single moms, and a pro I’d hired, passed out my on polka dot four poster. And, like that, the orange sherbet fever dream of the last six months—paused. The residual hell of losing my family and living behind the bars of this body, did too. Because when I read your message, delved into your profile, I saw something different from all the other candidates, gents I’d considered but gave up on Zongo-ing. The other dudes, they were young enough, fit. I don’t mind being seen that way. I’d been told to look for partners I could stand, kids who were worth a damn. Saw a few of those too. But there was something else. Something that no one had ever mentioned. Something I hadn’t thought of until you slid onto my radar. I could offer your family everything you couldn’t. As a husband, a father, and a man.

Whoa, Finger off the trigger. You’ve gotta hear this. I’m not giving you your out until you do, okay?

When I look up your socials, I clock photos from work trips, shoots in LA. Family getaways? What are those? When I tail you that weekend, you’re at your kid’s karate class; but your face? Glued to your phone. A week later: anniversary dinner.  You’re at the table, I’m at the bar. “Cheers to 10 years,” you say, then put in for a rib-eye. But you’re attending in body more than soul, just waiting for your wife to hit the head so you can comment on a client’s LinkedIn post. “Congrats on your promotion, Carlos, well earned.” Tell me this: what are you thinking the day of Zongo Live? When you’re ferrying the fam from Jersey City? The joy the show will bring the kids or the inconvenience of the drive? The memories you’ll make or the points you’ll earn from wifey? Coming together? You say your job’s 24/7 but you spend time how you choose. You complain your kids don’t love school but when’s the last time you asked why? You claim marriage is no fuckfest but I struggle to picture sex as anything but a quest for a nut for you; though I am sorry about the butt stuff—might’ve been overzealous with your better half—my better half.

The point is even when you’re there—you aren’t. You could be. But you lock up your life in a dark garage like some cherry red droptop you’re too distracted to drive. As far as I’m concerned, it might’ve belonged to you, but only technically. You lived around it, not in it. Which, you’ll forgive me, makes it forfeit.

Tough pill, I’m guessing. But I can’t imagine it’s uncommon. We’re boring in our failings. Achingly cookie cutter in our endless deficits. Maybe that’s what Zongo teaches us. How unoriginal our selfishness can be.

Don’t cry. Here, take a napkin. Careful, it’s got mango chili stuff on it.

Now, a promise is a promise.   

The ritual is simpler than you think. You look around, and land on Yankees Hat by the bar—Irish twin on way by the look of his lady; or Mr. Salt and Pepper with his Botox Bride, working on the Chicken Wonton Tacos; maybe even Divorced Dad in the booth by the bathroom with his two unhappy campers. You spend the time, you decide, place a hand on their shoulder, and recite the words “you asked for it.” Because, in every way, through their choices and actions, they probably did. Then the switch begins. The only question is—will you?   

Will you do what you’ve always done? Or will you do—

i.

{bang}

THE END

–Ian Grody

Ian Grody has written superhero shows, dystopian thrillers, and raunchy country musicals for networks like MTV, SyFy, and CMT; optioned features domestically and abroad; and published a graphic novel with AWA and The Tribeca Film Festival. He’s also the Chief Creative Officer of Giant Spoon (Fast Company’s #1 Most Innovative Ad Agency).