I gave these tasks to Ray, who perked up at the challenges of city planning. On the show, some of the places, like the bar, were within walking distance of the apartment building. Others, however, required an oft-mentioned bus ride, so I commissioned a one-of-a-kind electric-powered, self-driving bus using the skeleton of the real 1970s Los Angeles bus lifted from a junkyard. This apparatus would take me to various places that, on the show, were located farther away, such as Chrissy’s office and Janet’s flower shop. In the end, we created something that amounted to a small town, about a mile or two square. I was displeased that the distances between places were not realistic, but measurable distances, like the apartment building’s ever-changing rooms and dimensions, remained flexible and impossible.

Around the perimeter of this city, behind the buildings, was stretched a weatherproof canvas mural, a three-dimensional matte painting of the Los Angeles area near Santa Monica similar to the backdrops seen on the show. From inside the apartment building or any other building, the main house of my property was invisible. It was “out of town.” At the end of the street near my apartment building, Ray fashioned a discreet exit, a giant door that was seamlessly concealed by the matte painting. This opening would allow me to move easily in and out for deliveries.

The year ended with a flurry of activity, of last-minute details and crises that had everyone working twelve-hour shifts for astounding amounts of overtime pay in order to complete it by the deadline.

And then the day came, yes, the day came when it was ready. That golden day.

How could you? How could you?

We were in my living room, and by this time it was November, near Thanksgiving, and instead of sweltering my trailer was damp and cold.

Krystal looked bad. Her face was gaunt and papery, her cheekbones protruding like ugly tumors. Her hair, which had been thin and mousy to begin with, looked like the stringy tufts that cling to a mummified corpse. She was one of those people who take on a marionette quality when they lose weight, the head too big for the body. Though it was only 50 degrees outside, maybe 40, she was dressed in a turtleneck and parka.

Her face was bright red and her eyes were glassy and tear-filled, and when she spoke she raved like a fever victim. We stood facing one another as she demanded to know why I had kept this from her. Was I that selfish? Did I think so little of her? She’d thought we were friends. And after she had made a fool of herself that night of the lottery drawing—she guessed I knew then. Was I gloating as I had sat on the couch with her? Did I really have to work the next day, or had I just abandoned her? Did I hate her? I had made a fool of her. That seemed to be a recurring theme.