A few years ago, my neighbor told me he was royalty – the king of some small European monarchy.  I imagined the Grand Duchy of Fenwick or some such.  You couldn’t tell he was royalty: he didn’t have a carriage, or servants, or a castle.  Didn’t seem to control much land and had no serfs tilling his modest herb garden.  He dressed in an ordinary fashion if perhaps a little better than I did.  I didn’t quite believe him, but for years we got along just fine, although it clearly rankled him to be called Bob, and I didn’t care for his insistence on speaking of himself in the third person.

Eventually, he upgraded his wardrobe.  I saw him strutting about in the backyard in a great purple robe and tall, soft leather boots.  He looked more like a king, but I still had my doubts.  Although the robe was the approximate color for nobility, it had a Land’s End tag on it, and I didn’t think kings got their regalia at a Sears outlet or online store.  I had always imagined the haberdashers of High Street vying for an audience and a chance for the king to be seen in their ensemble.  And it didn’t stop there.  Over the next few months, he added a jaunty hat, bright red felt with feathers, that reminded me of an old children’s book; a huge ring that was clearly zirconium; and a minister.

The minister I met over the back fence one day while I was grilling some flank steak.  His name was Christoff and he was, I believe, the minister of coin and the lord warden of the march, although he wore running shoes and shorts when I first met him.  Perhaps being lord warden of the march required a lot of jogging about the frontier lands.

“Nice to meet you, Christoff,” I said, but he corrected me.

“Lord Warden,” he said, flatly.

“Excuse me?”

“I am the lord warden of the march. You address me as 'Lord Warden.'”

“Uh, look, Christoff…” and he walked away, Bob following.

After this, our relationship went downhill pretty fast.  We could have a conversation, but if I addressed either of them by name, he would walk away.  It made things rather uncomfortable.  If I were out in the yard doing lawn work at the same time as they were, they would glare and mutter.  I gave up trying to engage with them, figuring I could get along fine without them.  But there were times that we needed to work together.  A tree on their property, an old maple, had become punky and started dropping limbs over the fence, large pieces that left gouges in my lawn.  It was only a matter of time until the whole thing came down, and that could cause significant damage to a house.  But because I wouldn’t call them Sire or Lord Warden, they would not discuss the problem.  I thought I was free to refuse, but I was mistaken.

My boss called me into the office one day and let me know that Bob was a customer, and my continued refusal to call him Sire was affecting trade.  Bob’s friends wouldn’t come into the restaurant anymore because he was being “marginalized.”  I lost my job, and although I am good at what I do, I couldn’t find another.

When the tree finally fell over, it crushed my garage.  My insurance company wouldn’t cover the damages.  They claimed I should be able to get Bob’s homeowners’ insurance to cover it since it was his tree, but they wouldn’t.  When I took them to court, they argued that I was responsible because I had been aware of the problem and couldn’t work with my neighbors to alleviate it.  Stunningly, the judge agreed.  His finding was that I had insulted Bob and Christoff and that the damage was a result of my intransigent behavior.

I tried to sell the house, but with a crushed garage it was difficult.  And, I found, Bob’s friends had begun harassing the realtor, who began missing my calls.

So here I am, with a smashed garage, no job, and a house I can’t sell.  The court won’t help me, employers all seem to have filled the position for which they just placed an ad, and I live next to two people who have become openly hostile.  It seems ridiculous.

And, of course, it is.  This could never happen to someone who wouldn’t enable another person’s grandiose delusions.  But what if Bob claimed he was a woman and wanted to be called Roberta?  What if Christoff claimed Bob was a “wife”?  What if your employer insisted that the correct pronoun for referring to Bob was “she,” “he/she,” or even “they,” as if Bob were not only a woman, but had now become plural?  What if courts upheld Bob’s “right” to redefine your reality?  Or your employer’s decision to fire you for not embracing Bob’s fantasy?

That’s where we are now.  And the problem is the pushback that is sure to come.  If I were in this situation (it is just allegory), I would seriously be considering burning my un-saleable house to the ground, collecting the insurance, and moving.  The fact that the fire is likely to scorch Bob is something he probably hasn’t considered.