Chapter 2: Mark—The Hermit of Ridgeview Lane

Imagine a faded blue Colonial with a Stars and Stripes waving out front, the grass a little too wild for the HOA’s taste. Inside, Mark—perpetually in pajama pants, even at noon—has turned his two-story house into a fortress of solitude in small-town Ohio. The only mail he gets is junk, and his only visitors are the UPS guy and the occasional census worker. Every bill gets paid online. The neighbors have long since stopped expecting him at block parties.

His freezer’s a museum of Hungry-Man dinners, his couch molded perfectly to his body. The living room is scattered with game controllers and a tangle of old HDMI cords. Mark’s world revolves around the glowing rectangle—he’s watched every Marvel movie, collects Funko Pops, and can quote obscure lines from eight different sci-fi shows without missing a beat.

He’s got his quirks—like rewatching The Big Lebowski a hundred times, each viewing a comfort blanket for his nerves. There’s a ritual to it: Mark mouths the dialogue along with Jeff Bridges, the repetition as soothing as a Sunday sermon. It calms the jitters, fills the silence, and gives each day a rhythm all its own.

Sometimes, Mark’s thumb hovers over his mom’s number as he glances at the dusty family photo on the mantle. A flicker of nostalgia, maybe guilt, passes across his face before he buries himself in another episode. He always sets the phone down, telling himself he’ll call tomorrow.

He hasn’t left the house in years. While everyone else thinks his life is a complete mess, he insists that this is the meaning of his life—to stay at home forever.

To outsiders—especially his cousins, who shake their heads at family reunions—Mark’s existence looks like a cautionary tale. But he’s stubborn about his choice. “This is my turf,” Mark shrugs. “Out there’s got nothing I want.” He swears he’s happier than most people stuck in traffic on I-71.

They called him “the hermit of Ridgeview Lane,” though Mark would roll his eyes at that. Still, his record is legendary in local lore—a guy who managed not to set foot outside for twenty-seven years straight. Folks in town would gossip about him at the grocery store checkout, wondering if he’d ever see the sun again.

Could you live twenty-seven years without stepping outside? Or would you go stir-crazy after a week? But not everyone finds meaning in staying put. Some chase it across continents…