The Indefatigable Admen

I am writing this diary because I don’t know how much longer we can hold out. It started six weeks ago. The mailbox had more than the usual pile of glossy come-ons. I didn’t think anything of it, but after a few weeks we were getting over ten pounds of mail a day–that was when I stopped checking the box.

The mailbox was only the beginning. In the fourth week they started calling us every few minutes. We eventually ripped the telephone out of the wall and threw away our cell phones.

We’ve been trapped in our flat for over a week now: the door is jammed shut with the flyers they’ve been shoving under, over and around it.

A few days ago I heard my wife scream and found an ad-man hanging outside the bathroom window with a sign. He had rappelled down the side of the building from the roof. I shot him, but the next day they installed electronic billboards outside all the windows; every window is now a television.

We sealed the air vents to keep out the confetti-sized advertisements they’ve been forcing through the heating system. I’m afraid there may be a fire from which we will be unable to escape because of the jammed door.

There’s nothing we can do about the loudspeaker-trucks that circle the block blaring jingles day and night. We tried turning up the stereo, but all our CDs have been replaced with nearly identical ones re-recorded with new lyrics designed to sell, sell, sell. Commercial radio is, of course, exactly what the name implies.

For the love of God, please send help.

This entry is part of Jack Rusher’s journal, originally published January 4th, 2004, in New York.