Turn 7 of 16

Hold a formal emergency HOA meeting with all six other Karens and take minutes to decide what policy needs to be passed and how they will enact their policies. Soon, all 7 of your enter one house and start drinking wine as it’s the only way for a great HOA women to enjoy her evening. Soon, a name tag forms on the left breast of all 7 of you that says the name Karen and HOA on it

An emergency meeting is called by acclamation, which is to say all six of the others say 'I move we convene' at the same moment in the same voice, and Mrs. Henderson — who owns the largest kitchen table — is voted host by a unanimous show of identical manicured hands. 'This is an EMERGENCY session,' the mail carrier announces, producing minutes from nowhere. 'Minutes will be taken. Motions will be heard. Standards will be SET.'

The wine appears because Mrs. Henderson declares that no HOA woman of quality conducts business without a glass, and within ninety seconds seven large pours sit on the table, and seven women drink from them in eerie synchrony, pinkies angled identically, sighing in the same key. 'This is the only way to enjoy an evening,' someone says, and everyone agrees it is the only way to enjoy an evening.

The minutes record the agenda: the Henderson hedge, four inches; the abandoned mail route, now abandoned further; the bike, technically claimed; the general decline of youth. Motions pass six to nothing to one, the one being Mrs. Henderson voting against her own hedge trimmer. Somewhere around the second glass, a warmth spreads across Karen's chest, and she looks down.

A name tag has formed on the left breast of her black v-neck, the letters surfacing like something printed beneath the fabric all along: KAREN — HOA. Across the table, six identical tags are surfacing on six identical chests. KAREN. KAREN. KAREN. All of them. Daisy turns her tag toward the light and nods approvingly, as though it has always been there.

'Well,' says Karen — the original, or possibly not, the tag no longer distinguishing her from anyone — 'call to order. Roll call.'

'Karen,' says Daisy.

'Karen,' says the mail carrier.

'Karen. Karen. Karen. Karen.' The baby, still unconverted and unbothered, bangs a spoon.

Quorum is declared. The arithmetic taps Karen on the shoulder one final time — seven tags, one name — and this time, at last, it is impossible to file it under someone else's negligence.