Thrifting is part of the job.

Using my FluxTracker, I can sweep thousands of items at a thrift shop like ReSource. Of the hundreds of thousands of items at thrift stores I’ve searched through, I’ve only found two things that didn’t belong in this universe: a red-and-blue striped bow tie and a travel-sized shampoo bottle. The bottle was filled with Blue Tone, a strong alcohol made using a yet-uninvented process called Tonting.

I’m sure I’ve missed dozens, maybe hundreds, of items. Rarely would anyone notice anything out of the ordinary, especially something like a bow tie. However, one would notice something off about an item like a videotape. That’s just what happened, and the person who found it wrote about it.

Thank God no one reads blogs anymore.

This is the post as written by Matt Millman, before I had to nuke it and every internet mention of it from the archive: 

I found an old VHS tape at a thrift store. It was called “The Vermont Independence Frontier Tape.” (See picture.)

It has a documentary-style film based on a fictional event. I grew up in Vermont and love film. I can’t find anything about this movie. It has the marketing of a student film, with the effects and scope of a military budget but the resolution of a toy camera. I don’t get it.

The film is 130 minutes long and set in Vermont. It feels futuristic in some ways, especially the technology, but the cars and clothes are from the fifties.

The man who narrates the film has the warmth of a robot. If I hadn’t been transfixed by what I was seeing, I’d have fallen asleep.

The fake documentary covers when Vermont became an independent nation. Vermont doesn’t have the size, population, or water access, but in the film a rich inventor bullies the nation with the threat of his nuclear-powered robot.

Behind the scenes, in the back rooms, there is more negotiation. Winston Churchill even makes an appearance. Vermont focuses mostly on international trade and a partnership with England, Norway, and Korea. Edward Lee, the inventor, can give allies some of his inventions in exchange for independence.

May I remind you, this is filmed like a documentary. The Vermont governor becomes the first Chancellor of Vermont. He suggests to Mr. Lee a secret partnership with Advanced Advanced Technology & Company, a firm fifty years ahead of the computers we’ve built and our current energy development.

Before I go on, if you think this movie has any romance or famous celebrities, other than Churchill, you’d be mistaken. This movie was written and filmed like something you’d see on the History Channel.

If you’re curious what happened, the feds didn’t like being bullied and they hit Vermont’s economy. They closed off trade routes, shut down power grids, and cut every line of communication out. The governor and Mr. Lee were prepared. They had all sorts of technology ready to roll out. None of it made a lick of sense to me, except that Mr. Lee could not only see a thousand years into the future, he also knew what to do with that information.

If I weren’t holding the video, I’d think it was a fever dream. The strange mix of outdated clothing and wildly advanced tech, along with interviews with scientists speaking as if they know they’re being recorded as a matter of historical record, makes it feel unreal.

Later scenes follow Mr. Lee sitting with world leaders, demonstrating what he calls his nuclear automata. The narration suggests he traded technology for protection. Global leaders get frustrated when they are unable to use the tech as anything except a productivity tool. They all salivate at the chance to attack their neighbors, but only Vermont is allowed to do that.

There were no credits on the film, and on the box there is an image of the official flag of Vermont on a hill filled with soldiers and robots, in a 1950s-style design. The production company credited on the box is called “The Hildermens.” The box is well-worn and was found at a ReSource store here in Vermont. Someday I hope to have a public showing.

I was in the first grade when Matt posted this, so I can’t beat myself up for not knowing it existed. I can, however, plan for its destruction.

A quick search led me to an obituary. Poor Matt died of cancer at twenty-nine. On Facebook, I found the leader of the group and messaged him. I said I was a producer with a big podcast and asked for a viewing and an interview. A guy named Scott wrote back almost right away and was more than happy to help.

In the years before his death, he hosted a Vermont Independence Party on August 22nd. They still celebrate Matt’s life, watch the documentary, and then charge across the Lake Champlain Bridge, symbolically attacking New York.

As Matt’s buddy explained the details, I panicked. It’s only a matter of time before this quirky celebration gets retold by This American Life or some other big podcast, and I won’t be able to stop its spread. Really, the videotape is the only proof. The rest is just tradition.

They meet in a park on the Vermont side of the Lake Champlain Bridge now. It started in somebody’s cramped Burlington living room, then moved from apartment to apartment as people graduated, moved away, or came back. Eventually the tradition settled here, in the patch of grass and picnic tables near the bridge, close enough that when the party ends they can walk straight out onto the span and turn the crossing into part of the ritual.

Scott met me at the edge of the park wearing a helmet.

“Uniform,” he said, tapping it with two fingers. “Vermont Defense Forces.”

The “forces” looked like a costume pulled from a local theater production. They wore surplus olive-drab jackets with fake rank patches. A couple of people had silver duct-tape armbands. One guy had a chest rig made out of an old ski harness and a spray-painted walkie-talkie. I’m not the only one who visits thrift stores.

Someone had tied a Vermont flag to a tree branch over a little setup in the grass. A projector sat on a crate with a VCR plugged into it, and the VCR was labeled in angry Sharpie: DO NOT TOUCH. Red Solo cups with brown liquid sat waiting for a partner.

The tape came out of a padded mailer like it was a national treasure. The box was even more worn than Matt had described on his blog, torn and taped back together. Scott handed the video to me and the others circled.

Up close, I could see green fuzz in the corner seam where the cardboard had split.

“Would you like to do the honors?” Scott asked. “The newest member always inserts the video. I can show you how.”

“I know how,” I answered. With one hand I held the box and the video slid out smoothly into the other. The group watched as I popped the cassette into the VCR and the machine clunked away.

The video was being projected on the back of the old Vermont flag. The picture that appeared was barely there. A smear of gray over black. The credits rolled and the text was illegible. Tracking lines slid lazily up the screen. The edges ghosted like in a double-exposed photo.

The sound was worse. Faces moved, but their words came out as mush. Only one part had survived with any real clarity: the narrator.

His voice cut through the noise like a phone call with poor reception, hollow and tinny but sharp compared to the rest.

“Vermont,” he droned, “stands at the precipice of a new frontier of sovereignty…”

“SHOT!” someone shouted, and everyone downed their drinks.

I flinched, and the woman next to me laughed.

“Sorry,” she said. “Any time the guy says ‘sovereignty,’ ‘frontier,’ or ‘automata,’ you drink. Matt’s rules.”

I watched the vague shapes move onscreen. I knew with frightening clarity what each scene was. The black blur, the famous nuclear robot, a tall smudge against smaller ones.

“Automata designed to—”

“SHOT!”

They yelled it together, delighted. This group was not a threat to the Extended Universe. It wasn’t even serious; it was a fun romp to look forward to. I wished I hadn’t lied about my role or I’d likely have joined for fun.

Every once in a while, a line of dialogue from someone other than the narrator would punch through the static.

“trade agreement”

“they’ll never let us”

“Yes, Chancellor”

Then the noise would swallow them again.

Matt’s friends knew the words.

When the narrator droned, “Winston Churchill offers his most reluctant blessing,” two of the guys in the back did a terrible Churchill impression in unison.

By the time the end credits rolled, the group had done enough shots to have lost focus on the documentary. The song at the end was just an extended hiss. 

The VCR clicked itself silent.

“That’s it?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“That’s it,” Scott said. “Every year it’s a little less. We’ve probably got, what, two more viewings in it before it’s just snow. It’s all about attacking New York anyway.”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“The second half of the ritual.”

The weird future-army jackets were buttoned. Helmets were straightened. Armbands were re-secured. Someone grabbed the flag from the tree, attached it to a flagpole, and waved it around like someone at a college football game.

“Ready?” Scott called. “You know the drill.”

There was a cheer and pats on the back. A small unit of mismatched soldiers marched across the street towards the base of the bridge. At the foot of the bridge, they gathered.

“This is the border,” Scott told me, mock-serious.

“Vermont to New York. We cross, then we declare temporary independence for Vermont. On the other side there’s a state park. We’ve got tents and RVs and camp out overnight, drinking and celebrating our victory.”

“And then?” I asked.

“And then,” he said, “we go home. I’ve got work on Monday.”

I’d come prepared to confiscate the tape and break up this little group, but the bigger threat would come from ending it. No one actually knew the story of Vermont’s independence. There was almost nothing left that linked it cleanly to the VEU.

What remained wasn’t evidence. Only tradition.

There was a countdown. Someone had a cannon sound play on their phone and the group took off running. I stayed firmly in Vermont. They whooped and yelled in drunken calamity. I watched the Vermont flag whirl around as the group neared the New York border.

I stayed on the sidewalk a moment longer, watching them charge into New York in their thrift-store sci-fi uniforms, chasing an idea that no one understood. What was clear to them was all that mattered. Vermont was worth celebrating and fighting for.