literature

Enter Suburbia

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Enter Suburbia

New town, new beginnings.
If you keep starting over, you’ll never get to the end.
You drive down a road. You swear you’ve driven down the road half a million times before. After a while, all roads look the same.
You drive off into the distance. Into who-knows-where, really. The asphalt you’re cruising on feels the same and looks the same from any angle you can think of. Sometimes, the view gets so repetitive, it’s almost like looking at a picture not moving at all.
You know you don’t want to be here. You don’t want to feel the almost-melodious bumps from the car’s faulty suspension under your seat. You’d rather sit down. Just sit down. Amen. Is that really so hard?
It’s become like a routine, almost. It’s like brushing your teeth twice a day. It’s like flossing. It’s like drying your hair after you take a shower.
You start feeling like one of those monkeys they send into space. You do what you’re supposed to do. No questions asked. One of those space monkeys launched into whatever’s up there. Floating in space with no way home. Ain’t that fun?
It’s like a lullaby your mother would sing to you before you sleep. No matter how old you get, you will always remember it. It’s embedded into your subconscious like a “Whoever reads this is gay” sign sharpied into the back of a bathroom stall.
You’ve got it all memorized. It’s like the national anthem; there’s really no real need to memorize it and there’s no real use for it. Everything is tattooed somewhere, and you just can’t get rid of it. You’ve seen it so many times. Déjà vu all over again and over-and-over-and-over.

You’ve seen that one kid riding a skateboard down the sidewalk. You’ve seen his skateboard. You know that a third of the time, the wheels are stolen.
You’ve seen the same yellow school bus on the corner. You know that half of the time, the driver is a psycho with repressed feelings. He’s usually one “If you’re happy and you know it,” from breaking.
You’ve seen that one house with the windows covered up. You know that some teenage kid lives there, complete with the many problems and oppression that comes with living in a suburban household.
You’ve seen the young couple across the street. In ten years, they’re gonna be the protective parents. In twenty years, they’re gonna be public enemy number one.
You’ve seen the old widow across the block. Kids younger than me think her house is haunted. Kids my age think that there’s hidden treasure or some body buried there.
You’ve seen the stoplight. The color red flashes. Somebody probably crossed it in a drunken stupor.
You’ve seen the little boy with the ball and the little girl with the jump rope. You know they’ll be best of friends. You know they won’t speak to each other after eighth grade.
You’ve seen that neighborhood couple making out through the living room window. If he’s wearing a sports jacket, they’ll get married. An episode of Maury in the making. He’s not into you; he’s into the idea of.
You drive along that long road. You just drive straight, for no reason turning right or left. Sounds familiar?
You look out the window, leaning on that meaty part of your elbow. You look out the window. You see the same things you’ve seen a million times over.
You’ve seen that open window. You know the girl in that room. You know the guy who’ll climb the tree next to the house to flirt around. You know the parents who’ll freak when they find out.
You’ve seen the house with the oversized flag and the rocking chair – it belongs to the military family. You know they’re dysfunctional, and that the father is abusive. You know he’s a closet homosexual.
You’ve seen the biggest house in the neighborhood with all the cars. Usually, the wife of the family only amounts to a baseball trophy. Adultery ensures. The stuff of day-time soap operas, really.
I’ve seen it all and met them all, and I’m only looking on one side of the car.
You’ve stared and stared a million times before. After a while, it doesn’t even seem that important to do anymore.
After awhile, each house just seems like another There. It starts losing its fun.

God, don’t get me started on the view. You’ve seen the houses with the white picket fences. Talk about retro.
A million times over, you’ve seen those houses flashing by like a reel in a movie projector – each one intentionally painted different from the one left and right because no one likes suburban rivalries. Those fences are like those blocks on the side of the film. You’ve seen this movie before.
I’ve been around the world a million times, and everything looks exactly the same.
You’ve seen the same garage door that folds upwards. You’ve seen the tools inside which haven’t been touched in a decade.
You’ve seen that mailbox that’s been hit in the drive-by baseball practices. You’ve seen those dozen nails driven into it to make sure it doesn’t happen again. You know it will.
You’ve seen the best kept lawn in the neighborhood. You know it’s the one that’s gonna be fucked on Halloween. That’s the lawn with the forks sticking out of it on the first of November.
You’ve seen that green welcome mat. You know that the key to the door is tucked underneath it. There’s usually more drama involved in that house than an Italian opera.
You’ve seen that one yard with the tree in it. You know that’s the one the kids play around. You know that’s the tree that’s silently considered family. You know that’s the first to go when some tree-eating bird flu comes around.
You’ve seen the same S.U.V. parked in front of that house you’ve seen a million times. You know there are food stains in the backseat and a Zeppelin or Police CD in the front, and maybe Floyd in the glove compartment.
You’ve noticed that every time you move, the sky is completely covered in clouds, no matter where you are. I noticed that four years ago and I relived it six times after.
You’ve noticed that every minute or so, you get to a portion of the road covered with a canopy from roadside trees. That third of a second flash when the shadow goes over the car is usually the most exciting part of the ride.
You’ve seen those road bumps that are usually too steep or so wide, they’re just useless. Sometimes, you don’t even notice when the car bumps up a few inches. You usually don’t even care.
There’s nothing to see here, people. Keep moving on.

When you curve to the right (and it’s always the right), you duck into the driveway of your new home for the next six months. A year, if you’re lucky. This time, it’s a white one with these blue window frames. There are some pretty nice rose bushes out the front. You know mom’s gonna douse those in miracle-growth until she ends up with a giant beanstalk.
I’m still looking out into the distance, but instead of watching the flashes of houses rushing towards my left, I’m staring into that unknown. I’ll describe the view for you. Mailbox. Lawn. Another driveway. Repeat. That’s what the view looks like from one side of the car. I look in the other. Same.
“Well,” my dad says, “here we are. First day of the rest of our lives, eh, kiddo?”
“Yeah, dad.” I slur under my breath. My chin’s still resting on that door right beside that part of the door where the glass slides out. I wonder what they call that.
“You could at least be a little excited.” mom encourages, “You know, it’s not easy for us too, having to move around all the time.”
“I guess.” I smirk. I think of first impressions, something that everybody will identify you as for the rest of their lives. First impressions are always shallow. First impressions are permanent.
“Look on the bright side. Your room’s gonna be bigger than… what the hell?”
The parentals leave the car, and I’m still looking on to the mailbox, lawn, driveway, repeat on the left side of the car. Dad stumbles out of the car, tripping on that part underneath the door. I wonder what they call that. The truck with all our stuff drives off into the distance like a cowboy rides into the sunset at the end of a cheesy movie. This happened thrice. It’s always funny.  
I step out of the car, but not before my mom steps into the house, obviously containing her laughter. Dad sprints towards the truck. Makes you wonder how exactly they’d miss the house.
So us is this. I’m here again. It’s déjà vu all over again. It’s not the first time I’ve stood in a lawn I’ve never stood on before surrounded by things I’ve never seen before. But the feeling stays with you forever.
I lie still and close my eyes. I imagine I’m somewhere I’ve never been before. I wish I could stay there forever. I wish I could forget everything. I wish this was a dream. I wish I was somewhere away from here. I’m picturing Europe. I’m picturing France. I’m picturing Venice.
I open my eyes. A flash of red and I’m back in suburbia, the sun dimly illuminating everything through the clouds. It’s misty; surprisingly relaxing. It’s chilly. It’s home-ey.
The mist obscures what’s in the distance. It’s mysterious, almost. To the left is Mailbox, Lawn, Driveway, Repeat for as long as I can see. To the right is dad chasing down the truck.
I smile. Is it optimism? Just maybe.
I walk through that concrete path into what they expect me to call home. From the outside, it’s definitely an improvement over the last one, but I shouldn’t make any assumptions. The rosebushes look nice, though.
I end the first day of the rest of my life. There’s definitely no way of knowing the future, but we can always guess. I’m better off leaving it to fate.

This is the time of my life. I just don’t know it yet.
A satirical play on the sanity of suburbia.

This is more probably the most powerful thing I have ever written. I had originally entered it in a school competition, but I didn't win anything at all, despite positive reaction from various teachers -- partially my fault; I ignored the theme. I don't feel bad about it, just slightly unappreciated.

I have to explain a little about the short story. This is a false narrative; complete with bias and voice; choppy incoherant sentence structure is intentional. If you notice a pop-culture reference, it's there for a reason; I believe that all the references to shows and movies like Adventures of Pete and Pete, American Beauty, The Virgin Suicides, etc. and the overused stereotypes really do reinforce the story.

What needs to be revealed is the narrator is meant to be a cute, cookie-cutter sixteen-year-old girl. Picture a cute girl with short, straight hair and a yellow sundress, and you'll get the character in celluloid. I believe that the physical innocence that the character emanates only furthur enhances the satire.

I ask everybody to read this; you all already have my gratitude.
© 2006 - 2024 1100AM
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XearthenXangelX's avatar
I added this to my favourites, because it's one of the best shorts I've read.

There are no words to describe how I can connect with this, even if I've only moved three times and it's gonna eventually end at five, maybe six, seven if I get divorced. Granted, it's different, moving to another home in another country to be with someone I actually love, and not someone whom I'm much obliged to.

It's haunting how completely true this is, in relativity to American suburbia, and I'm sure it's not much different to any other place in this god forsaken world. But I think I might go insane, with that one, single, unfinished sentence. Congrats, man, you're the first one to ever really get into my mind, but you're not even here to enjoy it. I think I know how it ends, but, I guess I'll never know, and I'll just have to wonder.

Rest in peace, man. You have no idea how much you're missed, and I never even said hello.