Suburbia Sucks

Another small snippet from Ch.8 in the upcoming book:

Life in Suburbia is like living in the twilight zone. Much like my environment at work, I often times end up feeling trapped and frustrated with my daily life in the suburbs. Of course, I realize it’s my choice to currently live in my parents’ house in exchange for saving a few dollars. I’m beginning to see a pattern of giving up my mental health and potential happiness in exchange for money – which is something I never wanted for myself.

Recently, I found myself outside of a Starbucks in the quaint and over-priced Potomac Village suburb of Washington, DC. This is where I live. And this is where many people choose to live. Everywhere you look, you’re surrounded by symbols of status and money and power – characteristics that are violently sought after by the modern-day family wanting to reach that perfect spot amongst others living the “American Dream”. As I sat outside the Starbucks with my friend Stephen, I noticed a sign posted above a lamp post. “Notice: Smoking is banned in this area by law of the Montgomery County Fire Marshall. Premises is patrolled and violators will be fined and convicted.” I began to wonder whose job it is to patrol the premises of this small village shopping center, searching for the riff raffs and hoodlums that dare light a cigarette in public. Surely the Fire Marshall was too busy saving kittens and rescuing old ladies that have fallen in the bathtub, so who was in charge? As I sipped my five dollar iced skim latte in the fresh outdoors, I looked over at Stephen, who happened to be lighting a cigarette.

“What are you doing? Doesn’t that sign say you can’t smoke here?” And as I spoke those words, I simultaneously realized I had fallen into the suburban trap. Obeying every rule and law and sign posted within a wide circumference of your surroundings. This is an understood rule of living in the suburbs. No arguments – just pure submission in exchange for an orderly life of freshly painted parking spots and expensive colorful landscaping.

“Yeah, that’s what it says. But I do it anyway. It’s an outdoor spot, wide open with fresh air. But it’s entertaining to see what happens when I do this.”
“What do you mean?” I said, with a slight look of confusion on my face.

I’ve known Stephen for 13 years, and I often times find myself confused when he speaks. He’s burly and moves with excess motion, swinging his arms and legs violently and taking charge of each sidewalk like a bull elephant in the wild. He’s always been someone with little regard for rules and regulations, so his behavior rarely astonishes me.
“You’ll see,” he replied, grinning mischievously.
And as he lit his cigarette and took the first puff, it became clear to me exactly who patrolled the vicinity.

“AHEM. Excuse me! The sign clearly says ‘NO SMOKING ALLOWED!’”
As I peered behind the lamp post, I noticed a middle-aged woman holding a small Yorkshire terrier. She was sitting on one of the wooden tables provided by the Starbucks for customers to enjoy their luxury lattes, but she had taken advantage of the complimentary seating to groom her dog and read the latest issue of Washingtonian Magazine. As she glared over, Stephen continued smoking.

“That lady sounded pissed.”
“Yeah she’s the same type. Different lady but same attitude – they feel like it’s their duty to enforce the stupidly placed rules because they spend their days shopping online and reading CNN.com so they can feel informed and accomplished. Fuck her,” said Stephen, as he blew a plume of smoke and made a perfectly shaped “O” in the air.

“SIR. EXCUSE ME! That’s VERY rude to partake in your disgusting habit in front of the rest of us,” she continued. I quickly pictured what this woman would have done had she been confronted with the site of a young male monkey masturbating in public directly next to the Starbucks. It concerned me to think she was the type of woman that would approach the monkey and, in her thick Jewish northeastern accent, demand that he stop touching himself in public, as it’s a disgusting habit.

We walked 5 feet past the sign towards the sidewalk to relieve ourselves from the incessant squawking that relentlessly flowed from this woman’s mouth. Mere seconds later, I noticed a father walking by with his young daughter. He was attractive and impeccably dressed, and I imagined him being a successful entrepreneur that married young and started a family with his high school sweetheart immediately following his graduation from an Ivey league university. As he walked by, he shot a dirty look and coughed incessantly. “Gross!” he announced, as he forcibly hacked up a lung and held his daughter slightly closer to his side. It was difficult for me to grasp the reality of what was happening. How could it be that I, along with my slightly demented friend, were the only ones that noticed the outlandish reactions by our fellow suburbanites. Had we exchanged the lit cigarette for a freshly used heroine needle and passed it around in a circle, the reactions would have remained exactly the same.

One by one, I witnessed multiple people pass by in disgust as Stephen puffed his cigarette and nonchalantly recited a story to me about the new type of bondage porn he’s recently been into.
“These people are robots. Did you notice that I could talk about anything I want and the only thing they notice is the cigarette in my hand? Next time I’m going to talk about my affinity towards bestiality, and I bet the only reaction I’ll get is a loud cough and angry demands to extinguish my cigarette”. He was right. It was as though someone had taken me out of the fishbowl and given me the opportunity to look from the outside in. So I took a cigarette and joined Stephen. And one by one, the angry suburbanites climbed into their over-sized SUV’s and drove past us, polluting the air with $100 worth of premium gasoline to get their kids to and from soccer practice. And as they drove past, Stephen and I waved our hands in front of our faces. Coughing incessantly.