Hi Nichole,
I can’t leave my property.
I think the community at large would prefer that I don’t leave my yard. Actually, I think my immediate neighbors would hope that I remain indoors. I cannot accommodate this wish however as I am claustrophobic and the fear of enclosed spaces is just too shattering for me to bear. I consider open air football stadiums to be enclosed spaces. So, you know, there’s that. Needless to say this claustrophobic tendency along with my anxiety issues, the insipid, clawing, “please love me” begging puppy dog, monumentally embarrassing behavior precipitated by my over arching feeling that everybody knows or will soon discover that my existence is without merit, and the fact that I have not one tooth which would be considered “good” by anyone living outside of Britain, keeps me out of the local societal soup for the most part.
Kathy and I were invited to our neighbor Ron’s house for a Memorial Day barbeque the other day. Memorial Day actually. For the reasons alluded to above (and others as well) this act on Ron’s part renders his judgment, sense of decorum, and concern for his other guests suspect. However everybody loves Kathy and Ron may have invited only her. I, awash in my utter obtuseness, tagged along and once on the scene could not be expelled without the designated bouncer appearing cruel.
“Oh hi Kathy, (hug hug kiss kiss) how are you? Jeez it’s been so long. God you look great. Well, come on and get something to drink. Everybody this Kathy. Kathy this is everybody.” Ron would say.
“Oh, hello Scott I didn’t realize you were coming so yah, well so OK, hmmm.” Ron would add.
So we’re all standing around next to our respective plastic picnic chairs (of exceptional quality I assure you) and my friend Don is dominating the conversation with tales of greatness and wonder referring, of course, to his greatness and wondrousness which is allowed because Don is really interesting, has seemingly done almost everything interesting a body could do, and tells his stories in a very entertaining fashion. Out of nowhere this huge, absurdly handsome guy, accompanied by his painfully attractive wife (they’re baby boomers just really good looking baby boomers), says to Don “hey you got a brother named Ronie?”
“I do have a brother named Ronie as a matter of fact” Don confirms.
“Yah, me and him used to race cars together down at Ascot and out at Riverside.”
“Fuckin’ A.” Don says in a lightly amazed inflection. “Shit, small world isn’t it?”
The conversation turns to the ins, outs and what have yous (Re: “The Big Labowski” a film by the Cohen Brothers) of small time auto racing. I must admit I was somewhat incredulous at the number of baby boomer men at this barbeque who had some kind of auto racing story. Of course you put a bunch of old men together with copious poundage of meat and seas of beer and the personal real life accounts can reach mythic proportions.
The other thing was that, of the twenty or so people attending this Memorial Day barbeque, at least sixteen were either born and raised in, or spent the entirety of their adult lives in southern California.
When I moved to this area in 1977 there were eight hundred people living here. Most of the land in this community was devoted to ranching or under production as farm land. I had ditched southern California in 1970 for the four corners region of these here United States and the solitude, simplicity of life and truth of spirit it promised. (Re: the first leg of the fateful journey taken by Denis Hopper and Peter Fonda in the seminal film “Easy Rider”). Now there are something like fourteen thousand people living in the community and it’s immediate environs and the only thing they’re growing is stucco, asphalt shingles, oversized three car garages, and most recently “for sale” signs.
I was whining to Kathy for the millionth time about my consternation over this deeply disappointing turn of events and that “the only way to get out of the line of fire of this cancerous, insidious, ugly, cookie cutter, expansion of cheezy big box, metal sided, architecture, we don’t need no stinking architect, neon signed, storage bin for mountains of absolutely useless shit which must break and cease functioning within ten minutes of getting it home, soul eating suburban style progress is to move to a place where no one would ever chose to live. Like Montana or something.”
“Hmm hmm, could you bring in the groceries please?” Kathy asked in a soothing “yah well what are going to do” tone.
“Ok” I said. “Honey?” I whimpered.
“Yes, baby?” Kathy said rapping me in the swaddling clothes of her emotional grounding.
“Can we just stay home next weekend?” I damn near sniffled.
“Sure sweet heart.”
Love Dad.
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