Suburban Decay

The president of the League Against Suburbs convened the meeting. What do you have for us? Trevor asked the slouched initiate sitting in the plastic chair beside the coffee table. I have these, he said, offering his hand which opened to reveal five or six small bolts and screws. The members nodded approvingly. Where did you do this? Trevor asked. Applebees. I took apart the toilet paper dispenser in the men’s bathroom and got one of the hinges off the dumpster out back. But I forgot that at home. The members nodded approvingly.

Father

Jenny always called things stupid. Early on, her friends knew about those stupid meat-head showoffs in gym class, and her mom heard how Sara Weiland was so stupid when she stole her boyfriend at summer camp. Later, the internet was stupid. Nutra-sweet gives you cancer, and was stupid. Long distance was stupid. The book report she spent the whole weekend on turned out to be stupid. And last week, her straight thin hair was stupid and such a pain. After a while, people that knew her got used to it. She wasn’t impressive enough for the habit to wear off on anybody. It just sort of faded from an irritation to something that didn’t exactly register—lumped together with the Jenny people knew. The only person or thing that never earned the pronouncement of stupid, was her dad. The mystery surrounding him withheld her judgment. Also, there hung this certain trepidation at the thought of lumping him in with the rest of the world. But that one morning walking over to his house, watching him read his retarded paper: he glanced up and completely missed the mess of a little girl standing in front of him. An eternity passed. Then he just looked back down at the story about the beet farms closing up in Moorhead. I hate you, she squeaked, and walked straight for the bathroom.

The Urban Poor

Those marginalized people are so calculating. You wouldn’t think to use the word ‘sophisticated’ on them, but it fits their ways. To them, everyone’s a vending machine. They put money in and push just the right button. Vavoom, they get what they want. I always flash the “sold out” light when they’re standing in my glow. Coke first, nope, then Sprite. Sorry no service. Then the strong sellers try diet, and still I’m all: ‘Look chum. You best move on to that one down the corner, before I call the cops.’ Mention cops and they move along, cause urban poor folks know the two rules of perpetual poverty: Don’t get evicted. And don’t get yourself arrested. Once either of those happens, you’re instantly shoved down to the second basement. Seven eleven won’t employ you, and you can kiss section eight goodbye. Life gets hard when your soche tells that story. You have your rights, yes, you've sown them all over town. And I’ve got mine right here, on Broadway and Lake—public property, watching you tumble with the guy with the hundred dollar bill hanging out of his pocket. Yeah I’ll call the cops. Yeah I’ve got money that you’ll win. But you won’t get away. All at once you’ve got your sway on, wiping your mouth, saying he spit in your face when you asked him for some change, but they’ll shrug that off. His clothes smell sweeter than yours, and what are you doing asking for change? They put you in the backseat: a shifting mass of calculations. I get back in my career path. I was only down here for the cheap Camels.