suburban nostalgia gothic
the local teens hang out at the gas station. when you were a child, you were too young to join them. when you were a teenager, too uncool. now that you’re older, you approach the gas station with a sense of unspeakable dread. you think that they are the same teens. the same local teens as long as you remember.
your neighbor clarence’s lawn is so much greener and more vibrant than yours. “it’s the mulching” he tells you one day at the mailboxes, his teeth large and white on his tanned face. “i make my own mulch.” in the middle of the night, you wake up to the sound of the woodchipper and go to the window. by the glow of his porch light, clarence is mulching, feeding dripping, pink things into the maw of his chipper.
the local pta requires new members to make a blood sacrifice. “it’s just a little thing we like to do” helen giggles, “like an ice breaker!” last week, they all shaved their heads and carved runic symbols into their scalps to raise awareness (awareness of what? be aware. beware.) this week they’re holding a bake sale.
drive 15 minutes in any direction and you will pass a target, a walmart, and a sam’s club. in that order. if you had the money or the inclination to get in a helicopter and hover over your city, you would see the grey rectangles of superstore roofs like blots of bacteria in a petri dish. multiplying exponentially. consuming all.
your child brings home a field trip permission form to visit a sewage plant. “to explore the wonder of water recycling and educate on the importance of water conservation!” the paper reads. your child brings home a field trip permission form to visit a slaughterhouse. “to explore the wonder of meat processing and educate on the importance of humane slaughter!” the paper reads. your child brings home a field trip permission form to visit a crematorium. “to explore the wonder of corpse disposal and educate on the futility of our short, disposable lives!” the paper reads.
you almost forgot there was a high school football game tonight, so you barely make it home before nightfall, your heart pounding and sour, sickly sweat beading your forehead as you lock your door and hurriedly bar your windows. after every football game, the team and its fans have been known to roam the streets like a pack of wild dogs. arsons, vandalism, mass murders, and worse multiply on these nights. “boys will be boys” the principle laughs the next morning, when the trees in front of the school have been strung with dripping, bleeding entrails. “boys will be boys.”
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