The people here are huge. In this town I've moved to, that is, they're big. And I'm not trying to pick on them, it's just true. They're also mostly white, religious and camo-clad. These are facts I have learned from surveying my surroundings while taking trips to the grocery store. Their religiosity is normally displayed in unequivocal-bumper-sticker-form. One, seemingly ubiquitous, sticker I see here takes an unusually antagonistic stance towards its readers, next to a picture of a cross it reads: "If this offends you, we'll see what you think when you stand in front of Him on judgement day." The cars that the stickers are attached to are also huge. Most of the population here, or at least their children, participate vigorously in organized sports. This fact is evidenced by bumper stickers as well, and also by sliding mini-van doors that open to reveal small groups of uniform adorned teenagers.
My new port side neighbors are a couple––much younger than they look I imagine––and they have a small child, a boy, between three and five years old. The boy likes to play by himself in the front yard with yellow toy dump trucks. He is usually naked. Sometimes he is wearing a diaper. I have often wondered if the naked boy in my neighbors' front yard is
part of some sort of elaborate government scheme to lure and capture
pedophiles. I am becoming more accustomed to seeing baby penis on my way to and from the house. Baby toys dot my neighbors' backyard like white plastic stars on a grass canvas.
My girlfriend has met the aforementioned couple next door. To date, I have not. The little boy's mother came over to ask my girlfriend, Amanda, about her cat. The mother was inquiring about the cat because, according to her, an unidentified cat had been sneaking into her house and "fucking" her cat in her bedroom, on her bed; and she suspected that Amanda's cat was the guilty cat fucker. Quite the conundrum, obviously. Amanda, however, told the mother that this unwanted and invasive feline coitus could not be attributed to her strictly indoor cat, Ruby. After Ruby's innocence was thus established, Amanda and the mother exchanged personal details and pleasantries. As Amanda recounted, the mother was extremely open to her––to put it mildly––as she, the mother, moved the conversation from simple introductions to her struggles with pill addiction with DeLorean-like speed. The mother's oversharing made Amanda not a little bit uncomfortable, but she listened with characteristic empathy. I concluded from Amanda's encounter that should we wish to know anything––anything––about the personal lives of the young family next door, we need only hurdle over a couple of baby toys and ask.
The other neighbors to my starboard are a much older couple with an unknown amount of children that have, presumably, left the nest. On Sundays I see a young adult pull perfunctorily into the driveway, with a small child in tow, and then leave again shortly thereafter. During the week the husband and wife can usually be seen on their front doorsteps smoking cigarettes. On the weekends, I usually see the husband obsessively mowing his lawn––he mows over and over the same spots of grass with Sisyphean-esque repetition for hours on end. The man has a zen-like determination to prevent his grass from rising due either to an intense inner hatred of graminoids, or explicit love of them, I can't tell which. I have spoken to this grass-worrier only once, and upon learning of my then status as a graduate student, he told me that I "[looked] like a college man." I took this to mean "unemployed." He then invited me to church, and I, shamefully, lied and told him I was leaving town to visit my mother and could not join him in worship. When I step outside, he waves at me and says, "hello neighbor!" I can't help but appreciate the greeting. I usually wave back and say, softly but firmly, "what's up man."
My new surroundings are very familiar, extremely so. I am not alien to the cultural norms of the southern U.S., and I have a complicated relationship to them akin to the relationship between a disagreeable son and narrow-minded father. It's a strange mix of frustration and anger, mixed with a sort of obligatory love and commitment. I am indeed a native son. So if you feel that I have been unkind to those I've written of, know that I speak of them as a part of the community and not as an indignant outsider.
As for now, I should be looking for a job instead of blogging––so wish me luck in finding a corporation to rent myself to. I'm looking forward to maybe making some of you a cup of coffee while working at Starbucks, that is, if I'm lucky enough to get a job there.
