Suburgatory

by Linda Keenan

  The Weirdo Junior League is centered at the town dump, which is in essence a free garage sale. It’s stuff that the ­corporate-controlled shopper-slaves drop off—perfectly good items—so they can resume their cycle of shop and dump and shop and dump in hopes of forgetting the futility of their lives and the inevitability of death. Meanwhile, my Weirdo Junior League members are eating their lunch, sometimes literally!

  My Disabled Home-Boy

  An emotionally disabled man who regularly visits the dump with his aide taught me that the band Journey is a great unifier; I was afraid he was going to wrestle that Frontiers cassette out of my hand (being a freeganista means, of course, that your decade-old car still has a cassette player).

  The Vagitarian

  Her bumper sticker says, I’m a Vagitarian. Even better would have been Pussy. It’s What’s for Dinner. I saw her once at Dunkin’ Donuts, so she is apparently a Donutarian, too, a proclivity to which I could relate. Did you know that Dunkin’ Donuts server Mariela will give you all their leftovers at 6:00 p.m.? And the donuts freeze beautifully!

  Now if only we could get the gay guy in town who has the bumper sticker, Rock Out with Your Cock Out, and our little Weirdo Junior League would be homosexually complete. I should be honest, I have never had the balls to talk to the Vagitarian, because she looks a little mad all the time. Sometimes I’m a real bottom that way. Maybe she needs more veg. I mean, Vag!

  Haunted House Guy

  Every town’s got at least one, right? This guy’s “home” is packed floor to ceiling with, well, what in the Sam Hill is in there? Oh yeah, crap from the dump. All I know is it’s busting out the windows, and no wonder both of his neighbors have their houses on the market. He’s one of those crazy people who is sweet and exasperating in equal parts—also grimy, which I love, and buoyant. And he has a real touch with kids, finding magic everywhere in the unexpected. If he wasn’t so clearly deranged, I’d have him babysit.

  Beryl the Yenta

  As a daily attendee at the dump, Beryl is like the Elder Stateswoman of town secrets. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure? Actually one man’s trash is another lady’s gossip. What do you think happens when an old wedding album tragically appears at the dump? Trust me, word spreads fast—like, Twitter-fast—and she doesn’t own a single texting device! If you think you’re hiding anything when you dump your crap, just ask Beryl. She could give you a profile of your life like what you might see on the show Criminal Minds. Seriously, it will make your hair stand on end. Shred before you dump. Beryl’s on to you.

  Freecyclers

  This is a website where you post items you can offer to others to come pick up, bits and bobs you’d end up chucking in a landfill. Through freecycling, I’ve met a saintly foster mom and a few delightful junkster shut-ins. Here are some of my favorite offerings from freecyclers.

  Offer: Ovaltine. We have promised this twice and it is still here. Please, for the LOVE come get the Ovaltine. It is starting to develop a complex. It’s a really nice 12 oz. jar. I hope someone out there can give it a good home.

  —Miserable (Ovaltine) in Marlborough

  Offer: Gynecologist examining chair from maybe the 1940s. Your grandma might have been examined in this!

  Offer: Extra progesterone vaginal suppositories for hormone replacement.

  Do you have any idea how much those suppositories cost retail? I hope someone snagged them.

  And sometimes being Super-Crazy-Mega-Cheap brings friends closer together.

  One day recently, a friend, PTO goddess Laura Beazley, who is not in the Weirdo Junior League (not yet, anyway) looked over at me, and, knowing I had just gone on a thrifting adventure that week, started laughing uncontrollably. “What?” I asked. She pointed at my outfit and said, “That’s my shirt! The shirt I left at the dump! You found my shirt!”

  It’s a freeganista miracle!

  Five-Year-Old Loves, But No Longer

  “In Love with,” Mommy

  Suburgatory, USA—A five-year-old boy “loves” but is no longer “in love” with his mommy, and thinks she has grown “needy and possessive.”

  Evan Morton was in a reflective mood about his situation while sitting in his Batman Underoos at the kitchen island, nursing the last of his Horizon Organic Chocolate Milk Box. “See?” he said, pointing at the label certifying the milk as antibiotic-, pesticide-, and hormone-free. “See, what good care she takes of me? God, this is hard. So, so hard.”

  He gestured in a defeated way to his dad, who was at the refrigerator. “Dad, can I get another one of these?”

  “Comin’ right up, Ev,” his dad replied.

  According to Morton, he and Mommy have been together for five years. “Let’s be honest. Early on I was in it just for the boobs. That first year, it was all boobs, all the time, all I wanted and needed. I didn’t really look at her as a person. I know I sound awful for saying that, but it’s true. She was more like some … thing … attached to those wonderful boobs.” He sucked down the last of the second chocolate milk.

  “Listen, Dad.” He belched. “Good one, right?”

  His dad said, “Good one, buddy!”

  Morton went on. “But eventually she was more than boobs. In years two, three, and four, the relationship deepened. She gave me solid food, and we really connected as human beings. We were really communicating. Seeing her face lit me up like nothing else. I’ll never forget our first visit to Bugaboo Creek together—my choice, of course—to see the robot moose. We laughed together so hard. Sounds silly now. Sad too,” he said.

  “You OK, Ev?” his dad asked.

  “Yeah, I’m alright. Anyway, yes, I was in love with her. Me and her and no one else. Well, at that point there was also Bob the Builder and Thomas the Tank Engine and Diego, and, I’m embarrassed to admit, The Wiggles, but at that time if I had to make the choice between Bob and Tom and Diego and The Wiggles and her, I would have chosen her.”

  Morton moved out to the living room and flipped on the TV. Power Rangers: Samurai was on. “Yes!” He did the same frenetic dance he always does when the opening sequence of Power Rangers comes on, which involves cartwheels, handstands, fist thrusts, and running around in a circle.

  As he sacked out to watch Power Rangers, Morton started to describe how things have been going downhill for the two of them. “She’s so needy and possessive. You know, after school I want to play the Pip Penguin Club with my boys. We’re space penguins who kill zombies who are trying eat our space brains. It’s really important to me. It’s my thing, it’s what I do. She demeans it. And she is always embarrassing me in front of my buds and dragging me home. Then she’s pissed and doesn’t get it when she asks, ‘Why don’t your friends like meeeeee?’”

  Also, Morton believes her nagging is taking a real toll. “She’s always asking me, ‘Are you going to wear that Clone Wars T-shirt again?’ ‘Yes I am, Mommy, until freedom is restored to the galaxy, and General Grievous and Count Dooku are taken down, YES I AM. What does it matter to you?’ Or with the food, always the food. ‘Eat your gummy Vites. Just try these eggie-eggs, just once.’ I mean, do I look like the kind of guy who wants to eat tofu? I ask her, ‘How does this even affect you?’ Then she starts crying and telling me it’s because she loves me more than life itself, and it’s just awful, and, hey, I’m not made of stone.”

  At that point, Morton heard his Mommy come in with groceries. She walked in and said, “Hey, handsome!” Morton looked at her and said, “hey.” She came over to give him at least ten kisses and to ruffle his hair, while Morton squirmed away. “God, that was awkward, wasn’t it? Sorry you had to see that.” Morton said, cringing.

  “What do you want to do tonight?” she asked.

  “Cats and Dogs: The Revenge of Kitty Galore is on,” Morton replied.

  “OK, well, we are going to Bertucci’s, so maybe it will be on when we get back. You’ve been in those Underoos all day. Go change!” Mommy said.

  Morton groaned and stomped upstairs. “Yeah,
I’m annoyed. But I still know, when all is said and done, that she’s a wonderful woman. Who I still love. Who probably deserves better,” he said, pulling out his Clone Wars T-shirt from the hamper. “NOT the Clone Wars T-Shirt again, Evan!” she yelled from downstairs.

  Dad: Guppies Represent

  “Everything that’s Wrong with America”

  Suburgatory, USA—A dad is telling his daughter that the guppies in their home represent “everything that’s wrong with America.”

  Greg Mazur, forty-nine, recently lost his job as sales manager at the Piermont Insurance Company and now is spending more time at home with his ten-year-old daughter, Ava.

  “Time to feed the freeloaders!” Mazur said, grabbing the fish food to shake into the aquarium.

  “God, it’s like Sodom and Gomorrah in there. Ughhh … disgusting,” said Mazur. Ava has been noticing that her dad now gets agitated every time he has to feed the guppies, a community of dozens that grew from a single guppy brought home from school last year. “Yeah, that first guppy slut must have been knocked up when Ava brought her home,” said Mazur quietly.

  Ava: Daddy, why are you so mad at the guppies?

  Mazur: Well, sweetie, because I look in there and see everything that is wrong with America. You know, when Mommy and Daddy decided to have you and your brother, we planned it out and made sure we could swing it, money-wise. But look at these guppies, do you think they plan anything? They just have guppy after guppy after goddamn guppy, I mean do they think they have any chance of paying for, I don’t know, college?

  Ava: Daddy, guppies don’t have college.

  Mazur: But if they did, all these little babies, they’d be out of luck wouldn’t they?

  Ava: What does it matter?

  Mazur: What does it matter? What matters is that they are relying on us to feed them, money out of our pockets, stuck paying for their bad life choices. [muttering] Welfare queens… .

  Ava: What’s a welfare queen?

  Mazur [muttering]: They’re guppies who can’t keep their legs together. See there’s no respect for life in there. They swim around in their own poop and pee. Diseases all over the place—white spot disease, gold dust disease, fish lice, dropsy. Those are lifestyle diseases, Ava. You choose to get them because you don’t take care of yourself.

  Ava: Daddy, if it’s dirty in there, that’s our fault.

  Mazur: Right, it’s always our fault. I repeat—no respect for life. These people eat their own. Once they shoot them out they don’t even bother with taking care of them.

  Ava: But Daddy, that’s what Miss Dalton said they’re supposed to do; this is nature.

  Mazur: That’s fine for Miss Dalton, but we don’t have to like it, or celebrate it. [muttering] Typical liberal bullshit they feed my kids. That’s why they hand out these guppies. Start trainin’ ’em early to hand over their hard-earned cash to a bunch of lazy thugs.

  Ava [defiantly]: I love my guppy family.

  Mazur [muttering]: Family. Like the Manson Family maybe or some filthy commune. Seriously, Ava, does that look like any family you’ve ever seen? How many are in there? Do they know who their fathers are? Who are the moms?

  Ava: The moms are the fat ones.

  Mazur [triumphantly]: Bingo.

  At that point, Mazur’s wife Emily came home, walked in, and kissed Ava and said, “Oh no, has Daddy been yelling at the guppies again? Greg, ease up on the poor guppies! They didn’t lay you off from your job, you know. Did you put in for unemployment today? Or just yell at the guppies again?”

  “Ummmm,” Mazur said, looking dejected.

  “Greg. Honey,” she said, hands in the air.

  “OK, right. I’ll do it. We’ll be OK,” he said, shaking more fish food into the aquarium.

  Dr. Drama

  “When life hands you a problem, let’s make it more interesting!”

  Dear Dr. Drama:

  I’m afraid my husband might be gay. He doesn’t seem to have much interest in me, you know, that way, and he just seems a lot more, um, fixated on the dads when we go to school events or soccer games. Also, and I know I shouldn’t have done this, but I looked at his search history on the computer and found gay porn! And then I found a strange number on his cell phone that came up a lot, I called it, and it was a man. Do you think he might be gay? He’s my best friend, I don’t want to lose him!

  —Paranoid in Suburgatory

  Dear Paranoid:

  Your subconscious is screaming at you, and your conscious is covering its ears and yelling “La la la. I can’t see the big fag sleeping right next to me!”, so I’ll say it loud and clear for you: Your husband is gay. You can pretend all you want that just being a little curious about gay porn doesn’t mean anything, but take it from another sucker like me: Where there’s gay porn and a mystery man, there’s a late night circle jerk or early morning gym tug fest not far behind. Then he’ll settle down, find that special guy, and have a beautiful gay wedding you won’t be invited to.

  Now if this was Oprah hell-bent on offering a happy ending in that final ten minutes of the show, she’d be telling you to “get some therapy, figure out what’s really going on, maybe sex isn’t the most important thing in the world if this is your best friend.” But Dr. Drama is Old Testament all the way. Retribution, not redemption, that’s my bible. He stole your most potent sexual years! So here’s what you do. Tell your “best friend” that he can still be your best gay friend, but pack his bags right now and tell him to get the hell out. Don’t worry about the kids, it might be hard at first, but gay dads make the greatest dads, once they’re getting it up the ass, which is what they’ve been dreaming about the whole time. So eventually, they’ll be fine. And while he’s packing, you’re going to put on your best tramp outfit, and you’re going out, driving into the big city, getting hammered, and getting fucked by someone who loves vagina. Your vagina, and all vaginas. This is your moment. It was stolen from you. Steal it back.

  “America the So-So” Campaign

  Mars Fourth of July Celebration

  Suburgatory, USA—A group promoting the slogan “America the So-So” caused a ruckus at the annual Fourth of July celebration on the town green, which attracts a more diverse crowd from several different towns.

  Dave Sheehan runs the bipartisan advocacy group, American Realists for a Real America. “We get accused a lot of being unpatriotic, which just … ugh … makes me crazy. And I’m a Republican! So we thought putting ‘America’ in twice might help.”

  Sheehan’s group is committed to puncturing some of the illusions Americans might have about just how “great” America really is, and he feels he was too mild for the Tea Party’s hard-edge. “I won’t yell at people or name-call, but I am determined to tell it like it is. A true patriot looks himself in the eye and says, ‘You can’t change what you don’t acknowledge!’”

  Sheehan is referring to Life Law Number 4 as expounded by the inspiration behind American Realists for a Real America—Dr. Phil. Sheehan, who’s been out of full-time work for eight months, took Dr. Phil’s “get real” message to heart, and began to see that the true enemy of America was self-­delusion. That’s why Sheehan chose the Fourth of July to roll out the group’s slogan: “America the So-So.”

  “I wanted something a lot stronger, but I figured I’d pull more people in, then boom! Rock ’em, sock ’em with my pamphlets,” he said.

  Sheehan explains the trouble with America. “Math skills, life expectancy, roads and bridges, our debt rating, bungled wars, obesity, you name it, when you consider how rich we are, we’re in a death spiral. America the Great? It’s just not true. And yet the thing we come in Number 1 on over and over again? Self-regard.”

  Was there anything he could think of that America does well?

  Sheehan watched a man bite into a giant sausage-and-peppers hoagie, while his son pressed a sugarcoated fried dough to his face.

  “Eat well? And look how great that’s going!”

  Sheehan had set up his bo
oth with his “America the So-So” sign, handing out pamphlets he had prepared, a veritable library of doom. He had “Nation of the Living Dead—America’s Demographic Timebomb,” “Rotting Stump: The Sugaring of America’s Life-Blood,” and “War and the Military Meat-Grinder,” among others.

  The same man who had just finished his hoagie looked at the sign and the pamphlets, and said, “What the fuck is this shit? You know it’s the Fourth of July, right? Are you a fucking Communist? You know, I am a veteran of the Iraq war and I have diabetes.”

  Sheehan said, “Sir, ‘America the So-So’ is my own patriotic way of saying America needs to …” He looked at the man’s stomach. “… shape up. That’s ‘getting real.’ That’s loving America.”

  The man was fuming. “Asswipe. It’s America the Beautiful. Put your hand over your heart or go the fuck home. Or better yet, get a one way ticket to … Kenya.”

  The fireworks began. Sheehan looked up at the patriotic display and said, “The cost of every one of these colorful little explosions could have fed a hungry orphan in Kenya for months. But, well, I still love you, America, you batty old broad! Happy Birthday!”

  As he packed up his booth, he said, “Well, I guess that only went so-so, right?” He laughed ruefully at his own attempt at a joke. “Still if I can open only one person’s mind, it’s worth it.” But was he offering any solutions to these problems, beyond getting real?

  “Actually I haven’t had a chance to get beyond Dr. Phil’s Life Law Number 4, but we’ll have more time now that our big debut is over.”

  In the spirit of puncturing self-delusions, this reporter was a bit suspicious and curious as to who the “we” was in American Realists for a Real America, since Sheehan was very much alone all day. It turns out that his only outlet, on Facebook, has just three Facebook fans: Sheehan, his wife, and one man with no picture named Gene Juluca. When presented with this news, Sheehan, rather than being embarrassed, said, “You just might have what it takes to be an American Realist for a Real America!”