You Came from Outer Suburbia

Welcome to Plutoville stands guarding the edge of its sleepy town in faded red letters off of State Road 42, surrounded in a sea of corn bobbing gently in the soft moonlight. Population 121 as of last summer it reads. The humming lights suspended above the billboard suddenly intensify their song, serenading a greater beyond before flickering out momentarily. The corn sea shudders from an strong gust, tidal waves of gold thrashing against their neighbors. Only the moths witness what happen next, shushing each other with ecstatic wings. Population 122.

Normal clockwork morning. Wake up. Shower. Microwave breakfast for one while reading yesterday's paper. Scan the police blotter, a nasty habit to entertain. No updates on fleeting fathers or unearthly whirlwind visitors, only the petty gossip of rural life. Eerie suspended lights surrounding Carlos' Bowl-a-Rama that distracted late night bowlers who blamed their usually low scores on rowdy teenagers. The sheriff's secret police caught holding a private press conference banning the use of telescopes, in addition to seat belts, any GPSs made in the last two years, and affection falling just short from love. Familiar names from school caught vandalizing the abandoned movie theater with cryptic runes later revealed to be advertisement for the summer reading program. Mrs. Johnson's coveted purple angel lawn ornament missing. The rest of her angel collection gone too, for that matter, replaced with mysterious pools of unholy burgundy color. Missing beloved family dogs. Old Woman Erika found late wondering the parking lot, lost. Reportedly “waiting,” and, when asked what for, “the end of the world.” No new news there.

Grab book, grab bag, grab coat.

The swishes of Mother's sewing needles escort out the door, replacing formal send offs. Have a good day sewn into every stitch of sweater, a black hole of never worn well wishes slowly collecting within sealed closets in homes collapsing under their own tension. Prepare for the journey to school alone. No other students live outside of downtown Plutoville. Downtown refers to the Arby's, used car lot, Carlos' Bowl-a-Rama, outdated movie theater, Plutoville High, and Plutoville Public Library. The library doesn't count because teens only go there in the dead of night to hide from omnipresent parents to endorse their cult of summer reading, make out, and preform other various teenage rituals. Nothing worth reading either, Plutoville's outside book ban still in full affect. Government propaganda and censored dictionaries litter the forgotten shelves.

Maroon pick-up truck looms in the driveway, just under a hundred miles. Virtually new. Almost paid off, too. Too bad there's no drivers license to show off, standard sweet sixteenth birthday present nonexistent in sweater pocket. Trudge up road 42 to school, not a car on the horizon. Hitchhiking is illegal in this state anyway.

Through doubled doors, herded through the hallway. Mindless sheep blissfully unaware of the void ahead. It is your first day of school here. You are more paint than person, the rainbow of grim under your nails clashing against the monotonous hallways of school spirit.  Your status of new kid orbits you, city aura repelling the homegrown student population. All thirty three clones ignoring you in perfect unison. How could they have missed you?  Maybe they were scared of the tribal looking tattoo snaking down your left forearm that hissed when they gravitated too close. Maybe they couldn't see you beneath the constellation of freckles scattered against your dark face, mirroring complete nightfall in its full enormity. Maybe they chose to cut communication, your wardrobe unnatural with what limited style was conditioned at the Walmart the next town over. At least our outfits matched in that sense. Against all odds, we make eye contact. It is like looking into the void itself. You smiled as if you had all the answers of the universe on the tip of your tongue. Flustered, a glance behind to see who the object of your amusement was reveals only lonely blue lockers. Turn back around.  You were already gone.

Retreat to the deserted back staircase of the west wing for lunch only to find you seated on the third step, hunched over dog-eared sketchbook and scribbling furiously. You uneasily glance up the ascending darkness, then beam when you notice you are not alone. Hesitantly lower self onto the steps, pull out hastily packed lunch, and ask what you are drawing. “Home.” You return to your doodles. No other attempts of conversation are made. Begin chewing on cold hot-pocket until you ask, “Do you always eat alone?” Shrug, take another processed bite to hide the embarrassment. You don't seem satisfied with that answer, but don't press for any more. Mutual silence until the bell reminds us to proceed on with our normally scheduled lives. Later, in gym, contemplate seeking lunch refuge in some other abandoned part of the school, like the science labs or nurses' office.

“I knew you'd come back,” you inform the next day.

Eventually start packing lunch for two. While our lives originate galaxies away from each other, here we are, sharing the same step and eating the same lunch. Your chaotic sketches resembles a new-age picture book, observations from a civilization set for construction sometime in the approaching future. Chrome and concrete as far as the eye could see, you'd regale, with buildings tall enough to scrape the moon's knees. The gentle sea of corn must pale in comparison, but you say you don't mind much. You say you like it here, the mundaneness of it all. How easy it is to escape from the world. Little did you know that it was the other way around. You were never told of Old Man Erik, who supposedly skipped town on the next spaceship outbound, rumor has it, way back when Old Woman Erika was Young Girl Erika who believed cinematic aliens could only impregnate Hollywood stars. Her daughter pulled off her escaped by an east coast art scholarship only to witness the end of her world when her mother began predicting the end of humanity's. Just goes to show how in the end, no one escapes Gideon. Well, most everyone. Old Woman Erika still waits for him to return what he stole alone in the dimly lit parking lots before her daughter can retrieve her, wishing he would too.

The days go by shorter, clocks and sky adjusted accordingly. Not because it is Daylight Savings. Maybe Old Woman Erika was right. School comes and goes, as does December seventh. At home, celebrate a microwaved birthday dinner on “festive” lime green paper plate purchased earlier that day. Not a word from Mother, steady heartbeat of sewing needles never pauses, even after she retires for the evening. Clean up. Shower. Make sure all the lights are turned off before retreating to bed, the moon taunting from the window hung across the room. The blue sky is trying to lean her head against him, but it is cloudy tonight. Fumbling with the darkness to grasp the latch, lift the window up. Cold air invites itself in, pushing its way against already shivering hands. Outside, he looks close enough to touch. Edge closer to shingled boundaries. Take a deep breath. Before reaching out with unwavering faith in trust falls, he flinches. Snap back to Plutoville -  the mathematical constant in bleak reality. Shiver. Go somewhere. Anywhere. The first flurries thrown themselves silently onto the earth.

It is warm inside the pick-up, the heater rejuvenating life into numbed senses. Start the sputtering engine until it coughs into a calming purr, the key still in the ignition waiting obediently for directions.   Step on the gas and speed down road 42, the house growing insignificant with distance. Mostly snow, partially sky is visible overhead.

Corn to the right. Corn to the left. Not a partially scenic route. Not sure what time it is. Presumably late. Consider aborting mission and returning home when fifty feet ahead in the road, there you are. You are watching the powdered sea roar above in the inky sky, a childish grin plastered to your face. Did it ever snow like this in the city? A good-luck sign is jerked towards to the heavens. You are in need of a ride. Should have offered you one. Should have slowed down. Should have at least rolled down the window to ask if you were alright. But hitchhiking is illegal in this state. We make eye contact momentarily, but you eyes reveal nothing, only reflect the light as the pick up accelerates farther away. It is quiet. Too quiet. Switch the radio on. Off. Better to just drive in silence.

Backtrack five minutes later. You are still there. No gratitude is expressed as you slip into the passenger seat. “I knew you'd come back,” you state matter-of-factually. We both knew you were right, but which one of is more strange for being here, the driver or the driven?  The moon watches with quiet concern as we travel wordlessly down paved infiniteness. It is dawn by the time we are welcomed back into Plutoville, the last few stars clinging to the lavender sky.

You do not return to school the next day.
Or the next.
Or the next.
You never did thank me for the lunches.

Wake up. Shower. Glance out the window while packing lunch for one. Maroon pick up truck sits idle in the driveway, accumulating dust. Three quick knocks at the door interrupt the studying of the police blotter. Open the door to a black suited man sporting black tinted sunglasses, despite the waning glow of the winter morning. No 'good mornings' muttered from black coffee tainted breath. He holds up your picture, inquires your location. Shrug. The suit contemplates for a moment before crawling disappointed to his nondescript white van. He would waste his whole day interrogating residents of Plutoville in vain because you never belonged here anyway.