ODAAT: Volume 1, Chapter 5

 

Chapter 5

White Picket Fence

I take a deep inhale before handing the joint back to him. He takes it lazily, holding it to his over-sized lips. The smoke creates a cloud between the two of us as we pass it back and fourth. I was reluctant to follow him when he arrived, but he always manages to convince me. Those deep brown eyes just pull me in, every time. I opened the gate and we started walking. It seemed that neither of us had any direction in mind, ending up at a park a few blocks away. We're sitting on opposite sides of the metal slide. We haven't said much. It's been mostly silence, but, that's enough. We don't need words. We can share comfortable silences. It's not like it is with Hunter.

Now, we're watching the sun rising in the distance. It's nearing seven in the morning, judging by the position of the sun. It's still chilly out because the sun isn't high enough. I'm trying not to shake, but the joint is trembling in my hand. He'd offer me his jacket if he had worn one himself. Or maybe not. He knows I'm not a fan of chivalry. I've made it adamantly clear that I don't take hand outs. If I fuck up by not grabbing a jacket, that's my own problem. I always get myself out of my own problems. Have since I was a child.

I look at the neighborhood we're in. The park stands opposite of a row of identical houses. It's white picket fence suburbia. This neighborhood and the ones surrounding it are all beginning to wake up now. It's Friday morning, the last day of the week. There's an excitement in parents and children that the weekend is about to start. There's always more energy on Friday mornings than any other day of the week. Less feet-dragging. Right now, domestic wives are putting coffee on and greeting their husbands with loving pecks. Their 2.5 children are getting up and ready to go to school. Maybe there's a dog being let out into the yard. Maybe a cat is joining the family at the breakfast table. Maybe it's pancakes. Maybe just cereal and milk. If any of these mothers are part of the latest trends, there's a table filled with fruits and vegetables. Lunches are packed already in reusable containers and schoolbags are being put together. The wives will all offer another loving kiss as they send their husbands off into the world, telling them to have a nice day.

The world is waking up for people like that. People with normal lives.

As I'm sitting out here in the cold, I think about my own life in comparison. I wonder if life would have been easier had I taken that predestined route. If I had graduated high school, attended Columbia. If I had two parents and a stable home. I wonder if I could have been a happy housewife, with a couple of children. I don't know if I'd make a good parent. I didn't have any examples growing up. So, it'd be a coin toss. I guess it would depend on who I married. I know these happy suburban lives aren't all they're cracked up to be though. I've always know there's more than meets the eye behind closed doors like that. Usually, the wife is sleeping with her husbands poker buddy. Or, the children act out at school because no one pays attention to them at home. But, all of them put on fake smiles and pretend everything is fine. They invite other families over on the weekend for barbecues. They attend parties together, well-dressed and well-spoken. When it comes to that side of the lifestyle, I don't have to wonder about anything. I'm already living that.

Whenever we're in public, Hunter treats me like the best thing that's ever happened to him. He tells everyone how lucky he is to have me, flashing me around like some trophy. But, since we don't have kids, we haven't settled into suburbia. Instead, we live in a house that's way too big for the two of us. I never understood how two people required such a large house. He had bought it before we got back together. I don't know if he had plans to start a family together. Or, start a family with her. Either way, it never happened. He shrugged it off saying he required buying a big house because he was famous. He said it was expected. His fame card stopped working a long time ago. He retired from the spotlight back in 2012. He made his final press release announcing his decision to settle down. He'll be living off royalties for a long time. His band was a chart-topper for years. Of course, when he makes his introductions, I put on the same act. I smile, laugh at his jokes. I tell people how much I adore him. The adoring wife. God, my life is exactly the same without the children. Only I'm not sleeping with his poker buddy. It's much worse.

I know that Hunter isn't faithful either. He never has been. It's been behind my back, then flaunted in front of me. I'm never sure when it's coming, it just, happens. He also uses the rock star excuse for that one, too. Again, it's sort of lost it's luster. That doesn't stop him from clinging to it like it was the only thing he had ever known. I know he doesn't care about anything anymore. He doesn't even try. Not with me, not with his career. He seems to internally pity himself, holding onto this lifestyle that's been over for a long time. I wish I didn't care. I wish I could just move on with my life and give up on this idea. I do care, though. I still love the fucker. It doesn't matter to me that somewhere along the highway he took a wrong turn. He got lost on a stretch with no street lights. No signs. No directions. He's doing the best that he can to find his way back to a place that feels familiar. On that day, I want to be with him. I know that means I have to see him through these travels. Even when half the time, I can't stand to look at him.

His hand gently squeezes my knee and I'm pulled from the thoughts filling my head. I look over at the kid beside me, eyes half closed. He's dazing off. It's the strength of the weed. He gets only the best drugs because his fame card is still active, unlike Hunter's.

“Here.” He offers, stretching his arm out. I shake my head, waving him off loosely.

“I'm over it.” I dismiss. He takes another drag, then flicks the rest into the sand in the playground. I laugh internally, thinking about one of the suburbia kids finding it after school. Let them pick it up, play with it, try and understand. I'd like to see the look on that child's face. A mix of shock and curiosity. Maybe one of them can make correlations to something they saw mommy doing in the kitchen when uncle-so-and-so came over. I've heard so many stories like that. I think everyone has had that family member who wasn't really a family member. I wouldn't know. I never had a family at all, let alone pretend members. My mother was there, but only physically. She was mostly missing in action. She shut down when I was only a child due to many abusive relationships. I shouldn't have known that as a child, but I did. I watched her close in on herself. My father was gone the second he heard the word “pregnant”. I raised myself. By the time I was 4 years old, I learned to get breakfast by myself. I could cut up apples and spread out the peanut butter. By the time I was 6 years old, I was drinking coffee with breakfast. By the time I was 8, I was all grown up. It was a gradual progression. Of course, some of my mothers “friends” were adamant about raising me. I wouldn't hear anything about it. I left at the first chance I got with my first boyfriend, Luke.

I wouldn't choose a different life if the option was presented to me. Even when my life has been hectic and depressing, it’s a hell of a lot better than the alternative. I think it's funny that the white picket fence life is a dream to so many people. To me, it's more like a nightmare.

He taps my leg again, standing up. I look up at him, shielding my eyes from the rising sun.

“Let's go.” He announces, motioning forward. He's got an impatience about him that I don't quite understand. I think it's annoying, sometimes. But, there's something about him that I can't get enough of. His lips are now curling into a pout as he looks at me. I smile, which seems to ease him slightly. The minutes pass without me moving and he starts to look impatient again. Now, there's a plea in his eyes. I sigh, sliding the rest of the way down the slide. I let my feet fall into the sand, still looking at him. He shifts in his position, wrapping both his arms around his chest.

I struggle, trying to stand up, but he holds out his hand. I lightly wrap mine around his and lift myself up. I want to move my hand, but it lingers. My fingers wrap around his, causing his eyes to shoot to the ground. We're not good at this, me and him. We can't be. I wasn't raised to show emotion. Mostly because I wasn't raised at all. He knows that. He knows I can't be the American dream for him. But, he's understanding of that. He shows patience when I struggle with the concept of where this is heading. Unlike me, he was raised. He had supportive parents and a handful of siblings. He grew up in a home that most people would be envious of. He had the picket fence life, but even better. His parents were actually in love, though poly-amorous. They still held hands while walking down the street, still made-out like teenagers behind closed doors. They were still happy and in love. All of their children grew up to be happy and successful. Except this one, who is still chasing a happiness in me that I don't know if he'll get. It's become obvious he's willing to wait forever. That's how I know his parents must have done something right.