You fight the forces of your phone four stoplights past Emerson (Junior High) and find that a strange and simple life exists beyond the picket fences of the Park Ridge innuendo. A two story apartment complex in particular grabs your attention and keeps it.
A belly protrudes from a t shirt and gym shorts and lights a $69 Kingsford followed by a cigarette. It stares out at traffic like you did on the shores of that summer cottage.
Its puff knows the world is hard; its calling to bad decisions keep it in that very apartment. And don’t fret as it cares none about your fancy car or five-star life, which you sense in the flick of the cigarette.
The light changes, but your Paymore shoes stay put, past honk 1, 2, “fucking jag off” — is what you would say. But you’re calm, oblivious to the frenzy. What if you didn’t speed to pick up, prance around important, or pretending to be? What if there was no pretense to you other than the nearest gas station and the cute roughneck helping chase Cheers? Meh, too blah and bankrupt. But is it?
You leave Oakton rubber.