“Mark, we need to talk.”
It was the same as any other Friday – though luckily for the last year I made a bargain with my manager to sign off two hours earlier. You’d be surprised how much those two hours help. I’m able to get the groceries all sorted and make some progress on my Hearthstone card collection.
“What’s it about?” I automatically replied while scrolling through the latest StarCraft II vods. I was wondering when the next RTS was coming.
“Let’s sit down at the kitchen table,” she continued and I followed up with “Sure, let me make some PopTarts.” It seemed like that was the wrong response because I could feel the exasperated stare while I pulled down my Costco bulk pack of Frosted Strawberry. “I can’t believe I’ve missed out on the strawberry for so long. I guess I was indoctrinated about the cinnamon convenience – as I will concede that cinnamon is the one better untoasted – but once you start toasting, I mean, how could you go back?”
“Mark, you’ve said this a thousand times already,” she muttered.
“But really!” I exclaimed, emphasizing that it does surprise me how long I’ve abstained from the true PopTart™ experience. She had an elbow on the table staring out the veranda – this was the usual indication that she was done with her side of the conversation.
We shared a silence before the toaster jump and me rubbing my hands exaggeratedly with raised eyebrows – I always tried to make a running joke that I was the PopTart monster and would give a wink before biting down. I loved them.
She stared with cross-arms for a bit as I took a couple chomps and did the open-mouth-too-hot grimacing, which, you’d think, I’d learn not to, but I can’t help it – I think it’s a part of the experience.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and placed both hands with a clasp on the table. “Mark, I’ll get right to it: I think we’re done. I’ve been on dating sites for at least a month now and feel confident enough to move forward. I’m sorry.”
I paused for a moment before taking another bite, looking up at our feathered kitchen fan, which I insisted upon because it reminds me of the regal Protoss.
“Okay, sounds good,” I replied with a muffled mouth full, then took a bite more.
“Okay? Sounds good – That’s it?” she stuttered as she started raising her voice and I recoiled a little because I knew this was going to go nowhere. Instead of forcing another bunch of words I don’t care about I took another bite while nudging a look at her, indicative that maybe I’m listening.
“Mark, do you have any idea what’s actually happening, or what’s been happening for the last year? Do you remember anything at all?” she kept going and I suppose, for a moment, I did a mild reflection.
Vaguely I understood she wasn’t necessarily too happy about our circumstances. We had a two bedroomer with a shared bathroom in the suburban Illinois southside. It made me happy because I no longer had to pretend I cared about any of the sports teams from the apartments we were in, parties we had to attend. It was always so embarrassing for me to cheer while I had no idea was going on.
In this sanctuary I could finally debate about the requisite Zerg APM as a cop-out justification since it was still a greasy select, everyone knew it, six pool and you’d think that’d be anything but a slimy play. If you haven’t guessed, yes, I leaned toward Protoss, but not because of anything more than a vague sense of justice. Still, I respected Zerg more than Terran.
Anyways, yeah, she didn’t seem too happy about this new retreat. It’s a tough viewing for those who don’t understand it. I never explained it to her, the reality of moving here, but she seemed excited about interior decorating so I didn’t press further.
But she lost most of her city friends, convenient side shop tea sipping and parfait enthusiasm and she’d gleam about it – I could feel the radiance on my back when she skipped through the door. I really should’ve said something about how she’s going to lose everything, like really everything she loved, but I always delayed out of a fear of enduring a conversation lasting more than two minutes. She’d attribute her happiness to our relationship, when it was really just the fact we pulled the trigger on a downtown apartment.
Not to give her undue credit – I think she was aware she was going to lose her girl dates, that much was obvious to her, but I don’t think she ever realized that taking this “next step” would be anything but misery despite how much she dolled our portraits for Instagram. And she tried, she tried, I mean if you scrolled through our feed she got thousands of likes about it but I knew that never would be enough.
As the days progressed I could see the sunshine dissipating out of her until a moss creature. But what can you do? I’d offer her PopTarts as consolation and she’d always turn her head away before dragging to the bedroom. I guess the gig was up finally.
I licked my fingers for any spare corn syrup frosting while patting my shirt and jeans and she glared at me.
“Look Amanda, I get it. You aren’t happy here, and that’s that. I wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors,” and I held out my hand for good heart-to-heart handshake. I watched my bosses do the same thing when they ended an important meeting, and it seemed to work.
But she slapped my hand of the way and revved up for another spiel and I just tried to remember build orders to lessen the agony.
“Mark, are you seriously comfortable throwing away a five year relationship like it’s nothing? What the hell is wrong with you? You aren’t even going to try to discuss if there are any alternatives?” and I must applaud how she kept it a decibel lower than I was expecting.
“I’m doing this because every time I tried to talk to you more you’d say maybe later before rolling over – I’ve been trying for months!” she screamed, which was to be expected.
Amanda and I only got an apartment together because we were already dating because other friends put us together and my parents encouraged it with the big swing into my corporate job – and that’s great and all, but I only did these things because I just did them. I never thought whether I wanted to be with her, or with anyone for that matter upon the thought of a suburban home – sometimes I doubted the job too, but I got two hours off every Friday and I was elated about that. Gathering my thoughts I tried to navigate this while concealing my ambivalence.
I knew that I couldn’t give any vague affirmatives this time around unfortunately, so I guess the direct approach works best.
“Amanda, do you know what it means to live in suburbia?” I asked as gently as I could.
“What, smart aleck?” she spat out and getting angrier, but at least she was open to possibility.
“Well, living a Suburban experience requires either some Valium – as popularized by our pioneer prior housewives – or some soul-searching. Look, I’m all for you finding another relationship if that’s what you want, go for it, I want you to be happy. But I hope you realize if you find yourself out here again in another home you’ll feel the same dread.”
She leaned back and blinked a bit, because I rarely talked to her for more than a few benign sentences if possible. She opened her mouth to dish out another bout of anger, but she wasn’t sure how to inject the venom, so after a two second pause she stated, “So what?” as a hinted indicator for me to continue.
“Maybe you aren’t too familiar seeing as you grew up in Chicago. I get it. And maybe all the TV shows percolating around the world in a propagandized march to capture the hearts of our Pax Americana sunset, making it seem so pristine, but we’re sweeping under the rug the void between. That you’re going to have to free yourself, or learn to attach some electrical nodes, get some imaginary friends. I mean, you tried with the Instagram, but I think growing up the city makes it hard for you.”
“Mark I have no clue what the hell you’re talking about,” she said with a concerned look, as I never said so much to her before. It’s like she was looking at another person. “What are you on about?” she followed.
“You either become a psychonaut or get swallowed,” I whispered, thinking fondly over my suburban childhood. “People think they can just move in some Suburban paradise and enjoy it all has to offer. And we can all advertise how great it is, get on over here immigrant pizazz – but if you aren’t careful, you will be consumed. Many don’t understand this is the modern frontier.”
“Mark, you can roleplay as a cowboy all you want but you still aren’t connecting the dots,” she scathed with an elbow on the table.
“Look, Amanda, let me be honest: you cannot survive here,” I stated plainly. “It’s impressive how long you’ve lasted. But the only way you could ever be out here is some Valium or an evening drink habit, and social media dialed in even though that’s probably not your jam. See, the housewives prior at least had each other, but do you even know anyone on our block?”
She put down her arm in some reflection. “I don’t think we even said hi to each other before,” she admitted.
“That’s right,” I affirmed, “because that’s how it is out here. You can call it roleplay, I call it reality: the credo of Suburban existence spawns out of a distrust and disinterest of everyone around you, don’t you see? Why do you think no one talks to each other out here?” I asked waving my arms around, seeing her connecting some dots now.
“But why wouldn’t you want to talk to each other and visit?” she inquired, completely flustered and seeing me more and more as an alien.
“Because they don’t care. No one cares. No one can endure it anymore; they’ve built their psychic base and everything else is an infringement,” I concluded, thinking back on my build orders. Maybe I’ll finally complete my gold card set in a week’s time. “You start talking and next thing you know you get a phone call offering a lunch date and you feel sick,” I continued.
But it was then I realized I may have said too much, because I could see some tears forming. “What has gotten into you Mark? You stayed silent for months and all of a sudden you’re on a lecture on your love of Suburbia and how no one can stand to be around me!” she sobbed out. It was then I wish I could feel something guilty to help with my tone.
“It’s not that I don’t love Suburbia, Amanda, or that there’s something wrong with you – it’s just how it is out here,” I confessed. “Believe me, when I was younger I couldn’t understand it either. But I realized when I looked inside I was destined to be the suburban frogman by then, and I had to do everything to hide it before I got my own suburban submarine home,” I continued, the words forming on their own.
“Do you want some PopTarts?”
“This isn’t Mark. Where is Mark? Why are you so composed and blank-faced? Who the hell are you?!” she yelled at me. I wasn’t sure how to reply. “Get away from me!” she shrieked before shoving me aside to run out the front door, washing her face with more tears. I went to pull down the strawberry Costco bulk box, but out of respect for Amanda I reached in further for the cinnamon to eat untoasted. Remembering there’s a tournament starting soon I hurried back to the couch, crumbs trailing. I typed “terran? yawn” in the stream chat and leaned back by popping the recliner, accompanied by some despondent sobbing from the driveway. What can you do?
It was time to finally enjoy my weekend.