I.
The suburban loser observes his kingdom on a Sunday evening. The daisy beds his wife maintains. The elm tree with regularly scheduled check-ups from the arborist. The kidney shaped patches of grass that separate manicured bushes from jungles of ferns. He catches a reflection of himself in the gazing ball he bought at an art fair, the image of himself stretched and flipped, the ember of his joint ablaze in the iridescent purples of the glass globe. In the corner of the yard, the whirr of a security camera as it trains on the suburban loser. The neighbor installed it after the suburban loser reported him to the HOA for keeping a small boat in his driveway, kicking off an argument that ended with the neighbor calling the suburban loser a pervert who liked to spy on his teenage daughters in the pool. It was a pathetic and baseless accusation from a man with no recourse, and the security camera meant to punish the suburban loser would soon be blocked once his landscaper installed the right decorative bird feeder. His neighbors to the back were in the middle installing something themselves, a security fence meant to stop their golden retriever from peeing in his wife's daisy beds. When the suburban loser thinks about the fence finished before his bird feeder was installed, he can only laugh because if you don’t laugh you cry. He makes eye contact with his neighbor to the west as he leaves the garage. The suburban loser takes an extra big hit from his joint and holds his stare while he does so the neighbor knows the suburban loser doesn't give a fuck. The neighbor is probably headed across the street to ask for advice on what basketball hoop to buy, but he should be asking for advice on trash can placement and what curb new residents should consider their own. The suburban loser's sprinklers go off, all the tiny heads popping out the ground at once before sparkly curtains of water sweep across the lawn. It's the perfect visualizer for the chirping sparrows in his mulberry tree, humming lawnmowers in the distance, and the clacking keyboard from his youngest son's open bedroom window. What an empire he's made for himself. His wife comes outside with the phone in her hand and a different look on her face. You need to talk to your son, she says, her voice wavering as she hands him the phone. The suburban loser's eldest son is on the other end, crying and sounding like he did when he was only a little boy. Twenty minutes later the suburban loser decides that the next morning, he'll call his accountant and move some money around. His eldest son will gather all his debts and present them to the suburban loser so they can pay them off in a way that makes sense, and his eldest son will spend the next few years repaying him in small monthly payments that fit his budget. By this point, his eldest son has stopped crying. He thanks the suburban loser. He knows they haven't always seen eye to eye, but despite everything, he's the man he is today because of the suburban loser. I know, the suburban loser says. His eldest son says that before he found the courage to make this phone call, his mind went to some dark places. Very dark places. Yeah, well, okay, the suburban loser says. Remember, always be nice to people. He tells his eldest son he'll call him tomorrow and hangs up. It's nearly dark outside now. The suburban loser takes a deep breath and realizes he's been frowning this entire time. He rolls another joint. His youngest son's bedroom window is still open, but he can no longer hear the clacking of the keyboard. The suburban loser doesn't know if he can even afford to do this. He’ll have to talk to the accountant. He has a brief fantasy of being able to say he took care of everything, all is forgiven, but even in his fantasy the suburban loser sees traces of entitlement on his eldest son's face. The suburban loser's frown returns as the moon shines upon his backyard kingdom.
The suburban loser observes his kingdom on a Sunday evening. The daisy beds his wife maintains. The elm tree with regularly scheduled check-ups from the arborist. The kidney shaped patches of grass that separate manicured bushes from jungles of ferns. He catches a reflection of himself in the gazing ball he bought at an art fair, the image of himself stretched and flipped, the ember of his joint ablaze in the iridescent purples of the glass globe. In the corner of the yard, the whirr of a security camera as it trains on the suburban loser. The neighbor installed it after the suburban loser reported him to the HOA for keeping a small boat in his driveway, kicking off an argument that ended with the neighbor calling the suburban loser a pervert who liked to spy on his teenage daughters in the pool. It was a pathetic and baseless accusation from a man with no recourse, and the security camera meant to punish the suburban loser would soon be blocked once his landscaper installed the right decorative bird feeder. His neighbors to the back were in the middle installing something themselves, a security fence meant to stop their golden retriever from peeing in his wife's daisy beds. When the suburban loser thinks about the fence finished before his bird feeder was installed, he can only laugh because if you don’t laugh you cry. He makes eye contact with his neighbor to the west as he leaves the garage. The suburban loser takes an extra big hit from his joint and holds his stare while he does so the neighbor knows the suburban loser doesn't give a fuck. The neighbor is probably headed across the street to ask for advice on what basketball hoop to buy, but he should be asking for advice on trash can placement and what curb new residents should consider their own. The suburban loser's sprinklers go off, all the tiny heads popping out the ground at once before sparkly curtains of water sweep across the lawn. It's the perfect visualizer for the chirping sparrows in his mulberry tree, humming lawnmowers in the distance, and the clacking keyboard from his youngest son's open bedroom window. What an empire he's made for himself. His wife comes outside with the phone in her hand and a different look on her face. You need to talk to your son, she says, her voice wavering as she hands him the phone. The suburban loser's eldest son is on the other end, crying and sounding like he did when he was only a little boy. Twenty minutes later the suburban loser decides that the next morning, he'll call his accountant and move some money around. His eldest son will gather all his debts and present them to the suburban loser so they can pay them off in a way that makes sense, and his eldest son will spend the next few years repaying him in small monthly payments that fit his budget. By this point, his eldest son has stopped crying. He thanks the suburban loser. He knows they haven't always seen eye to eye, but despite everything, he's the man he is today because of the suburban loser. I know, the suburban loser says. His eldest son says that before he found the courage to make this phone call, his mind went to some dark places. Very dark places. Yeah, well, okay, the suburban loser says. Remember, always be nice to people. He tells his eldest son he'll call him tomorrow and hangs up. It's nearly dark outside now. The suburban loser takes a deep breath and realizes he's been frowning this entire time. He rolls another joint. His youngest son's bedroom window is still open, but he can no longer hear the clacking of the keyboard. The suburban loser doesn't know if he can even afford to do this. He’ll have to talk to the accountant. He has a brief fantasy of being able to say he took care of everything, all is forgiven, but even in his fantasy the suburban loser sees traces of entitlement on his eldest son's face. The suburban loser's frown returns as the moon shines upon his backyard kingdom.