Suburban Nausea

Tim walked down the street, overcoat on and aimless.  It was pouring out, which made him annoyed.  He seemed to be annoyed about anything and everything.  He spat at cars driving by and cursed at the rain for constantly ruining his cigarettes.  Thoughts kept piling up in his head, but never anything coherent.  He hadn't eaten in 36 hours, and slept twice in the past couple days.  His sleep was broken and brief. 

He turned down another side street and surveyed the houses.  Too big.  Too small.  Bunch of fucks live in that house.  Tim laughed as he remembered puking in front of the big colonial on the corner.  He wished he had to puke again. 

Another turn.  Another side street.  Another mass of complaints.  His head felt too small and too big all the same time.  He contemplated going home, but that was worse than being in the rain.  His home was a mess, and all his friends (the few he had) were all working or schooling or some reason they couldn't come out.  Which was just as well, cause all Tim wanted to do was drink and smoke anyway.  A car flew by him and he spat at it, missing by a mile. 

What time was it? Tim patted his pockets and remembered leaving his phone at home, to give the walk a more genuine and surreal experience.  No one to bother this walk.  A couple was walking on the other side of the street.  Tim started to go and ask them the time, but he decided they looked like the type of people that would judge him without a moment's hesitation.  He found another turn and made it. 

This street was all the same again.  Tim's head started to pound something fierce.  He suddenly remembered walking home from high school, taking a short cut through the park, and sitting atop one of those wooden castles with the slides.  It was raining then too, but he didn't mind.  He just went ahead and sat and thought about everything and coming up with no real resolve.  It was all chaos.  It still is chaos.  He lit another cigarette that was useless after two drags, thanks to the rain.  Thanks to that bitch mother nature.

Was it raining when he left?  He tried to remember but couldn't.  He thinks it was drizzling lightly, and it turned into this fuck all of a downpour, but he wasn't quite sure.  He looked down the street and saw trees coming back to life.  Winter was over, spring was coming.  That was good, right?  No more freezing your balls off when you get out from under the covers, no more wearing 19 layers just to stay warm.  Then he started thinking about mowing the lawn, sweating, listening to everyone tell him how beautiful it was outside.  This made him want to puke, which made him want to go back to that old colonial and help their front walk to another serving of whatever his stomach had on the menu.  Isn't worth it, Tim thought to himself, and turned down another side street.

He realized he had no idea which street this was, and it was probably gonna be a long walk back home.  He told himself he didn't care, but he was miffed about that as well.

His eyes looked around, looking for some familiar house or landmark that would hint him as to where he was.  This was no help.  HE didn't turn around though.  Just went further down the rabbit hole of suburban anonymity.  House, house, house.  Street lamp, street lamp.  Car, van, truck, car.  He slowed his walk.  He was starting to feel dizzy.  He peeked into people's backyards and made up stories of fucked up families or Norman Rockwell's wet dreams.  Tim reached the end of the street and there was no turn.  It was a dead end.  He screamed fuck at the top of his lungs and threw a mini fit in the tradition of the 8 year old brat he once was.  Now he gets to be a 25 year old brat, spoiled and selfish.

Fuck this shit was the profound solution to this problem, and he resolved to cut through a couple backyards and get to the other side.  There were no cars in the driveway, so he felt confident that there would be no problems.  He spat on the house as he walked down the driveway and laughed as he did it.  His laugh was forced and dark.  In the backyard there was a treehouse.  I never had a treehouse growing up, he thought to himself bitterly.  Fuck this shit.  Again, that profound mantra made its way back into his head and he climbed up to the treehouse.

He made himself at home, relishing the shelter from the rain.  His head became clearer almost instantly. No more nausea, no more cropped up confusion in the cranium.  Just a nice easy feeling.  There was nothing in the treehouse aside from a kid's flashlight and a couple of GI Joe type action figures.  He sat there for a while, watching the world from his new vantage point and he felt at home, at ease.  He sat for another 15 minutes or so and then made a pillow out of his jacket, and lay down.  He gave his mind license to wander and his memory banks opened their vaults to a day when he was 16, walking to his friends house to do more or less nothing.  Just enjoy each others company.  Nothing really eventful happened, but the memory of his friend George and George's house was so close he could feel it. He started to hear George's voice drone on about some sarcastic rant with a fuck the world undertone when Tim started to doze.  He tried to stay awake, but then the mantra came back, and he rolled with it.  Sleep came quick and heavy.