The Suburbs...

When we moved into the suburbs, I found myself in an upper middle class community, with baggy jeans and greasy hair. Until then, I lived in a small cockroach filled apartment, sharing a room with one of my siblings. The oldest one got her own space, and my parents rested on a fold out couch in the living room. The stores there were filling with Blacks, Arabs and White immigrants. My family was amongst the latter, but regardless of where I went, I never felt as though I was out of place. Life was admittedly simple, without the concerns of any form of hierarchy, and the general structure of the community made everyone seem as though they are a part of the mix.

In the suburbs, suddenly the grass was green and crude metal fences didn't segregate each tiny plot of land. No longer did barking dogs alert the houses of car thieves and bbq buglers. The new door remained unlocked through the night and I was assured that my bicycle would remain where I left it. There was something lacking, however, and that was a sense of variety and acceptance. Suddenly I was another white student in a white neighborhood. The corner store was an extra half mile away, and it wasn't run by a grumpy Arab who stood behind the counter smoking a cigar.

I tried to hold on to my character that emerged from the city, but as time progressed, I gave up my baggy pants, put on a collared shirt and kept my hair simple. There was no fighting it anymore. My life wasn't difficult, and there was no reason for me to pretend that it was. I tried my hardest to stay in contact with those from my past, but perhaps to them the khaki's made me different. Finding myself among a group of friends that all had to work in High School, I hoped that my family's lack of wealth would not be a barrier, and it wasn't. The problem instead was that I didn't see the need for fancy cars, and was hell bent on getting to college regardless of the cost. While they feared being looked down upon, I feared coming off as though I was arrogant.

It wasn't until I met "her" that I found someone who could understand me. She was a strong and independent woman, that knew the meaning of having to work hard. Nothing was handed to her and she took pride in that, but was not above admitting when the situation was beyond her control. There was something familiar in that, and while my parents let me get away without having a job while in High School, my spending were kept simple and on a need basis.

Her neighborhood seemed even more familiar to me. The houses looked into each others windows, and night dwellers would sing drunken songs in their back yard. Trash and glass littered the near by parking lots, and no longer did my ten year old car seem outdated. Exhaust and burnt oil scented the air, and the busy mile road sang out in a choir of engines and horns. This place was alive, and I loved every minute of it. At night the roads rested under the glow of yellow street lamps, and accompanied by electronic melodies pulsing out of my car stereo. This all made returning into the dark suburbs unappealing.

The highway was my release. To prepare myself for returning into the mundane life surrounded by arrogance, the highway let me be reckless. As the speedometer would push its limits, blood would rush through out my body. The loud music would force the pedal further down until the vehicle would cut the throttle at a hundred and six miles per hour. By the end of the drive home I was spent and ready to go to bed.

However, before I could reach the highway I had to turn under the mile road, which passed over top of the highway business drive. Two sets of lights divided the north and south bound roads, and the overpass created a shelter for those lacking. Red lights provided a perfect opportunity for the homeless to shoot pathetic looks at unsuspecting motorists. It seemed like the prefect con, and I refused to fall for it. Unfortunately, just like any strong emotion, pity sneaks up without a warning. Each time I stopped for traffic, I found myself more and more daring. Eventually my window was down and I emptied bills from my wallet to the same man.

Once this fear was broken, I became intrigued. More than anything I wanted to learn all there was about this man. Bills were later stashed in my visor, in anticipation of our run ins. The next time I drove by, I extended my hand and shook his firmly. His fingers were callused from life, and he seemed as surprised by the gesture as I was. Looking into his eyes, I realized that I was no better then he was, and in fact I felt dwarfed by his strength. I wanted to give up my khakis and buttoned shirt and return to my life of baggy jeans and greasy hair.

"Milton", he said to me, the night I was bold enough to inquire his name. Backed up traffic rang impatiently as I stood still through the green light and lingered longer at the red. He walked away to impress himself upon those behind me, while I stared at him through my dirt stained side view mirror. Awed by his ability to smile and laugh at his situation, it made me realize that I was no longer giving him money out of pity, but rather in return for the cheer he brought to my nightly commute.

I found myself bringing him up in daily conversations, in an attempt to figure out why I was drawn to this alternate style friendship. Many often told me that I was fooling myself to think that this was more than me giving my money to a man that refused to do something with himself. After each conversation, I would stop and reconsider my involvement, and feel a little disappointed to think that they were probably right. Without fail, however, Milton would always greet me from a distance with a familiar wave, and renounced my doubts.

"So what is it that you're going to miss about ... Milton?" Her words were suggestive, as though she knew I missed her. Tapping on the step she was sitting on, I was signaled to met her there. Using my lap as a pillow, she stretched herself along the stairs and stared at the sky. Out of sheer reaction and routine, I wrapped my arm around her torso and ran my other hand through her hair. It was familiar and comforting in some sense. Her big eyes met mine and reminded me of the hanging thought.