Act 2, Scene 5: "Fashion Victim"

TRL has taken to leaving the house with as few complicating actions as possible. This generally means walking out in gym shorts and a T-shirt, and most egregiously, in socks and sandals. He looks like a German tourist.

S has chastised him for this look. And he himself recognizes that sandals – in this case rubber-soled velcro-strapped Nevados he got at Costco for $15 – should never ever be worn with socks, in this case white athletic socks TRL bought in bulk recently from BJs. He knows he looks ridiculous, but it is the curious fact that he doesn’t care that bothers him most. TRL would never wear sandals in New York City, where he lived for 11 years. And while he did adapt to living in San Francisco by purchasing the sandals, he only wore them around the apartment, and then certainly without socks. But now, he goes out and greets the neighbors in his socks and sandals. And goes to the bank. And the coffee shop. TRL has decided that the part of his psyche that cares how his looks are perceived is on siesta in SB. Who is here that he cares what they think? And maybe, suspects TRL, the deeper truth is that nobody in town cares, anyway.

Act 2, Scene 4: "Water World"

The Apex Neverkink and the ReelSmart have let TRL down. The point at which these two items come together has opened up slightly, causing water to spray within the plastic housing and decreasing the pressure to the sprinkler. The lawn is thus denied the life-giving water it so desperately deserves, and a pool of water is forming under the ReelSmart. ReelDumb and Neverwork, says TRL. He is pissed, disappointed, heart-broken. This was the set-up that he fell in love with, the lawn gadget which was practical (keeping the hose neat and ordered when not in use) and wildly fun and empowering to use (viewing the hose suck back into its home was like watching a locomotive. Power and majesty fused with function). It now needs repair, if it can be fixed. It is too soon for this to happen. TRL hates these products. It’s an infatuation gone bad. The end of the honeymoon period. The lover in the morning, with the light shining in, is not who he thought she was. TRL wants his espresso maker dream back.

Act 2, Scene 3: "Product Porn"

Prior to moving to the burbs, TRL had a product porn fetish for an espresso maker. Not your run of the (coffee) mill Krups, but a serious Italian machine that would cost upwards of $700, probably more, would be high pressure for maximizing taste and crema production, would be aesthetically brilliant, something in-between the brassy old time machines and ultrapostmodern smooth metal and gleam. It would, in a word, be a perfect machine. Practical, beautiful, long-lasting and infinitely pleasurable to both use and gaze at.

And then something new entered his life. A present from N, the neighbor across the street. TRL took in his mail and fed his cats while his wife was having their baby in the hospital, and in return, to show his thanks, N gave TRL the Hydro-Industries ReelSmart automatic hose reel.

Now, the gift did not come out of the blue. N had noticed hoses sloppily snaked against TRL’s house, and they had discussed sprinklers and water pressure. Also, N had raved about his Hydro-Industries ReelSmart automatic hose reel, and TRL had admired it. Genuinely. Which was another sign to TRL that something was happening to his brain.

So when N presented him with his hose reel, TRL was genuinely excited. It is an engineering marvel. It is a plastic box, essentially, that gets attached to the water spigot. 100 feet of hose gets wound inside the plastic housing, and you simply pull out the hose when watering. That’s basic. The brilliant part is winding it back up. No hand cranks, no electric hookups. The ReelSmart runs on water pressure. You pull a lever and the water running through the hose is directed against a cylinder in the plastic housing to turn it, thus winding the hose up. TRL watches as the hose moves into the reel like a sleek snake slithering into its dugout. And just to make sure his set-up was top notch, TRL had sprung for a new hose, the “Apex Reflex Mesh self-straightening Power Coil collared Microshield antimicrobial-protected Neverkink”. One hundred feet of top-shelf deluxe hose. TRL now controlled the water. The lawn was his empire, his Neverkink and ReelSmart his finest tools of governing. Who controlled the water controlled the lawn. And who controlled the lawn controlled one’s life. Espresso maker out, lawn tools in.

Act 2, Scene 2: “Munchausen in Reverse”

TRL and S take C and E for their 18 month “wellness” checkup. A weigh-in, height check, and some vaccinations, essentially.

The nurse practioner declares the boys healthy engaged toddlers, except.

Except that while they grew an inch each since their last visit, their weight has not increased. And while she isn’t worried, she wants to see some poundage put on by the next visit in 6 weeks. She suggests putting lots of butter in food, feeding them rich cheeses and protein-packed peanut butter. It feels like she is a wrestling coach extolling calories to high school wrestlers needing to make a weight class.

Now, TRL is very emotional when it comes to his children, and he takes this goal to heart. It is his as well as theirs. It is Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy in Reverse.

So when they got home, the boys are placed in their highchairs for some snacks. And TRL has coffee ice cream.

Later that evening, after the boys finish their massive buffet dinner – pastas and strawberries and cheeses and broccoli and turkey and apples spread before them – TRL tucks into a bag of cheese doodles.

Every time he sees his boys around food, he stifles an urge to say “Eat, eat.” He has become his Jewish grandmother.

Act 2, Scene 1: “Smooth”

Over to Frank’s for a haircut. Ten minute wait. TRL thumbs through the crappy three month old magazines. US Weekly, the generic version of Cheese Doodles to People’s Cheetos. Poor, poor Jennifer. Bad, bad Jude. We are truly social creatures locked into our solitary bodies, otherwise why read this stuff at all, thinks TRL as he happily reads the stuff.

You’re next, beckons Frank.

He sits in the chair as Frank sweeps up. Frank then takes his position behind TRL with a razor.

I just took two Advil, didn’t sleep well last night, says Frank.

Oh, why? TRL politely inquires.

Too much going on inside, answers Frank, and he taps TRL on the side of the head.

I’m a headcase, he adds.

Oh, TRL replies, reminding himself not to nod his head as he is being shaved and also not to delve too deeply into the psyche of the man holding the blade.

Yeah, the doctor gave me an Ambien but said to use it only when I really need to. I take a half, puts me right out, great stuff.

Terrific.

Yeah, but last night I opened the window, and it was noisy. The highway is right under the bedroom and the cars were zooming all night. Usually I have the central air on, but it was cool out last night so I thought I’d open the window. Then I never got up to close it. Thought I would eventually fall asleep, you know? Never did. Short enough on the top?

TRL examines his head. Yup, looks good.

The sides OK?

TRL runs his hands over the sides of his head: smooth.

Perfect.

Good.

Frank puts down the electric razor and unfolds a stainless steel straight edge. He foams the back of TRL’s neck.

I just have too much going on sometimes, just can’t stop thinking, says Frank as he scraps over TRL’s skin.

TRL doesn’t reply. The person holding the straight edge deserves all of the attention.

Nice?

TRL looks in the mirror at Frank as he folds up the straight edge. Then he looks at his head, dragging a hand through the back. The short hair spikes against his palm, like a beaver or mink, imagines TRL.

Nice.

Take a lollipop, says Frank.

TRL reaches into the large plastic jar.

Raspberry is the best, announces Frank. It’s what the kids love. Makes their tongues purple.

TRL nods as he examines a chocolate one that would not do. He reaches back in.

I get these things for a dime a dozen.

Literally?

Each one maybe costs a penny. I buy them at BJs in the big bags. You can only get assorted though, so I called the company and asked if I could get just raspberry. They said sure, but I would have to pay up front. Cost me $300 dollars, but I got a box with thousands, all raspberry. It lasted for years.

Frank reaches into a shoe box near the cash register and from it tosses TRL a lollipop.

Here’s where I keep all the raspberries that are left.

TRL nods, unsheathes it and pops it into his mouth.

Frank pops one into his mouth.

They nod at each other.

Have a good day, Frank calls out as TRL heads for the door.

Act 1, Scene 12: “Creeping Pride”

TRL enters the garage to move over the stroller so he can pull in the car. He looks around and is oddly satisfied with its order. He had swept the floors and neatly stacked the newspapers, put the cans and glasses in a bin for recycling, set his bike against a wall and neatly ordered the gardening equipment gifted from the bank for opening a new account, the two brooms he had purchased (one wide one for covering a lot of space and one short-angled model for getting into corners) the rake (complimented as “nice” by the next door neighbor) and fluids – tiki torch oil, antifreeze, motor oil – inherited from the previous owners. The inflated baby pool hung neatly from a hook in the ceiling and the extra baby stroller and TRL’s mountain bike sat against a side wall. It wasn’t a beautiful garage – not gleaming white but instead was exposed wood – but it was more storage space than TRL had ever had and it was well ordered and dry. He moves the stroller over, takes another long and satisfied look around, and opens the garage door to walk to the car.

Three hours later TRL is checking store hours for Lowe’s on the Internet. Upon getting to the website, his heart immediately flutters with excitement. There is a picture of a very satisfied man standing in one outstanding garage: finished white walls, a painted white floor, handsome shelving hung against the walls, two gray sturdy-looking storage closets, a blue ladder – reminding TRL of hip designer eyeglasses in its style – hanging from the ceiling, some new plastic buckets and coolers sitting on a platform also hanging from the ceiling, a smart and space saving setup seeming levitating above the beauty of the clean and open space (no cars to mar this beauty!). Something in TRL had been stirred. He was excited, a Pavlovian response to the ultra clean and ordered garage depicted in the photo. He wanted one just like it. So he was about to click on the icon that said Great garages start with organization.

And then he yanked his hand from the mouse.

What the hell was he doing?

Who cared about garages? What a waste of time, he thought. It was like something was living inside him, growing, some suburban pride of place which had started its focus inside the home and now extended out to the garage, to the lawn and even the sidewalk in front of the house. What would be next? Joining a neighborhood association? Hosting block clean-up day? Running for town assembly?

He clicks out of the website before things get out of control.

Act 1, Scene 11: “Wasting Away In…”

TRL and S have received dozens of warm welcomes from fine services all around SB. Ten percent off any new rugs from Rugs! Rugs! Rugs! A free toilet evaluation from Bob’s Plumbing. Coupons for a back consultation at SB Chiropractory.

Their trees can be checked out for dry rot, fungal invasion, ant attack, dead branches and general unsightliness by OK Tree Pruning.

A lovely welcome gift is waiting for them at Nina’s Cards n’ Knickknacks.

They can rent a carpet cleaner for the new home owners discount price at the local Stop & Shop.

Today, TRL picked out a postcard from the usual collection of coupon mailers and bills.

Congratulations on your new home. Wow! Now for the party…

A party, of course, they had to have a party, thinks TRL. How socially awkward that they had not yet had a neighborhood party.

Just call the ‘Margarita Man’ and you’re ready for some fun.

TRL sure was. He flipped the card. There was the Margarita Man, or at least a lovely cartoon facsimile, smiling at him, serving up a big ole supersized margarita in a classy bowl glass, two straws (perfect for the husband and wife), lime garnish and a salt shaker. A Panama hat and red collared shirt with the sleeves cut off completed the promise of a margarita inspired vacation from the comfort of one’s own new home purchase.

TRL flipped the card again.

$150 rental includes machine, free cups, salt rimmer, and your first half-gallon of mix (makes 70 drinks).

Well, this is a keeper, thinks TRL. He could be the toast of the neighborhood. Or at least extremely fucked up in his own basement, a suburban tragedy shitting himself, bumping into walls, staying underground for days.

Or he could just buy the tequila, forgo the frozen ice machine, margarita mix and salt rimmer (this was something he felt was more appropriate at a bar in the Castro), and be his very own Tequila Man. Maybe he would surprise S with a Panama hat. The mail had finally delivered.

Act 2, Scene 10: “Fertilizer”

TRL walks back from N’s house. He is barefoot. The street pavement is warm. He steps back onto his side of the road, the grass scratchy. His next step brings him to the sidewalk and then back onto his lawn. He looks down and jumps to the side, narrowly missing a drying dog turd. The one he saw a week ago. The one he suspects was deposited by the Mayor’s dog Moe. Rat bastard dog. He vows to remember to keep an eye out for the two on their next walk.

Act 1, Scene 9: “Home Again?”

TRL is driving on Route 10, the main artery leading to the Big City. The highway bisects suburbia, spreading its suburban lifeline as it goes: Target, Wal-Mart, Super Stop & Shop, BJs, Home Depot, Lowe's, Barnes & Noble, Trader Joes, TGI Fridays, Relax the Back, Gymboree, endless car dealerships, the occasional old fashioned Roadstop Diner/Clam Shack/Softserve Ice Cream Shed. It is dusk, a black purple glow descends over the stop lights and asphalt. TRL fiddles with the radio dial, on his way to Lowe's to pick up a sprinkler. The lawn is dying in the heat. He stumbles on a Talking Heads song. "Once in a Lifetime." He turns up the volume. The beat pounds.

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack.
And you may find yourself living in another part of the world.

Yup, yup, thinks TRL.

And, you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile.

He looks over the hood of the Volvo station wagon.

And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife.

S did look nice this morning, remembers TRL. He nods and smiles.

And you may ask yourself: well, how did I get here?

Fuck, yeah.

… And you may ask yourself
What is that beautiful house?

A large mortgage and constant upkeep.

And you may ask yourself
Where does that highway go?

To Lowe's, says TRL as he makes a sharp right into the parking lot.

And you may ask yourself
Am I right, am I wrong?

TRL resolves to pick up beer after Lowe's.

And you may tell yourself
My god! What have I done?

And a big bottle of Jagermeister. You can take the boy out of college, but you can never take the college out of the boy.

He pulls into a parking spot and gets out of the car. The sky is now a velvety black tinged with shimmering purple. He breathes in the warm summer air. The sky sits over the huge parking lot and the surrounding land like a soothing blanket. They say you can’t go home again, and after living in cities for the past 15 years, it is probably that much harder, but TRL finds something comforting in the familiar summer warmth that feels like his suburban adolescence.

Act 1, Scene 8: “Rude Awakenings”

The Morning

TRL in bed. Sleeping.

6:10 am. Screaming. High, shrill. It is E.

6:12. Screaming.

Maybe it will stop.

6:15. Screaming. TRL looks over at S. She is sleeping. Or at least pretending she is sleeping.

6:16. Screaming stops.

6:16:20 Screaming starts.

S still looks like she is sleeping. How can that be?

6:20. Statute of limitations on baby going back to sleep is over. This was now a “situation.” One last glance at S: still sleeping. TRL rolls out of bed, tugs on his gym shorts and heads for C & E’s room.

6:21. E standing up in crib, the screams threatening to blow out the glass windows. TRL believes he is getting hearing damage from his children. Could this be some evolutionary development making us deaf to our teenager’s constant asking for the keys to the car and thus offering a modicum of protection against harm on the road? E immediately shifts into a glowing smile and giggle upon spying TRL enter the room. C rustles, springs up from the crib and lifts his arms, waiting to be lifted up and onto the floor. Off with the pajamas, dual diaper changes, on with the mini shorts and mini Ts.

6:30-10:00. Entertain boys, get them bowls of milk, Cheerios and bananas, ask them to stop screaming, wipe up the milk they spread on the floor, ask them to please stop spreading milk on the floor, get them more Cheerios, get them more bananas, get them more milk, greet S, fill the dishwasher and run it, fill the washing machine and run it, greet the bimonthly housecleaners and ask them to start upstairs, greet Nanny A, say goodbye to S, traffic manage the three house cleaners, the nanny and C & E, pay the housecleaners, help nanny bring C& E downstairs again, kill the spiders on the enclosed porch and Windex down the corners, kill the spiders on the garage door, take out the garbage, smile at nanny, say hi to C& E, grab a bowl, fill with Cheerios and milk, head upstairs to office, close door, start work.

10:05 am: The work day is just starting and TRL desperately needs a break.

Act 1, Scene 7: “Turbo Lawnmower”

TRL backs the Volvo T5 station wagon from the driveway. The T stands for turbo, which gives TRL a measure of denial that he is driving a Family Car. No longer the brute 8 cylinder hand-me-down black Lexus sedan that was traded in once the Lexus started needing significant repairs and TRL and S knew they were having a baby (though before they knew they were having twins). TRL can tell people he has a turbo car, and he can hammer down on the metal and feel a nice burst of power. But it is still a station wagon, afterall, and not even a German-made station wagon, at that.

Every time he backs out of the driveway, he runs over a strip of grass. The car is angled into the medium-sized garage, and somehow, in trying to avoid both the sides of the garage and the cement stair outcropping, the car ends up going over part of the front door walkway and a strip of grass edging the driveway. TRL flattens it every time. Today is no different.

TRL wonders if he is passively pissed at the grass because it is dying in the hot sun, and he is tired of watering it.

TRL wonders if he is repressed over having to pay Matt the local high school lawn boy $36 every ten days to keep the damn lawn manageable. Or the $600 cost for edging, weeding and mulching. TRL had never heard of “mulching” before moving out to SB, and now he could recite the six kinds of mulch available locally and why one was better than the other. And why one may want to put rocks under the mulch nearest the house. And create drainage paths. This was taking up space in TRL's brain.

So perhaps that is why he is running over the grass, he thinks.

He stops at the end of the driveway and gazes forward. Another patch of lawn flattened. He considers: maybe if he drove over the entire lawn he wouldn’t have to pay to have it cut.

Act 1, Scene 6: "Meeting a Neighbor"

TRL and wife S walk the perimeter of their backyard. TRL wears his loose gym shorts and ratty T. These used to be his gym wear, but they are now his hanging around the house wear.

They behold the freshly mowed lawn – TRL found a local high school kid to cut it – and the handsomely placed rocks landscaped by the former owners. They also behold the bugs.

Fucking mosquitoes, says TRL.

It’s the country, says S.

Fucking mosquitoes. He swats one on his arm.

There’s our neighbor. S points to a figure on the property abutting the back of their lawn.

Do we say hi? TRL asks.

Of course.

Really? Shouldn’t he say hi to us? We’re the new neighbors. Crap, he sees us.

The figure was walking over. A large doughy man. He came to the property line but did not seem inclined to step over. Perhaps there was some suburban etiquette TRL did not know about.

Hi, says S. We’re the new neighbors, S and TRL.

I’m P, the man says, and puts out his hand. TRL shakes it. It is soft and warm. Their hands meet across the border, very East Germany meeting West Germany over the fallen wall, thinks TRL.

A hornet starts buzzing around TRL. Fucking bugs, he exclaims, and waves his hand to shoo it away.

Ahhh, it went up my shorts, screams TRL. He immediately fears for his private parts. He starts dancing like a crazed chicken. His brain conjures up an image of his genitals receiving multiple stings in the close quarters. It is too much. He begins to pull down his shorts, knowing that pulling off his pants and standing in his underwear may not be optimal 'greet the neighbors and make a first impression' situation but this was an emergency.

It’s out, it’s out, S hastily repeats, putting her hand on his shoulders to stop him from doing what she knew he was about to do.

TRL stops moving and then looks down his pants. No hornet. He turns back to the neighbor.

Bugs, he says. P nods. He looks at TRL like he was a bug.

Act 1, Scene 5: "Friday Night: A Babysitter!"

S arranges for a babysitter. The first sitter in the new home. Friday night out. P-a-r-t-y.

The baby sitter arrives, B, a super hotty college sophomore at SU. The boys are put to bed and the grownups are gone.

First, though, TRL reviews the safety issues.

The fire extinguisher is at the foot of the stairs, right in front of the guest room, TRL explains. It is still in its box, but he figures having it out is better than tucked away in a closet.

Here is a sheet with the emergency numbers. Here’s my cell phone number. Call it with any questions. If I don’t answer, call S’s cell phone.

B nods, her faced studied seriousness.

If there is an emergency, call 911.

TRL points to “Emergency 911” typed onto the contact sheet. He had put it in bold.

B nods. TRL knows that she thinks he is an overprotective neurotic. He doesn’t necessarily disagree.

Here is the poison control emergency number. TRL moves his finger down.

TRL, let’s go, says S.

They begin to walk to the door.

We don’t know anybody here, we have no friends, so no one will be visiting, says TRL. Don’t let anybody in.

B nods, a bit more warily.

You’re not expecting friends?

No, says B.

TRL smiles. Bye.

We’ll be back by 11, says S.

Time for fun. They are on their way to dinner out, a restaurant suggested by a work colleague of S’s.

Down Route 10, a cell phone call to check on TRL’s dad’s kidney stones, looking out for the sign saying Shoppers World. This is where the restaurant is situated. Normally, as in another lifetime, this would have been the cause of derision by TRL, but now he is just happy to be out of the house on an adult outing.

They pull into the shopping complex, pass Barnes & Noble, Sports Authority, Marshals, Bennigan’s, Old Navy. TRL knows he should care about this, find this repulsive and ridiculous. He used to call Soho his backyard. He thought the East Village had gone commercial, the West Village was filling with yuppies. The prospect of a mall dinner would have been unthinkable. And yet, here he was, and oddly happy. Like being stuck by a mosquito which squirts numbing agent into the skin before it starts to suck, TRL was anesthetized to his plight. Or, he thought, maybe his pain threshold had just moved.

There it is, S calls out excitedly. TRL turns to her and smiles. They were in this together. He pulls into the parking spot. Dinner time.

Act 1, Scene 4: "The Haircut"

TRL needs a haircut. Badly. Most of the world would not necessarily see this, as TRL is hair challenged, follicle destimulatd. He is fine with this. Over the monoxadil, over the scalp rubbing to increase blood flow, definitely over the dermatologist injections of some growth factor directly into his scalp. Because it just doesn’t matter. He is one handsome devil, with or without hair, tall and sinewy, lovely to behold. And he has already landed the beautiful wife, so what’s the point of hair? There are hats to provide warmth in the winter, and hats to provide shade in the summer. That rest is all savings on shampoo.

But a good haircut he still needs. To clean things up, to make him look his best. So he can feel fast and sleek, like a dolphin speeding through the water. TRL paid $8 in the West Village, and it took 8 minutes. The Russian cutting his hair said hi and bye and TRL liked that. In San Francisco’s Castro it cost $35 and took 20 minutes. A good haircut but too much chit chat with D, his gay hair guy. A short stint in Boston cost $30 for a fine haircut on Newberry Street. But too many old people and R the hairdresser, a 40-something aging hotty, definitely asked too many questions. A haircut, TRL believes, is quiet time, reflective time, a massage for the head and hair and mind. Lose lips sink a positive experience.

Well, in TRL’s suburban town, there was the thankful absence of Short Cuts or Super Cuts or Shear Delight or any other annoying franchise where everybody was cheery and had cutesy fake names and was trying to lure you into higher priced add-on hair treatments. In ST, there was Bob’s Haircuts and Frank’s Haircuts. They were across from each other on the rotary, both one-man shops. TRL walks to Bob’s. Very Norman Rockwell. Barber Shop pole and American flag outside, 30 year-old photos of clients inside. Bob is cheerful and tall and skinny, sports a pomaded hairstyle, has a scissor in his hand and is slicing hair from a 20-something. But the thing is, it’s already looking like a bad haircut, and the 20-something is still smiling. TRL smiles and backs out. Over to Frank’s.

Frank is cutting the hair of a four-year old. And there are ten thousand photos of haircuted kids on the wall.

You do adults? TRL inquires.

Sure, why wouldn’t you think so? Frank replies. He is short, close-cropped blondish hair, a half smile and weird energy, a kind of manic pixy with scissors, a dangerous combination.

How much?

Thirty bucks.

Thirty bucks? TRL asks. This is ST, afterall.

Hah hah hah. Just kidding. Fourteen bucks.

OK.

TRL sits and thumbs a People. The haircut experience begins.

Five minutes later: ready.

TRL looks up. The four year old is finished, sucking on a lollipop and half way out the door with his mom. TRL steps up.

How short?

Short.

What number do you usually use? Frank asks. He was asking about the length of the razor.
One and quarter on the sides, a bit longer on the top, TRL replies, an experienced hand at these things.

Well, blade number doesn’t mean anything, every model is different, Frank replies. He then raises a heavy black razor, something that looks more like a sheep shearer than one to be used to sculpt the head of a human.

This here is the Wahl Pro 8500x, the best one on the market. I blow through one of these a year.

TRL nods appreciatively. Always agree with the man holding the razor.

Frank bears down on TRL’s scalp.

I’ve been doing this for 45 years.

TRL restrains himself from nodding, least he create a reverse mohawk. Oh, he replies.

Yup, been in the same place for 45 years. I love it. I started out cutting hair, then went into the Army. I was an Army barber.

Excellent, TRL replies. And he meant it. His short haircut style was quasi-army issue, just the way he liked it, sort of NYC sleek gym-handsome-athletic guy meets strong and steely Army Ranger, as TRL liked to think of it, and here was a professional doing the job. Made him feel like Treat Williams in the movie Hair.

I’m now the official barber of the Massachusetts State Troopers. I cut all of the new recruits’ hair.

TRL is even more impressed, and feeling privileged. How long does that take?

A full day. I get there in the morning, cut hair, sleep over, then in the morning I get a police escort home on the highway so I can get here in time to open up. Four times a year. Everybody gets the same haircut. Short. Frank laughs.

Even the women?No, they get shoulder length. It doesn’t make any sense to me. They should get the same haircut as the guys. I don’t know how to cut women’s hair. Some of the guys try and tell me how they want their hair cut, but then a sergeant makes them drop and do push ups. They aren’t supposed to talk to me. They get one style. Short. But then once they’re back in the seat their heads are all sweaty and it makes giving them a haircut difficult, so I spoke to the commander, I didn’t say any names of sergeants, just that I couldn’t cut with the heads sweaty. So no more push ups. They are just told not to talk, to get their haircut.

Frank whips the plastic gown off of TRL. Finished.
The fastest haircut TRL ever got, and he didn’t even realize it was being cut. He looks in the mirror. Perfect.

Thanks, Frank.

Should he tip, he wonders as he gets out his wallet. You’re not supposed to tip owners. But he looks at the check left by the four year-old’s mom and it’s for $15. So he hands Frank a ten and a five. Thanks.

My pleasure. Come back.

Oh, I will, TRL says, and heads out the door while rubbing his hand up the back of his head, the thrill of feeling the short hair stimulate his scalp one of life’s supreme pleasures.

Act 1, Scene 3: "Kill thy Neighbor?"

TRL sits at kitchen table, computer open. C & E run back and forth under his feet, under the kitchen table, out to the dining room and around the dining room table. They are self motivating, for now, no crying, no fighting, no reaching out to be held or read to. TRL grabs the time to check his email.

And an ugly ass car pulls up in front. A Dodge Magnum stationwagon. This is a car that one would find in cartoons, most notably Who Framed Roger Rabbit? It is a cartoon/undertaker hybrid and while it looks different and interesting, it works best as a concept rather than an actual mode of transportation. And it definitely doesn’t fit into the quiet Volvo/Honda-ish neighborhood.

Out of it walks a cartoon figure, a platinum blonde guy in turquoise shirt and beige slacks. This is all wrong. He is carrying a clip board. Could this be the potential new neighbor? He makes a bee line for the house for sale, and TRL knows today is the house inspection day.

Fuck.

Someone who drives a Dodge Magnum would be more likely to play music loud in the backyard. To host wild parties filled with dumb asses. To paint the house the wrong colors and festoon the yard with Hummels or lawn jockeys or whatever tacky people slap onto their grass. This does not bode well for TRL’s sense of equilibrium. He dials his wife.

We’ve got a problem.

Are the kids all right, S asks slightly panicked.

The kids? Oh, they’re fine. Running around. Well, E did have a melt down and hardly napped, so I had to watch him while C napped, and that sucked.

What’s the problem, S asks. A hint of impatience.

The new neighbor. He may drive a Dodge Magnum.

And?

A Dodge Magnum. They name a car after an extra large condom and an extremely large gun and you’re not worried? What kind of male do you think this car attracts? A guy with a little penis who needs to bark loud. He’ll upset the neighborhood.

How do you even know it’s the new neighbor?

TRL repositions himself at the window to get a better view.

It’s either this guy or the stocky guy now with him. That guy looks like a frat boy who never left the frat house. The kind of guy who buys kid's slip and slides, sets it up in the backyard, drinks beer and does belly slides all weekend. This is not good.

TRL, take a breath and watch the kids. I’ve got a meeting.

Aren’t you worried?

I’ve got to go now.

When are you coming home?

Around 6.

OK.

Bye.

Bye. Wait, they’re both walking around the house now.

Bye.

S hangs up. TRL watches intently. C and E clatter in, throwing toy trucks.

Fuck. This new neighbor could be a big problem.

Act 1, Scene 2: "Lawn Leavings"

Characters in today’s installment:

TRL: twisted, angry, ex-city dwelling writer now father to 17 month-old twin boys, quasi house husband

S: infinitely patient and usually understanding working wife

C&E: the next generation 17 month olds, aka C&E Screaming Factory

N: The Neighbor Across the Street, neurotic Jewish architect turned web designer working out of his house.

Et al: Various other supporting players.

And, action:

TRL walks across the street to N&S’s house. N is in his bathrobe in the driveway, talking to man with Xterminex written on his coveralls. There is a van with a giant cockroach gripping the roof.

Hey.

Hey replies N.

Which Chinese restaurant did you say sucks?

Mandarin China.

Bad?

Terrible.

It is bad, it’s on our list, says Xterminex man.

Your list? Asks TRL.

We have a short list and a long list. The short list is for standard pest control. The long list is places with major cockroach infestations. We only eat at places on the short list.

Seems like a good policy, says TRL. We just ordered from Three Gorges. Which list is that on?

Xterminex man pauses. It’s not on our list. Not our client.

I’d like to get hold of your lists, and other exterminator companies’ lists. It sounds better than Zagats.

TRL turns to N. You look like a mobster.

Huh?

The bathrobe?

I’m too skinny and Jewish to be a mobster.

Only mobsters and crazy old ladies where bathrobes outside.

Mobsters?

Like the Sopranos.

Quizzical look. I was sleeping. And then the doorbell rang. I’m sure I’ll see you in your bathrobe outside.

I don’t own a bathrobe.

No bathrobe?

I don’t like them. I’ll be naked.

TRL turns and leaves. He sees a dog turd on his lawn. He suspects the Mayor has not supervised his pooch appropriately. Something worth keeping an eye on.

Vol 1, Act 1, Scene 1: "Ripe Berries"

The first week, TRL sits in his new office/fourth bedroom overlooking lovely backyard with its swingset and view into neighbors’ backyards and also another window facing onto street. It is early summer. The kids are out for the walk with the nanny. Door bell rings, a foreign sound to TRL. It takes a few seconds for him to figure out just what it is. He is angry at the interruption and thrilled at the possibility of company. He bounds down the stairs and to the front door, slows, and casually opens door. It is C, [sexy spin class instructor from down the street]. She smiles, a rosy sweet smile, and offers a bowl of fresh strawberries.

I’m C, from down the street. Welcome to the neighbor.

Ah, thank you, TRL stammers and takes the bowl.

The berries are from the farm up the street.

O, wonderful, thank you, nice. He recovers his decorum. Would you like to come in?

C enters and with the front door closed behind her, it is immediately darker in the hallway.

Why don’t I put this bowl of berries on the floor, you take off that tight little Abercrombie and Fitch T you are sporting, and you can eat those berries like a hog going after truffles?

TRL thinks.

It’s nice in here. It looks less cluttered than when The Ds lived here.

We haven’t really unpacked yet.

It takes awhile. It’s nice to have you in the neighborhood. P said your wife works at FNT in marketing?

Yes, that’s right. I’m a writer, a journalist, I work from home.

R, my husband, he is an engineer, for IBM.

Ahh.

He’s off running a triathlon in Alaska next week, I’m going to have some ladies over from the neighborhood for cocktails. I’ll drop S a note.

Terrific.

Well, got to go. The kids are due back from daycare soon.

No stay, I’ll give you something much sweeter than these strawberries. Let me show you around the house. Let me show you the bedroom. Perhaps some cream for those sweet, sweet berries?

Thank you for stopping by, TRL responds.

Door is opened.

And thank you so much for the strawberries.

C waves and walks down stairs. TRL watches her ass. Finally closes door and goes to the refrigerator, a 25 cubic inch Amana Big Boy, for a Red Bull to provide stimulation.

Scene/Characters

The Scene:
Suburban enclave, somewhere outside Large East Coast City.

Character:
TRL, twisted, angry, ex-city dwelling writer now father to 17 month-old twin boys, quasi house husband, domestic to infinitely patient and usually understanding working wife S.

Supporting Characters:
Anyone that wanders into his constantly searching zone of distraction, including:

The Neighbor Across the Street, N and S. S is nine months pregnant and a shiksa goddess super hotty, N is neurotic Jew architect turned web designer working out of his house. They have an espresso maker and 3000 disc DVD collection, so they are Very Important Neighbors.

The All American Neighbors Down the Block, R & C. R went to Notre Dame, works somewhere respectable and he runs triathlons. He is everyone’s dream of the All American Guy. C is a hotty who hosts neighborhood cocktail parties for the ladies and teaches a spin class at the Y when not watching over their two girls, 4 and 6. They are having a neighborhood bbq in August. They have an immaculately landscaped lawn, a beautifully apportioned Salt Box style house and an American flag hanging from the garage.

The Other Neighbors Down the Block, A + D. A is a Lexus SUV-driving sales manager for a lawncare company, D is a stay-at-home mom. A golfs, D shuttles the kids around. They are your Every Couple. They have two kids and an awesome backyard playground. We’re talking professionally-designed playground spread with two slides, a swing and jungle jim complex, a magic miniature play house, a ride-on tractor, and comfortable bench seating for adults. This is the Sub Zero/Wolf range quality playset, which was built in lieu of a redone kitchen, D has explained. They came to the neighborhood early, bought low, and are now sitting on a major gain should they sell their house. Of course, unless they move to the Midwest or upstate New York, they have nowhere to go for cheaper housing.

The Self-proclaimed Mayor, L, and his dog Curly: Longest living resident of the neighbor, this ex-high school coach makes the evening rounds of the block with his dog Curly, a scruffy, low riding solidly built mutt not physically unlike his master.

New Neighbor: house next door was just sold, awaiting signs of new neighbors. Worried that they might play loud music and disrupt pristine quiet of writer.

The Nannies: charged with summer oversight of C&E, E is a college junior, and M is a willowy college graduate on her way to an international relations program.

Introduction

We arrived in suburbia, ants as big as lobsters crawling up our front porch, neighbors bearing chocolate chip cookies and freshly picked berries, a smoking oil burner and absolute darkness on the street once the sun set. There are no bars to walk to, no cafes to pop into, no boulevards on which to stroll. If you want to get there, get in the car. We are masters of our own domain, no longer tethered to a landlord, though we are at the mercy of a host of service people: car mechanics, plumbers, electricians, handymen, oil deliverymen, tree pruners, exterminators, garbage collectors. And the list continually expands. There is the House, our shelter, our beehive of activity, and there is the outside: actual beehives, and hornets, mosquitoes, spiders, ticks and other creatures of nature. It is like we live in a very elaborate camp grounds. We have locks on the doors to keep out animals and men, but is that enough? There are so many doors now, and windows. Our life has changed. We just don’t know where these changes will lead.