text: Sterling City. There's no place like home. Well, it's not like you actually lived in the city. It's simply the mistress that you keep on the side, visiting her late into the night on the weekends. Your true home lies on the outskirts. Sterling Suburbs. She's a safe place to hang your head, not like bipolar Sterling. Sure, she doesn't offer much excitement, but you'll take breathing over excitement any day. Calm, collected, safe: she's nothing like her erratic sister.
  
  Another day, another carpool line. Like lambs let to the slaughter, minivans, SUVs, and the occasional nine-seater organize themselves neatly in a row. They know the drill. You know the drill. No cutting or you'll be cut! Literally! Your head rests comfortably on the palm of your hand, supported by the car door. Unlike these sheep, you drive classic American muscle. An old black Challenger, its paint starting to wear thin. She purrs though. She purrs real good.
  
  An adult volunteer waves you forward, her reflective vest, short blonde hair, and no-nonsense attitude the very embodiment of PTA. The Challenger roars forward, drawing more than a few stares from nearby parents. They should be used to it by now. Ever since Beth got a job working the front desk at Dr. Hallsburry office, picking up the lil' rascals has been your responsibility. As you pull forward, the PTA lady tightens her lips together. You throw her a salute like the way a commanding officer would treat a new recruit. She doesn't return the gesture.
  
  A few aliens, zombies, and ghosts pour from the school building. Perhaps it's time to hold off on the drinking, bud. No, it's Halloween and the kids are all dressed up. You tenderly pat the pocket flask resting at your hip. Shh no, baby. I wouldn't toss you out. You're safe here with me. The passenger seat door swings open, and two martians climb into the back seat.
  
  "Hi, Daddy," children's voices ring from underneath two sets of alien eyes.
  
  "Hey there, kiddos," you answer, glancing at them in the rear-view mirror. Liz, a nine year old with the attitude of a teenager. Barry, seven, who rarely speaks more than that many words in a day. After his "Hi, Daddy," he's only got five more today. Please can I watch TV? might fill the balance once you're home. I don't know, can you?
  
  After another painful twist of the carpool line knife, you finally make it from the parking lot onto the road. What's the expression? Out of the frying pan, stuck in rush hour traffic? Whether that's the saying or not, you find yourself out of the frying pan, stuck in rush hour traffic, painfully guiding the Challenger up to a whopping 5 MPH before having to slam on the brakes again. Stop and go, baby. Stop and go. Eventually, approximately thirty-five minutes later, you find your home in a neighborhood filled with picture-perfect copies of the same one you live in, but not before passing a few SLOW DOWN, KIDS AT PLAY signs.
  
  Your neighbor, Gary, waves as you pull in, spraying down his flower beds with one thumb on the hose for increased pressure, a stub of a cigarette in the corner of his lips. Welcome to the good ol' fuckin' suburbs.
  
  > Grumpy Gary
  Clean and orderly, clean and orderly, clean and orderly, clean an...
  
  The alarm goes off at 6:00, the only one set for the morning. No snoozing allowed. Gary wills his body awake and feels a few more aches than he did yesterday. That's not a good sign. Sure as shit, that's not. After a couple cups of coffee, two K-pods exactly, he's feeling as fresh as a rose...or is it daisy? Roses have their thorns. Gary has, well, no sort of built-in defense mechanism unless you count his personality and short temper. Come on, wrap your hand around my stem, I dare ya!
  
  By 6:25, he's already grabbed the morning paper from the driveway. Damn paper route kids can't throw worth shit. Half of the time the paper ends up in his bushes. Once upon a time, there was Sandy. Now there was a real paper route expert. She always made sure it'd arrive nicely packaged on his front doorstep. His doorstep, not the driveway like a prison guard sliding a tray of food underneath the cell door. Whatever happened to Sandy? Went missing a few years back. Damn. Gary misses her almost as much as her parents do. They never did find her body.
  
  In his old age, there's nothing pressing to do. No job to get him out of the house, no wife to drag him to meet with other couples. The kids are off doing their own thing, content to keep Gary out of their lives. It's just Gary and his carton of cigarettes. Damn things will kill ya. But they taste so sweet. It's Autumn now. The hopefulness of spring, replaced with the joy of summer, and now this, a visual reminder of approaching death, the deterioration of one's life.
  
  Worse yet, tonight's the night all the children of the neighborhood will ceaselessly knock on his door expecting him to Ooo and Ahh over their plastic masks and poorly constructed costumes, things like fake boots stitched into pants and obviously fake super hero abs. If that's not enough, they'll hold their dirty palms up for candy, fully demanding of him. It may be posed like a question, but it's sure as shit not!
  
  Gary didn't realize today fell on a holiday when he marked his calendar months ago. Lung cancer isn't a fun way to go. Is there even a "fun" way? Just preferences, like playing a sick game of "would you rather?" He is, in a way. It doesn't make sense to wait for the sickness to win. Better to make his own move.
  
  > Classics never go out of style
  Good ol' classics, baby. Some things never go out of style like AC-DC, Converse sneakers, or, in this case, a piece of rope slung over the attic rafters. Today's the day. The calendar says so, and Gary doesn't stray from his spiral-ruled god. His kids wouldn't care -- they don't care. That was clearly shown through their no-show with Dr. Hallsburry. Truthfully, Gary was glad they didn't hear the result of his tests. It's much easier this way.
  
  The front yard watered, Gary takes a full pack of Marlboros, Menthol. It's not his usual flavor, but this is a special occasion. Might as well live a little and try something new. Ha. Smokes in the breast pocket of his flannel, Gary makes a quick stop in the garage before heading upstairs. Rope, check. Sturdy chair, check. Solidly built rafters, check.
  
  It wouldn't be hard to find his body. The attic door is one of those ceiling trap doors with a lowering ladder. Along the way, Gary rips open the pack of smokes and lights one up, leaving behind a trail of plastic and a used match. He takes two puffs, snuffs it out on a wall, then lights another. Rinse and repeat. Puff, puff, pass, motherfucker!
  
  The best part of any smoke are the first two drags. Everyone knows that. It's not Gary's style to waste. He's typically the one to carry physical coupons in his pocket and finish the water in his cup when eating out. Where he's going, there's no need to ration. Use it or lose it, buddy!
  
  Cigarette in the corner of his mouth, a steady supply in his pocket, rope slung over one shoulder, Gary climbs the ladder into the attic.