What is going on? What is this place?
The End Zone sign was dingy and white, with faded black letters in a pointy, slanted font. The E and the Z had extra angles coming off their corners, as if they’d just skidded into place.
THE END ZONE BY LAURA ROSE DILLON 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 58
I never planned to move to the suburbs. Even after I met Eric and we got married, I had no impulse to give in, the way so many of my friends had, to the lure of some lush backyard in Westchester or spacious kitchen in Connecticut. Those extra bedrooms in Long Island—they’d be great for the kids we might someday have, but I was in no hurry to leave the city.
I liked its high frequency. I belonged with the artists, the hustlers, the insomniacs. The ironists and walking contradictions. The people who woke up in the morning with no idea of who they’d be by sunset. I wasn’t one of them, exactly—I was a full-time waitress with no grand plans or side gigs, and my days all looked the same. Still, I wanted to be close to all that striving. I thought it might lead me somewhere.
Then the pharmaceutical company Eric worked for offered him a promotion at their branch outside Hartford. We rented a car and drove down there one weekend to look around. It was so quiet. And there was all this space. I started to understand what my friends had been talking about.
When Eric and I got back to Manhattan our favorite bars suddenly seemed too loud, our apartment too small, our lattes too expensive. We became very aware of the fact that we were both pushing thirty. The question of offspring started to loom.
We moved in September to a 1960s split-level half an hour from Eric’s new office. The house was shiplapped and painted sage, with an actual white picket fence. Rhododendrons bloomed along the walkway.
I wasn’t looking forward to waitressing again. Eric’s move had come with a raise, so I took it as an opportunity to slow down for a while and figure out what I really wanted to do with my life. Plus there was plenty of work to do around the house. Someone had to be around during the day to receive packages and deal with repairs and installations. Buy furniture and bedding and towels. Organize the bookshelves.
I spent two weeks drunk on domestic decisions. Which internet provider should we choose? What color should we paint the dining room? Are throw pillows really necessary? Should we get the kitchen renovated before we fill the cupboards, or wait until later, after we’re more settled, and risk never doing it at all?
By the end of the day I felt strung out. All I could do was slump on the couch with Eric and watch Netflix until my eyes glazed over.
Sunday evening we were doing just that, when I glanced out the window and saw two women jog down the sidewalk in front of our house. Their sherbet-hued spandex caught the waning light of the evening and seemed to glow.
I saw my future self, buoyant and restored. Of course, I thought. I could take up running again. It wouldn’t be that hard. I’d been on the track team in college. And I could use the exercise. It wasn’t a dream vocation, or even a job, but maybe it would lead me toward more meaningful pursuits.
The next morning, after Eric left for work, I searched online for the nearest sports supply store. I’d have gone out for a run right then and there, but I had to have the right shoes.
There was a place called the End Zone in a strip mall a few towns over, next to a Walmart, a Home Depot, a Chinese buffet, and a discount party supply store called Party Central. An easy 17-minute drive down the highway.
On my way out to the car I saw our neighbor across the fence. I couldn’t remember his name. Eric and I had met him the day we moved in. He was in his forties, wore lots of North Face, and had a wife and two kids. He and his wife used to live in New York, too, before the kids were born. His wife wore red lipstick and nodded a lot. I couldn’t remember her name either.
“Morning, Liz!” he called out, raising a coffee mug toward me. I remembered it then. Almost. Jim. Lee. Brad. Something like that.
No. It slipped away.
“Morning,” I replied.
I got in my new sky-blue Prius. I’d never driven a hybrid before and I was still getting used to it. I kept panicking at stoplights when the engine went quiet.
And it unnerved me to start the car with a button instead of a key. It should have been simple, but it wasn’t. I’d figured out that I needed to step on the brake with exactly the right amount of pressure for exactly the right length of time, and then count one-two-three—like a ballroom dance instructor—as I pressed and released the button. And then I had to add a little flourish as I let go of it, sort of wave my hand toward the roof of the car. The whole thing seemed so silly. But if I messed up any part of it the dashboard lights would flash and the car would make these beeping and clicking noises as if I’d destroyed the engine.
This morning I started the car easily. I seemed to be getting the hang of it.
I stopped at the Starbucks near the on-ramp to get a latte. When the barista handed it to me her eyes lingered on mine, dark and searching, lashes heavy with mascara. She smiled. “Have a great day,” she said.
There wasn’t much traffic. I passed strip malls, chain restaurants, and gas stations. A Salvation Army with a drive-through donation slot. A furniture warehouse. A multiplex movie theater.
The parking lot wasn’t crowded. Most of the cars were clustered in front of the Walmart. I parked there too, and walked down to the End Zone. It was, fittingly, at the end of the row, next to Great King Palace—the Chinese buffet—which looked like it had been closed for some time. Its windows were lined with long sheets of brown paper. A handwritten sign on the front door read: Thank you for your business!
The End Zone sign was dingy and white, with faded black letters in a pointy, slanted font. The E and the Z had extra angles coming off their corners, as if they’d just skidded into place.