The school week ends on Friday. This, the man, was well aware of. 

The grasses by the open road threshed as the man drove by them. Ladybugs cowered in the violent draft. A family of rollie-pollies coiled up as the tire singed the side of the road, well outside of the white paint. The earthworms felt the trembles despite being deep underground. All the roads were near empty. The kids were just beginning to make their way home; parents still tucked away in the office. 

That day the temperature approached one hundred degrees as the afternoon assumed its climax. In the distance, a sign came into view. The man squinted his eyes in the hazy heat. 

Oakridge 

Suburbia. He slowed down and cautioned his way into a turn, making sure not to over-angle his odd, bulky vehicle. The grasses sighed. 

The houses were near identical. White facade and an even number of windows. Shutters that weren’t functional of course, but complementary in color. A million replicas along the neighborhood drives. 

Every lawn was manicured brilliantly. So cleanly, that the sidewalk never introduced it’s tawny love to the verdance of the yards. The asphalt of the driveways were paved clean, too. Crackless. The man felt the air change each time he passed one. The blur of heat exuding from the asphalt’s adamant black. The curbs, the mailboxes, the roofing, the street signs, and hedges were all maintained crisply. Oakridge’s Homeowners Association did a fine job. 

Everything felt cubic. Edges creased, and corners sharp. Definitely no tire marks; curb nor street.

The man continued his drive. 

He turned right on Elm Drive. The grasses were too groomed and too erect this time to feel the van’s change in direction. The ladybugs? Well. 

Another straight quarter mile of near facsimiles. 

The man began to smile. In the distance, he  heard the screech and sighs of a school bus. A postal service truck ambled its way towards the man. As it passed on his left, the worker glanced his way for an instant. To his right, a woman stopped watering her mums then checked her pockets.

He grew closer to the next intersection.

He turned right on Baker Avenue. At the end of the street he could see the bright yellow of a school bus. The little red lights oscillating on the stop sign. He turned on his music. All, all too familiar. He had forgotten the lyrics like everyone else. Even the song forgot.

Only the melody sauntered. 

Humming, doo-doo-doo-dadee-dadee-dadee-doo…  

The tune of a different time. 

His smile grew as little dots entered his vision. As the dots grew, he made out the outlines of backpacks and new Nike shoes. Eventually, the pigtails of the little girls were identifiable. The extra sporadic dots were little boys. The big dots were obviously-

The parents. 

Soon, the big yellow school bus trundled its way to the intersection three STOP signs over. The man slowed down his white van and parked it at the intersection. He turned his music up and grinned. 

The dots jumped their way back into the sterilized boxes they called home. The big dots did the same but in a more torpid manner. He waited. Constantly looking for children that came close to the van. Waiting in the white van. 

No kids. The man’s smile began to fade. 

He waited. Waiting for some kids to come out and play. And play! He wanted them to play. Maybe they might wander to the music and the white van. Preying on the laughter and the heat. Yes, yes!

Wait! After a half an hour, no kids came out. 

The sheen of TV luminescence poached the curtains in a fog of light. 

Wait! The man’s smile was all but gone. 

He itched his scruffy beard.

He turned off the alluring music. Tune of a different time. Forgotten lyrics.

The long streets couldn’t have been more quiet. No kids. He could hear nothing but the whir of the van’s engine. So quiet. Perhaps the heat had a sound. 

After an hour or more he looked at his watch.

4:03

The man grabbed the keys and drove down the intersection. The heat was beginning to denouement. He turned.

Barn Street. The grasses didn’t move.

He turned

Church Avenue. The grasses didn’t move.

He turned

Washington Drive. The grasses didn’t move.

Ladybugs? 

None.

The man drove to the far exit of the suburban complex. The sprawling neighborhood white facades.

As the man reached the last row of houses, he began to slow down. Every now and again he would look around, yearning for a little dot to appear. He stopped at the edge of the neighborhood.

Gardenia Circle.

The trees by the main road rustled, conflicted as the midday heat and the evening cool clashed in an invisible dance. Every so often the rush of a car going fifty would disrupt the air. A frog croaked in the far distance. 

The man rubbed his eyes then wiped his face. He reached for a towel to clean his sweat-soaked hands. A strengthening cool breeze began to gnaw at the heat. The tango was unbalanced. The man stared at his rearview mirror and let his eyes glaze over. He listened as the cars rushed by on the main road. Glazed eyes.

“MISTER!”

The man jolted. A kid. He checked the time. 

6:58

“Oh, yes. Yes, what is it?” The man began to smile. He had found one. The man stared at the girl and smiled a big, toothy smile. “Come closer, I can’t hear you too well.” The man leaned closer. 

“One double fudge please.”

“Right away, my darling!”

He reached back into the old cooler and picked the best double fudge bar. The expiration date was from another decade.

He outstretched the bar, already melting in the remnants of the mellow evening fever. The little girl stared.

“You haven’t any money ain’t it?”

The kid nodded a disheartened nod.

“Take it. It’ll be a gift.” He smiled. 

She took it and ran off into a white facade house with a manicured lawn and a smooth black driveway. 

The man began to drive. Out the far entrance of the neighborhood. He made a sharp turn out onto the open roads. The grasses danced. The ladybugs by the road basked in the evening zephyr, the rollie-pollies did their pillbug things, and the earthworms capered to the vibrations of the ground.

The man turned on his music. That old tune with long forgotten lyrics.

Humming, doo-doo-doo-dadee-dadee-dadee-doo…  

The classic, metallic melody of summer.

He picked up his phone and dialed.

… … …

“We’re ripping the f*cking lawn out.” 

“Why?! What happened?!”

What happened, the man muttered under his breath. 

He drove on.