‘The Man Erased by Suburbia’

Nicole Farnsley is a photographer and art director from Louisville, KY. She is pursuing a BFA in communication design from Washington University in St. Louis. Her work has been featured in various publications, including Armour Magazine and Strike St. Louis. You can see more of her work on Instagram @nickeltookit or on her website nicolefarnsley.com.

The Man Erased by Suburbia

There’s a man who used to live in the suburbs. One of those places with perfectly trimmed lawns. Packed churches lined with luxury vehicles in their parking lots. A place obsessed with community, values, and family. But most importantly: with image. He used to be part of all that. He had the job. Middle management at a corporation. Had the home. Two-story with an in-ground pool. Had the wife. Bright and beautiful. Two kids. Both sharp and well-behaved. A dog and cat. The social circle. Sunday gatherings with friends. It was as close to the American Dream as you could get. It was a small club, but he was in it.

Then he lost his job. Nearly 20 years, gone. Through no fault of his own. The severance package barely covered a few months. The job search dragged on longer than expected. Networking yielded no fruits. Tensions at home turned into full-on shouting matches. The kids retreated to their rooms. His wife stopped reaching for his hand at Sunday service. The divorce was drawn out. Bitter. Custody battles. Lawyer’s fees. Friends split down the line, quietly taking sides. The church that once called him “brother” now offered nothing, not even thin smiles. When the papers were finally signed, he packed what he could into a single U-Haul and left the house he once called home. Forever.

Now he rents a tiny apartment on the other side of town, working dead-end jobs. Temp work. Nothing with any hope for advancement. Sometimes one job is enough. Sometimes he works two. Whatever keeps the lights on. The days blur. Each one’s no different from the last. He no longer thinks about his accomplishments, only about surviving each day. He dreads taking PTO, so he stays busy with whatever job he’s working. He endures the angry phone calls, the disgruntled customers yelling at him in his face. When he does go on vacation, he doesn’t go anywhere. He stays in his cramped living space. Away from everyone. Away from everything.

He makes it a point to avoid the old neighborhood. It’s a gated community anyway, and he no longer has access to it. He’s been granted persona non grata status. Every now and then, necessity forces him into the heart of town. He sees people he once knew: a neighbor, a pastor, a former coworker. They pretend not to see him. Or maybe they really don’t. He’s faded from their memory that much. Damnatio memoriae. Close friends avoid him. To them, he’s a leper. Someone whose very presence risks tarnishing their own cultivated image. 

The holidays are rough. It used to be his favorite time of year. Now, its lost all meaning. On Christmas Day, he sits alone on a couch that’s seen better days. No tree. No decorations. No gifts. The TV plays It’s A Wonderful Life. A bottle of Jack Daniels sits half-empty on the table in front of him. It keeps company with cartons of half-eaten Chinese takeout. He checks his phone obsessively, hoping he’ll finally hear from the kids. When a notification finally comes, it’s nothing important: just retailers pushing holiday blowout sales. He stares at the screen for a long time before setting it down, almost as if he’s trying to will a different kind of message into existence. “Hi dad, Merry Christmas!” It doesn’t happen. That night, he stares at his reflection in the mirror. He almost doesn’t recognize his own face. For a second, he wonders how his kids would react if they saw him now. He sighs and turns off the light before heading to bed. Back to work tomorrow.

A few weeks later, just after the new year, he heads into town to stock up on the necessities. The day is damp and dreary. There’s a lingering chill in the air. In the grocery store, he sees her. His ex-wife. Still beautiful as always. She’s walking with a man he doesn’t know and they’re holding hands. They laugh and flirt. It’s a scene out of a Hallmark movie. Their cart is filled with things he can no longer afford. They look happy. Deeply in love. He remembers when they were like that. ‘Til death do us part. They pass within feet of him. For a moment, he feels the rush, thinking she’ll at least say hello. She doesn’t. She doesn’t even see him. He’s not a ghost. He’s just invisible. The man he once was? That man is now gone. Erased.

Deep down, he knows. Even with the anger, the frustration, the bitterness seething inside him? This is it. This is how it’ll be. He no longer prays. He no longer talks to God. Why should he? He could start over somewhere else. But he doesn’t want to. Because somewhere along the way, he quietly accepted the sentence life handed him. 

And now he serves it.

Ryan Rahman is a writer based in Orlando, Florida. His works have appeared in Beyond Words Magazine, The Stardust Review, Half and One, BarBar, Humans of The World, WILDsound Writing Festival (Festival for Poetry), Wingless Dreamer Publisher, Moonstone Arts Center, Poets Choice, and The Word's Faire. When he’s not writing, Ryan enjoys reading, listening to music, watching movies, and traveling.