Level 1.2
Levels of Disillusionment
In Statesville, the road signs frequently point the wrong way or are covered in dirt. The dirt kicks up from all of the tractor trailers that rumble around the town's highway bypass. The four lane raised route cradles the town in its elbow, but the town did not nestle up to the road for safety. It was the highway that encroached upon the town's peace and cleanliness, and, when I say cleanliness, I mean less the absence of dirt and more the existence of a ideal purity. In Statesville, everyone knows what you are supposed to do, what you are supposed to think, and what you are supposed to look like. Very rarely does any sojourner stay too long without quickly switching over to the Statesville Way. Either they love and respect the way the residents pack their pigs in beer, the taste of a crisp Statesville Chip, falling head over heels about everything involved with the Statesville Way of Life, or, they just don't like it here. For some reason, people who are different don't like Statesville. It's just always worked out that way. We all like being the same.
Speaking of that Statesville Chip, it goes lip-smackingly well with S.V. Baked Beans. "Why, dip your chips in our beans and you'll be licking your lips," or something like that, that's the S.V. Baked Beans slogan. S.V. Baked Beans, the Firemen's Carnival in neighboring Schurtzle--that's where the Schurtzle clothing label is made--, the Statesville Raceway, Potter's Ale House: these are some of the better-known cultural institutions of the region. Every year, the Tribunal Gazette, the regional newspaper, polls the residents to find out what events, foods, products, and people really embody what it means to be from Statesville. Year after year, the people agree. It's as though our souls communicated on some pre-verbal level, voices that spoke to you from the dust, breathed in over one's lifetime. By the time you were a teenager, you knew everything about what it mean to be from Statesville just by the eight pounds of dust you had inhaled over the years.
Paul's family moved into the region just last year. Right now, he's digging a hole in the backyard, presumably to make up for lost time not inhaling years of dust.
"Paul, did you collect the money for your paper route?" a voice from within the house calls. "It's almost the end of the month."
"No, not yet. I'll get to it."
Silence is a cruel response from this voice. Paul can feel tension parading out of the window.
"When are you going to do it?"
Paul is too inexperienced with life to realize what passive aggressive behavior looks like. He allows himself to be emotionally manipulated.
"Why aren't you paying attention to me?" the voice attaches itself to a form that emerges from the screen door.
"What? What?!!"
"I'm telling you to got collect your paper route money, and you're just messing around in the backyard."
Paul stammers confusion. The authority figure stews pain and hurt. Paul resigns himself to apologizing as he leaves in an emotional upset to go collect money for the paper route.
As he walks on his way he wonders to himself, Why do I always hate doing this part?
In Statesville, the road signs frequently point the wrong way or are covered in dirt. The dirt kicks up from all of the tractor trailers that rumble around the town's highway bypass. The four lane raised route cradles the town in its elbow, but the town did not nestle up to the road for safety. It was the highway that encroached upon the town's peace and cleanliness, and, when I say cleanliness, I mean less the absence of dirt and more the existence of a ideal purity. In Statesville, everyone knows what you are supposed to do, what you are supposed to think, and what you are supposed to look like. Very rarely does any sojourner stay too long without quickly switching over to the Statesville Way. Either they love and respect the way the residents pack their pigs in beer, the taste of a crisp Statesville Chip, falling head over heels about everything involved with the Statesville Way of Life, or, they just don't like it here. For some reason, people who are different don't like Statesville. It's just always worked out that way. We all like being the same.
Speaking of that Statesville Chip, it goes lip-smackingly well with S.V. Baked Beans. "Why, dip your chips in our beans and you'll be licking your lips," or something like that, that's the S.V. Baked Beans slogan. S.V. Baked Beans, the Firemen's Carnival in neighboring Schurtzle--that's where the Schurtzle clothing label is made--, the Statesville Raceway, Potter's Ale House: these are some of the better-known cultural institutions of the region. Every year, the Tribunal Gazette, the regional newspaper, polls the residents to find out what events, foods, products, and people really embody what it means to be from Statesville. Year after year, the people agree. It's as though our souls communicated on some pre-verbal level, voices that spoke to you from the dust, breathed in over one's lifetime. By the time you were a teenager, you knew everything about what it mean to be from Statesville just by the eight pounds of dust you had inhaled over the years.
Paul's family moved into the region just last year. Right now, he's digging a hole in the backyard, presumably to make up for lost time not inhaling years of dust.
"Paul, did you collect the money for your paper route?" a voice from within the house calls. "It's almost the end of the month."
"No, not yet. I'll get to it."
Silence is a cruel response from this voice. Paul can feel tension parading out of the window.
"When are you going to do it?"
Paul is too inexperienced with life to realize what passive aggressive behavior looks like. He allows himself to be emotionally manipulated.
"Why aren't you paying attention to me?" the voice attaches itself to a form that emerges from the screen door.
"What? What?!!"
"I'm telling you to got collect your paper route money, and you're just messing around in the backyard."
Paul stammers confusion. The authority figure stews pain and hurt. Paul resigns himself to apologizing as he leaves in an emotional upset to go collect money for the paper route.
As he walks on his way he wonders to himself, Why do I always hate doing this part?
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