While writing fiction is not my sweet spot, I do have something of a soft spot for it. I’m pretty sure anybody who has ever put pen to paper has had at least some small aspiration to write the next Great American Novel, and I’ve always wanted to write a screen play. While I’ve not yet started a novel, I have worked on some short fiction from time to time. I recently entered a story into a local competition, and while it wasn’t selected as a finalist by the judges, I want to get it out there for be the people.
Isn’t the people who writing should really be for any? Any creation should never be made for the critics. Though I did get some positive feedback from one of the judges – “What a gift you have for writing! Your story is funny, sort of sad, snappy, and just a good time!…I was really enjoying reading it when I hit the cheese section and couldn’t stop laughing. Brava!”
That’s right folks, come for the short-form fiction, stay for the cheese puns. Safe to the say the other judges don’t share my sense of humor. Anyway, I present to you my story – enjoy.
Scenes from a Private School Pick-Up Line
The only other place I’d see so many white luxury SUVs in one place is a dealership lot. Come to find out, the official vehicle of the at least moderately affluent suburban mom is a white GMC Yukon Denali. Or Chevy Suburban. Or Grand Wagoneer. It seems the make and model can change, but the color is a must. Red SUVs are for the nouveau riche. Black SUVs are for the common rabble. I’ve yet to see a car with a piece rusted off or one door that is a different color than the others. I suspect I never will. Silver minivans are society’s lowest common denominator. Some drive them out of necessity, some in a millionaire next door kind of way. My van is necessary.
As is my child’s attendance at private pre-school. Two working parents require a five days-a-week, all day childcare option. Just my luck it also happens to be the most expensive option in town. I try not to think about working only to pay for somebody to take care of my child while I’m working. The math only makes sense if you don’t think about it. The school does offer financial aid, but we don’t qualify. We make too much money. Maybe one of us should quit our jobs after all? I get the feeling that not all the other parents in the pick-up line made the decision to send their kid here based on the same determining factors. This is a tradition crowd. A downright legacy crowd. They look forward to thirteen more years of an exclusively priced education. I’m counting down the days of working to pay more for preschool than I do for my mortgage. Their interest is compounding, my interests are confounding.
I can’t help but notice the other parents here match their vehicles. White suburban luxury. A women whose athleisure wardrobe implies that she came right from yoga class but hair and nails that indicate she came right from the salon to pick up her equally Lululemon-clad children. I get the sense that her life is more leisure than ath. The children are active, of course. Travel baseball, hockey, lacrosse, competitive cheer, a mix of anything that requires expensive equipment and league fees. Though what are league fees when the team is sponsored by the business one of the parents owns? A tax write off, that’s what. Junior gets a new uniform and senior gets a loophole.
Sometimes I’ll catch parts of conversations between another parent and whoever is on the other end of their newest iPhone.
“I reserved a boat for the Bahamas.” Of course she did.
“Grandpa is going to meet us at the club for dinner later.” That sounds lovely.
“No, we won’t be home. We’re going to the cabin this weekend.” Why wouldn’t you?
Occasionally there is a woman who pulls up in a Mercedes Benz G Wagon. In the nicest possible way, I hope our kids don’t end up becoming friends. I don’t think I could take it. I am sure she is a very nice person, which actually makes it worse. It would be much easier to be ok with feeling out of place if the place was filled with careless people. However, I get the sense that these people actually care a great deal. Except for maybe the guy who drives a Cybertruck. I have to assume he is the actual worst. The rest of these people donate to charities and they sit on boards of non-profits. I bet they even respond to the school’s requests for donations with checks, where as I respond with wondering why they are asking for more money if I already pay tuition. First they eat my lunch then they ask me if I’m going to finish my crumbs. Perhaps that is why I’ll never have a library or gym named after me.
It isn’t all white suburban moms in white Suburbans, there are a few dads sprinkled in. Taking time to pick up their kids as their commitments to mastering the universe allows. There is a father who is always in a suit, but somehow never looks out of place. He belongs, and he belongs in a suit. He stands out from the other fathers, most of whom are in the unofficial uniform of the backbone of suburbia – a corporate logo emblazoned polo shirt, uncomfortable looking khakis, and expensive looking shoes. The modern man’s gray flannel suit. In addition to a cabin near a lake somewhere, these men possess a certain everyman quality. They barbeque and they drink in their backyards, it is just that they grill grass-fed steaks and drink expensive bourbon. Though to maintain their relatability, they’ll tell you they didn’t actually buy the steaks. The steaks were a corporate gift from one of their company’s vendors. Logo polo men take care of their own.
If the American public school system is a melting pot, private school is a fondue pot. A carefully curated, artisanally crafted, and delicately blended flavor. Organic goat cheese folded in with aged cheddar. French brie melted together with Swiss emmentaler. Queso blanco adds a little excitement to the palate. Afterall, they do have a Spanish immersion program. However, this is no place for a Kraft single.
And what am I? A block of store-brand cheese, sliced and placed out before company arrives so the wrapper can be discarded and its origin obscured. The best I can do is try to present the best I can, but my kid’s hand-me-down pants that are at least an inch too short and visibly worn through in the knees give us away. Now I feel more like a hardened rind left behind after the best part has been grated away.
Watching the kids bounce out of school into their lines waiting to be picked up does bring me hope. They are all mostly the same. Little bodies filled with energy and cheeks filled with pudge. The other little kids don’t seem to care that the threads of my kid’s pants are hanging on for dear life, or that we’ll head home in a vehicle that doesn’t have any HD screens inside. Maybe my kid actually belongs here. Maybe my kid will exist inside their sphere of influence, even if I never will. When my kid stands among their classmates, they stand with friends. When I stand among their parents, I stand alone.
Oh look, a Porsche
I Think Therefore I Dad 