Suburban Intimacies

not flaking, local phone calls, car rides home

In my time here in town, I’ve had enough nights out to observe a handful of suburban shocks to my system. The fine intricacies of small town lifestyles are unusually invigorating. Here’s what’s sticking out to me recently.

Not flaking

In the city, it’s normal to ghost your close friends for more than a day. Working non-stop, being at “events,” being “out,” followed by finally indulging in a night off, leads to DND for days. I’m used to being ghosted by friends, or being the friend who ghosts. A quick “my bad about last night!” text, sent the next afternoon or evening. Both parties shrug it off cuz you gotta keep it movin’; it’s the city!

Here in town, on purpose or by chance, we know we’ll see each other again too soon. If you flake on someone, you’ll probably have to explain yourself. We can’t afford to burn the bridges we have. An apology text from someone who flakes on you, sent first thing in the morning, isn’t out of the norm. The city is pretentious, self-obsessed, too important. Here, people carry a sense of obligation that stems from a lifetime of histories with everyone in town. They know they’re not always going to have the best night ever—they’re not even seeking out that feeling—but they’ll show up. As a city dweller, we expect everything to be worth our time. Lack of expectation may be the mindset needed to happily exist here.

Is my phone… ringing?!? / Local calls only

I forgot how phone calls are for shooting the shit. It’s so ‘90s to think of them that way. Arriving at a defined plan for the night, which takes two minutes at the tail end of the call, is secondary when you’re on local calls since we’ll be face-to-face ten minutes after hanging up, max.

We’re not meant to be business-minded in personal friendships. I’ve never been one to mold my whole personhood around my job, but compared to my “townie” friends, I’m very city in that I want to get to the point sooner than later. Lately, though, I’ve learned to relax into friendly phone calls and appreciate how much of the chit-chat remains a stand-alone convo that only happened over the phone. Talking like this, about nothing but also everything, guides my internal tempo, tells it that it’s okay to not walk/talk/eat at a New York clip.

Local-call conversation is agenda-less. If anything, they set the vibe for the night. The act of being present with one person on the other end of the line, when no one’s motivated by status-driven thoughts, is refreshingly old-school. Reminds me of being on the phone in middle school with my best friend, mindlessly doodling on a notepad while talking about nothing. Phone calls like this amplify the chumminess of old friendships made new again. You’re just you, and your friend helps you feel okay for just that.

Car rides home

If I was ever in a car in NYC I was paying a stranger to drive me home. I’m in the backseat. It’s not a ride we’re on together. It’s a transaction with defined roles.

In the suburbs, there are some foreign conditions at play: If I get an Uber I’ll wait three times as long as the ride home takes; If a friend drives me home, I feel like I’m inconveniencing them, no matter how short the ride; Conversations in enclosed spaces smaller than a subway train feel highly personal, omg.

you can just tell an Uber is going to take a while, can’t you? a pond in my hometown. massachusetts.

Parked outside my house, interior roof light above our heads, end of the night conversation. I’m usually asking to play one more song. It’s a moment that works me into a state of giddy reminiscence. Music in cars with friends is the ultimate mix of promise, youth, and hope. Remember that feeling?! Memories cloaked in teenage past times—getting dropped off after being at a friend’s until as late as their parents allowed, lingering a few minutes longer, any attempt to stall the official end of the night. High on escapism.

I peer into cars like I’m watching someone undress for the first time. Cautiously, I glance into the backseat. It borders on TMI, every time. I’m peeking into someone’s cut open skull, their whole head space on full view. I’m sensitive to being in another’s personal space. At any second, it might feel like a confessional booth. Who knows, what I’m about to share.