That Cul-de-Sac Life

I want to live on the edge, but with a 401K and a black minivan where I can blast Snoop Dogg.

I want to have a wedge-shaped yard chock full of outdoor accessories, to buy in bulk, and hear the latest gossip about who got an HOA violation for her grass being over the 8-inch limit even though she measured it and it was only 6 inches, thankyouverymuch. 

I want my kids to ride their bikes in circles until they get dizzy and fall down, and then go set up a lemonade stand on the main road to snare homeowners who aren't lucky enough to live in our spherical utopia.

I want to live that cul-de-sac life.

Upper class of the middle class.

There's something extra special about a suburban street terminating in a bulbous dead-end. It sets apart residents of that circular community-within-a-community while also bringing them closer together. Closer than those aloof residents who enjoy seemingly unlimited street parking, anyway. 

Translated literally from French, cul-de-sac means "arse of the bag" (or "bottom of the sack" if you have linguistic sensitivities). But it's hardly bottom-of-the-bag quality. No, sir. This is the upper class of the middle class. 

It is an area traversed almost exclusively by people who live there, making it insular by default. The street is a circle that cannot be broken, connected and connecting. They all know each other's vehicles and when Rene's mom is visiting, so you best not trespass there or you will be caught on multiple Ring doorbell cameras and questioned on Nextdoor. 

Traffic there is slow or nonexistent, so kids can play outside without the worry of being run down by a 19-year-old with a Dominoes sign stuck to the roof of his 2015 Ford Focus. Ain't nobody standing in a cul-de-sac, waving their grill tongs, yelling obscenity-laced orders to slow down. Doesn't happen.

Houses on these triangle-shaped lots are perched closer together than on the rest of the street, encouraging familiarity. They share everything with each other - sidewalks, backyard trampolines, dog waste, even spouses on occasion. The cul-de-sac is where being connected takes on multiple meanings.

And the block parties. Oh, the block parties.

The cul-de-sac is Frat House Row of the subdivision. Except instead of college boys and beer pong, these are gatherings of husbands and wives in World Market adirondack chairs trying to eke enjoyment out of the monotony of middle-age with a rousing game of Yuengling-drunk cornhole.

On certain summer Saturday nights, cul-de-sac homeowners get together in someone's driveway, three feet from everyone else's driveway, swigging their beers and White Claws. Toddlers tricycle wildly along the sidewalks. At sundown, somebody drags out a fire pit and a sound dock for some tunes. Around 11 p.m. someone remembers his three-year-old cache of black cats, roman candles, and bottle rockets, which are promptly and drunkenly set off. A neighbor - probably on one of those lame grid-laid streets - calls the police to report peers engaged in fun --simply intolerable. But when the officer arrives, he just issues verbal warnings, chuckles, and shakes his head - oh, those cul-de-sac-ers, at it again. They have the best time. 

And they do. Halloween is coming up, and that means even more elaborate dead-end-street festivities. On one cul-de-sac in our neighborhood, Halloween night means roaring fire pits, blasting tunes, decorated garages, costumed dogs, and a collective candy giveaway. Set up on a couple of 8-foot tables is a veritable smorgasbord of consumables, from full-size candy bars to mini bottles of water to Jell-O shots for the adults. You don't even have to enter the Circle of Separateness because the tables are conveniently perched on the edge of the street's open maw. Maybe they planned it that way, to keep the riffraff out.    

Riffraff like me. I've never even been invited to a cul-de-sac. 

Shirts available for purchase.

I'm a just a dull Straight Streeter, locked into my predictably rectangular yard and square dinner parties. I am not a destination, merely a thruway nestled in forgettable drive-past country. 

I can only ride my lame bicycle around their nearly-complete circle and gaze at their lives in envy.