Peter Doobinin

Suburban Boy Peter Doobinin

I stepped to the window, pulled apart the moldy brown drapes, pushed open the window. I figured I'd let in some fresh cold air. I stood in front of the window. I looked out, beyond the woodplank veranda, beyond the parking lot, toward Sunrise Highway, the six-lane thoroughfare that slashed past the motel. The road was glutted with rush hour traffic, crammed with cars moving east and west. It was growing dark and most of the cars had their headlights turned on. And I stood there, and I watched the cars, moving slowly forward, the headlights burning. There was something about the whole scene. The cars lunging ahead, the lights prodding the increasing dark, the gradual movement in, the ceaseless urging, toward home. There was a poetry to it. An undeniable, exquisite poetry. What can I say? I was, and always would be, a suburban boy, and I found stuff like this as beautiful as anything.