The Musings of an Insane Midwestern Suburbanite: A Novel

By Latem Summerville

Kent Roivas is a normal, upper-middle-class-suburbanite living in the Midwest. He has all the trappings of the American Dream: massive custom home, exotic cars, gorgeous wife, and nearly the largest stainless steel grill in his entire neighborhood. Following an accident at work, Kent decides to embark on a self-imposed midlife crisis.

It begins with a strange mushroom trip, followed by a slight addiction to prescription painkillers. Like trying to run down a mountain, things go downhill fast. With so much free time to think, Kents thoughts turn sadistic, especially toward the people around him. He believes his evil neighbors are hiding something beneath the guise of raising a family.

Reality is skewed as Kents imagination escalates to the point of actually being afraid of his neighbors but also afraid of his own consumerist lifestyleand afraid even of himself. All hell breaks loose in this posh, quiet neighborhood, but is Kent to blame or has the community just been waiting for a reason to implode?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491787571

Latem Summerville

Latem Summerville lives in an upper-middle-class neighborhood in the Midwest. When not writing, he plays the drums and listens to music.

Book preview

1

I bent over and pulled up the right leg of my pants. I removed my Glock from the leg holster and checked the clip. Fully loaded, as I expected. I was alone in my spacious office at the front of the nightclub. I never really felt the need to carry a gun. However, since I transplanted my entire life to a small city near Merida, Mexico, being armed at all times was necessary.

I exited my office and locked the door behind me. The music coming from the stage was deafening. Four heavy metal acts were booked for tonight, each band playing a forty-five minute set. The club was at capacity. I had to order the doors shut just an hour after opening them. All sorts of interesting men and women, most of them in their early twenties, crowded the club. Mohawks, red hair, green hair, spikes, chains, black leather, and fishnet stockings were the required attire. Each band created their sound using screeching guitars, fast rhythms, and guttural vocal roars. I entered the main concert area. Over half of the floor in front of the stage was a mosh pit. Two guys and one girl were on top of the crowd, being passed around like dolls.

Senor Kent, Senor Kent! Someone was yelling from behind. I turned to face my stage manager, Pedro.

Senor Kent, can you help me? The third band, Necrophilia Mania, is still in the dressing room. The band on stage only has two songs left in their set! They should be waiting to go on stage. But, the door is locked to the dressing room. I don't know what they are doing, can you help?

Sure, Pedro. I'll go get them! I yelled above the din of thrash metal music coming from the stage.

I had keys to all doors in the club, so I headed towards the dressing room area at the back of the stage. I could only walk so far along the side wall of the club until I was forced to start pushing people out of my way to get backstage. I stopped and stood back-to-back, shoulder-to-shoulder with a throng of people as a crowd surfer was being passed right toward me. I braced myself and put my hands on her back and shoved her toward the middle of the mosh pit. I probably had the sweat of twenty people on me. The club stunk of body odor, vomit, and stale beer. I pushed through the crowd, stepped over a pile of chunky green vomit and took the steps to the rear of the stage. I pushed through a crowd waiting for the restroom and continued down the hall toward the dressing room, stepping over more vomit.

In what I refer to as my past life, I was comfortably living in a Midwestern suburb in the U.S., managing a glue factory. I was a working stiff, pulling 9-to-5 hours for fifteen years. All of that ended a year ago. Now I worked 5PM to 6AM in a heavy metal club I owned in Mexico. The club was booked three to four nights a week and attracted the heaviest, dirtiest, grittiest, and most hostile bands in Mexico. The club was gaining in popularity; bands from other countries in Central and South America were contacting me, all wanting to play at my club.

Sure does beat my boring day job back in the States, I thought to myself.

I knocked on the dressing room door.

Yo, open up. You guys are on next! I shouted. I waited a few seconds. No response. I inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. I was immediately met with the strong smell of marijuana. Typical of the types of bands I booked.

Through the haze of the smoke I glanced around. Two walls of the room were lined with couches and end tables. Another wall had lighted mirrors and chairs for the bands to get their stage makeup on or do their hair or whatever. However, mirrors were seldom used by the bands I booked; they weren't really concerned with their appearance. Long hair, tattoos, and a pair of ripped jeans was all they needed to go on stage. Add a few chains, bracelets, and necklaces and you had a heavy metal band.

The first guy sitting on one of the couches was the band's manager, passed out with a bottle of tequila in his hand. I slapped him hard on the cheek.

Wake the fuck up! I yelled. He came to.

Senor... he said in a groggy voice as he slowly opened his eyes.

Get the fuck up, your band is next to go on. You have ten minutes! I exclaimed.

The man reached in his shirt pocket and withdrew a vial of cocaine. He took a quick snort. I was relieved; he would be alert in a couple minutes.

I looked around the room at the four band members. They were all lying around on the couches. Each had a beer in their hands and either a cigarette or joint in the other.

That's it, keep going, Bitch, said one member to the groupie giving him a blow job. A girl was straddling another band member next to him, fucking his brains out. The other two members were watching, passing a joint back and forth and laughing.

Dudes, get the girls out of here! You're on stage in ten minutes. I grabbed the girl who was on her knees and pulled her up by her shoulders. She reluctantly stood, wiping her mouth.

Get your shirt on and get the fuck out of here, I said. She was intoxicated and a little wobbly on her heals.

You're a fucking dick! she said as she stumbled out of the room.

I approached the girl riding the other band member. She looked over her shoulder.

All right, all right, Senor, she said as she dismounted the guy. She pulled her skirt down.

Get out of here. These guys have to go on stage, I said.

Senor, said the band manager. He was alert now. That's my wife, take it easy. She dances on stage during the show. So the band manager's wife was fucking a band member. To each his own, I thought.

In that case, you can stay, I said to the young woman. She was quite beautiful. The band members got off the couches, arranged their clothes, shook their hair back and stood in a circle. They put all of their hands together, piled on top of each other with a tight grip. They shouted some kind of rally call, separated their hands and piled out of the room and down the hall to the stage.

I went the opposite way and exited the club into the back alley, stepping out into the cover of darkness on this hot, humid night in Mexico. Crouching down, I lit a cigarette and thought how completely different my life was from a year ago.

2

One year earlier.

I was running late for work. I approached the turn, down shifted the BMW and heard the tires bark from engine braking. Smoke was blowing into my face from the burning cigarette in my left hand holding the steering wheel, but I ignored it. Coming out of the turn I accelerated, slammed the clutch pedal down and shifted, again barking the tires. I then slowed down and turned into the parking lot only to punch the accelerator again. I shot across the lot and came to a skidding stop in my assigned parking space. I shut off the engine while taking a hurried, final drag off my cigarette before flicking it out the window. It's Monday, and I was starting another work week as the manager of a glue mixing factory. My job description was to hire unskilled workers at low wages and show them how to make and package glue into small bottles. Boring. Not to mention, quite dangerous, considering the hazardous chemicals used to make the glue.

I sighed and questioned my value to society. It seemed that all I was good for was increasing the risk of cancer for my workers and the people residing in the surrounding suburbs by releasing hazardous glue vapors into the air. While everyone quietly went about their daily lives, my manufacturing plant was spewing tons of green house gases into the air adding to the Earth's pollution problem. I was negatively affecting the world's climate just to earn a paycheck. I had been researching the environmental green movement and since I had been making glue for almost 15 years, was really beginning to believe that I was a complete failure, a pollution devil. I remained in the BMW and stated aloud my daily affirmation. It consisted of three sentences.

'Manufacturing any chemical has some impact on our earth. People need glue. Glue makes everyone's life easier.'

I took a deep breath and felt better after justifying my daily occupation.

I exited my BMW and started walking toward the front door of the facility. Just then, a van pulled in the parking lot with the logo 'VideoPlay' on the side. 'Look who's talking!' was printed underneath the logo. VideoPlay specialized in mobile video phones, the latest technology sweeping the business world. Today, my administrative staff and I would receive new mobile phones with the latest video applications. We will be able to see who we are talking to on every phone call. Isn't that exciting? I sarcastically thought to myself.

Fuck no! I exclaimed aloud as I opened the front door. I did not want a video phone. I saw it as the beginning of the end of personal privacy.

I took a seat at my cherry wood grain desk and opened my laptop, waiting to see what idiot co-worker would approach me with a dumb question. Fifteen minutes passed, no questions, no one even acknowledged me. The day was getting off to a perfect start. Twelve years ago, I would have been in the office an hour earlier, ready to work a full day juggling different tasks and leading different projects. But several months ago, things had started to change inside of me. All of the work I accomplished and all of the promotions I received armed me with a lot of knowledge about business management and making glue. I have a good salary, a lot of vacation time, and people respect me. At least that is what I believed. I invested my hard-earned money in a large house in a premier suburb. I have a manicured lawn with an in-ground sprinkler system. I have a beautiful wife, a three car garage to house three expensive cars, and a friendly Golden Retriever named Fitzy. I take luxurious and lengthy international vacations. My wife and I have lots of sex and we love each other. I live in a safe neighborhood and all of my neighbors wear expensive brand name clothes and own large stainless steel grills. I am surrounded with doctors and attorneys and business owners. I'm not rich, but I am definitely upper-middle class. Years ago, I believed I was becoming a successful midwestern businessman. But now, when I look at my BMW, sprawling suburban home, massive stainless steel grill, and surrounding neighbors, all I see are a bunch of assholes -- me included.

3

A few months ago while driving home from work and, of course, smoking a cigarette (because I can afford it), I realized that I needed a change, something to shake things up and get me out of the daily grind. What I needed was an early mid-life crisis. But, I didn't really know how to have a mid-life crisis. I couldn't go buy stylish clothes made for people much younger than me because I already had those. I couldn't go buy an expensive and very fast car, I already had that. My stainless steel grill was already nearly the largest in the neighborhood, my stereo system topped $100,000 and I had more audio components on order. I didn't need to get in shape, I worked out at least five times a week and maintained a body fat percentage of around eight percent at all times. I didn't need to have an affair; my wife was gorgeous and intellectually attractive. Besides, there was plenty of internet porn available. After months of fuzzy thinking about how to have a midlife crisis I finally used my business problem-solving skills to get to the root of the problem. The cause was two-fold. One, I had to work to earn money to buy more and more expensive things. Two, I had to spend a lot of time and a lot of money to maintain my expensive things. For example, every morning I brew fresh ground coffee using a $1700 coffee maker. One morning I noticed the coffee brewing very slowly. After tasting the coffee, I knew something was wrong. So, I called the manufacturer and explained the situation.

Sir, you have to delime the coffee maker, said the customer service representative.

But, that's impossible; I have the top of the line water filter de-ionizing the water before it enters the coffee maker. The filter cost me $3500. It's the same type five-star restaurants use. The water technician was just out last week to change the filter, I explained.

Sir, I hear this all the time. I am glad you are filtering your water; however, even the most purified water has some minerals. If you were using regular water, then possibly you would have to delime the coffee brewer every six months. My records show that you purchased the machine in December, four years ago. Is that correct?

Yes, I answered.

Well, Mr. Roivas, going over four years without deliming the machine is a very long time.

OK, Jennifer. I finally resigned to the fact that the coffee machine had to be delimed. So, I guess I need to schedule a service call?

Um, Sir, we don't perform service calls for routine maintenance. The owner of the machine is responsible for the maintenance, replied Jennifer.

You're kidding, right? The coffee maker cost me $1700!

No, I am not kidding. You are going to have to perform the de-liming maintenance yourself, stated Jennifer. She continued to explain the process of using vinegar to delime the coffee maker. So, I had to go to the grocery to get vinegar, and then go through twelve brewing cycles to delime the coffee maker. For three straight hours, I had to continually empty the carafe, fill the maker with more water, and then repeat the brew cycle. I found this frustrating but probably worthwhile as I had become accustomed to having some of