Suburgatory (29 page)

Ian Brown was unrepentant. “I don't know what the big deal is. Don't you think seeing someone in ecstasy sitting in that chair for a little while is good advertising for Brookstone?” Brookstone associates offer a starkly different portrayal. They say Brown has been frequenting this particular chair for months, several times a week, and stays for at least forty-five minutes each time.

“First of all, we've been trying to cut back on people parking there, so we put a sign on it saying ‘Please ask an associate before you use the chair.' He just takes the sign and throws it on the floor.”

Another associate says Brown has a technique for ignoring the store employees. “He just sits down and closes his eyes immediately. But I can see him do these tiny squints. He's watching us. And he's obviously awake—he just parks his kid's stroller in front of him and lets her scream. And when the auto program stops at the end, he just picks up the remote and hits it again. With his eyes still closed.”

The supervisor is worried about the physical condition of the chair and also the safety of the child. “Sometimes to shut the kid up he drags her onto the chair with him and all that machinery, God, I don't even want to think about what could happen to that little body. And then there is the ‘groove.'”

The “groove,” as he calls it, is the indentation Brown is leaving in the chair. The supervisor said, “If corporate comes in here, and sees that groove on a three-grand chair, I'm going to get my ass handed to me.”

This is what led to yesterday's forcible removal. First they tapped Brown, and then said, “Sir, we know you are awake and your child is crying.” When he was roused, Brown grew combative, screaming, “Don't call me sir, motherfucker! I'm just an out-of-work dad who needs a little break. You college flunky dipshits get a break. What about me?”

Sources say after some tense discussions, he came to an agreement with security that he would take his child to Build-a-Bear, and then leave the mall immediately.

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Pedophile Quietly Mourned
as Amazing Coach

Suburgatory, USA—A convicted pedophile is being quietly mourned by local dads as an “amazing” and “outstanding” girls' varsity soccer coach.

“That disgusting pervert. It took months to put that psycho away,” said parent Kevin Mainer about Tom Miller, who was charged with statutory rape against several minor girls in February and convicted last week.

“But,” added Mainer, a bit sheepishly, “. . . well . . . I mean, uhh, now we're shit outta luck if we think we'll kick Benchley School's ass ever again.”

Other parents agreed. Said Paul Hofstetter: “Oh yeah, if it was my daughter? He'd be fucking dead right now. I'd have his ball sack run up the flagpole. I gotta give it to him, though, anyone who saw that upset he pulled off last year against those amazons from Holston, I mean, whoever takes over is gonna have big shoes to fill, that's all I have to say.”

The men went on to debate the gravity of Miller's crime. “Come on, just a few decades ago, this wouldn't have even been a crime. Those girls were marrying-age back then. What if we were in Utah?” said Nick Natola.

One mom joined the men, speculating about whether the crimes might be considered consensual. “Yeah, I know one of their parents; the girl says she's ‘totally in love' with the pervert, so we know she wanted it. And I heard the other charges were trumped up. It was just backrubs with their shirts off. Believe me, I remember being that age. I knew exactly what I was doing.”

Several dads wondered if some special accommodations could be made. Mainer had this to say: “Couldn't they just give Coach Miller one of those ankle bracelets? I mean, for this to happen mid-season? Did you see the looks on the girls' faces?”

One dad, Donald McPherson, a professor of cultural and gender studies at Carlson University, termed the arrest a “classically American witch hunt, a puritanical sex panic that you would never see in Europe. . . . And good God, what a coach.”

As a Level 2 sex offender, Miller will now have to register with local police if he returns to the community. When confronted with that possibility, no parent was ready to accept Miller back as a neighbor. But as a coach, they feel like they could work around it.

“You know, the parents could take turns monitoring him every minute he's with the girls,” said Natola. “Let's face it. The guy's a douche. But he's got a gift. One of those we'll-never-see-the-likes-of-him-again-once-in-a-­generation kind of gift. To throw that all away, jeez, I don't know. It just doesn't seem right.”

Dad Loves Carving Ducks, Parenthood

Suburgatory, USA—A local dad says parenthood “is the best thing that ever happened to him,” as he made his way to his basement shop to spend the evening carving ducks.

“Hi, kids!” Steve Anthony patted five-year-old Parker and three-year-old David as they watched the PBS show
Arthur.

Once in Anthony's shop, this reporter saw twenty or so carved ducks in various states of completion.

Anthony said this about his role as a dad. “I never thought that I could have this much love, this much patience for my kids.”

He fired up his Dremel Multi-Max power drill, which, Anthony says, is when the kids usually come down to say hello. Sitting at his table with the Dremel motor whirring and his kids standing silently at the door, Anthony yelled over the sound of the power tool: “I love that I'm able to share this beloved hobby with my children and that they'll be able to share it with their children.”

The kids then returned to
Curious George
and turned up the volume due to the noise of the Dremel. “Mallards, buffleheads, egrets, you name it. . . .” Anthony said, as his wife arrived in the shop with his dinner, which he takes nightly during carving. “The kids know all the ducks' names by now, what kind of feathers they have, what makes them distinct from one another. I'm so lucky to have them and the kids.”

Several hours later, Anthony had completed a mallard. “The boys are just such a dream. Every moment with them is just a new way to see the world, through their eyes.” The boys arrived at the shop to say goodnight to their father. “Goodnight, boys! I love you!”

Parker said, “I love you, too, Dad.” David said, “Bufflehead Bufflehead Bufflehead!”

“Aren't they just little miracles?” Anthony said, smoothing his hand over several of his finished ducks.

SHOUT OUT

Let's Do that Key Party
Right
the Next Time

David Dowd is a polyamorous swinger who lives on Larrabie Street, the house with the purple door.

To say I was disappointed about the conduct at and disintegration of my long anticipated key party last Saturday night would be a colossal understatement. This is not a “hobby” for me, or a one-time lark. So I take to the Shout Out in hopes of making sure the next key party is done right.

Some ground rules:

First, just because I am overweight, a bit hairy, and missing that one tooth (which I'm getting replaced, by the way), you cannot put the key you chose back in the bowl hoping to draw someone else. Number one, you really hurt my dignity. Number two, you denied yourself a banging the likes of which would erase every sexual experience you've ever had. Your loss. But if you don't want to lose out again, take my words seriously.

Second, my parties are not for bored moms who watch
Cougar Town
or
Desperate Housewives
and want to do something naughty. Or say they did something naughty at the PTO meeting. Because when they actually get to my home, even when dressed like the tackiest forty-year-old prostitutes I've ever seen, they are not willing to get down to action at all. This violates the spirit of swinging. I don't care that you're hot. If you're not going to let me or another of your neighbors give it to you, and give it to you hard, you could be Angelina Fucking Jolie herself and I'd still kick you out of my house.

Third, it's a party for
swingers,
not exhibitionists. To that couple who just came in to fuck in front of us, we say, take your sick pathology elsewhere! You need to hand your partner over to a complete stranger for sex, and she will do the same with you. That's swinging with
integrity.

Fourth, we
don't
have daycare for your kids. Please, get a goddamn babysitter. There's only so long we can stick kids upstairs to watch
Fanboy and Chum Chum.
Now this party was a big bust, but most parties are not and they are quite loud. You want your kids to hear that, dirty bastards?

Now, I'm left with shattered expectations and more Fritos and leftover seven-layer dip than I would ever eat in my life. So next time, please, come committed, come with condoms, or don't come at all.