Tonight I went to TJ Maxx to get a pair of shorts because my aunt thought buying me a giftcard for there would be a good idea. My dad whipped the car in the front parking spot and I turned off my music that his baby boomer generation could never appreciate. It was dusk in the suburbs of Atlanta, and the recessed strip shopping mall was moderately crowded with the lifeless souls of urban decay. I closed the door to the 2010 Toyota Camry, which is an off dark grey. The suburbs are littered with Camrys in this exact color, each with a suited up middle aged stressed out and caged in man. 

   My father and I transcended the parking lot, which had just begun to be illuminated by the bleak overhead pole-lights. The strip mall we were at was across from a busy intersection by the highway and mall and popular upper middle class resturants. Despite the heavy traffic that area gets, the strip mall has always had a low volume of people, and the shops reflect it. The sun faded beige paint and stucco columns of the strip were as depressed as the few people who ventured there. Next to TJ Maxx was a Mattress King, empty except for one or two workers. Looking through the window was almost like viewing a sterilized hospital, except the lights were more yellow and the dark skin of the workers was droopy and tired like the strip mall. As we entered the exit of TJ Maxx my dad and i were taken aback by the size of the cashier closest to the worn out automatic doors. She was at least 550 pounds, and her face looked like it was losing the battle with gravity. 

   My dad and I looked at each other and made eye contact that expressed a shared understanding and contempt for what suburban America is. My dad and I made our way towards the men’s section, which was more like a pathetic excuse of used has been designer clothes shoved into a store marketed towards women but too lazy to even hide their demographic advertising. I made my way through the useless racks of clothes that nobody ever would buy and found the shorts section. The waist sizes were marked by little colored circles on the cheap hangers, and mostly consisted of sizes like “44” and “”38”. I wasn’t suprised, but more disgusted at the sizes, which made their way up into the upper 40s and low 50s. I had to push the hangers with the massive clothes on their decrepet rail to find some 30s and 32s. I laughed in my head, because the store next to TJ Maxx on the opposite side of Mattress King was a “Living Large XXL” men’s store. 

         I grabbed the first pair of generic grey non-pleated shorts and rushed over to the dressing room on the other side of the store and got a number 1 card from the depressed looking women with sunken eyes behind the counter and went to the handicap dressing room, a habit of mine. I pulled down my pants with the belt still on and quickly made sure the shorts fit. I looked in the mirror a couple of times and tried to ignore my buzzing phone because I didn’t want to text back. I took off the shorts and threw them on the ground and quickly put back on my pants, pulling them up quickly, jumping slightly for extra speed.

   I gave the woman with the sunken eyes back her number 1 card and the cheap hanger and went to the check out line with my dad. I could tell he was thinking how depressing the store was as well from his eyes and furrowed brow. Old 80s music played a bit too loudly over the store speakers and the customers seemed like manniquins paying for their poor quality clothes. The clerks at check out seemed just as depressed. As soon as I thought it, my dad says out loud to me, “This is goddam surreal. I feel like I’m in a movie right before someone comes in with a BAR and starts shooting the place up.” By BAR, my dad was referring to a world war II automatic .30-06 rifle, consistent with his obsession for history. I pictured it more as an AK or cheap assult rifle, and I pictured the scene almost shot like a scene from the Cohen Brother’s film No Country For Old Men. 

      Behind me was a young mexican couple, the female not much older than me, probably 25 or 26. She had a 7 year old and a 12 or 13 year old daughter and I couldn’t help but think her daughter would soon be a mother herself, trapped in an endless cycle that’s been forced upon her culture by American society. Minutes later, we made our way to the register that was finally available, and we rang up and quickly exited the store. The yellowish light of the store left us and my dad and I made our way back out into the parking lot. A shared look of depression and desire for escape from the suburbs marked both of our faces, and we silently got back in the car. We are no different from everyone else, both forced consumers in a backwards society in the depths of mental breakdown.