Brent climbed out of his RV at 10:00 am, lawn chair tucked under his arm. He liked to sit on the roof of his motor home, drinking a Capri-Sun, watching the strange mechanics of the Suburban town he found himself in. He never understood the science of it. The fresh cut lawns and the rows upon rows of the same exact houses, with different families who were exactly the same. The school buses arriving, the parents departing for work, the dinner parties, the mailmen, the groceries, the closed curtains, the fake smiles, always knowing what to say. He was perpetually perplexed. It was like one strange, repetitive machine. There was a strange force that drew him to it. He couldn't look away. He would sometimes sit watching for an entire day, trying desperately to comprehend the science of it all. He took notes. Titled them "A Machine?" Then threw them out.
