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Driving down the suburban lane, he was immediately struck by the darkness of it: The beautiful trees he had grown up around had grown up themselves, stretching high into the sky and completely across the road, to touch each other, and cut off the sunlight from the street... it used to be so bright here, so cheerful, even on the days he remembered sourly, like the day he and Eric Burgan's little brother had run into each other on bicycles; now, the old neighborhood was dark, almost ominous, the optimistic suburbs gone apprehensive, as if dreading what the future would bring; the children were all hiding inside, presumably swinging their Wiis and Guitar Hero axes wildly; the adults were in their basements, gloomily watching DVDs of TV shows so old that they had actually forgotten almost half of the punchlines; and here he came, a briefcase of papers filling the passenger seat, and misgivings in his heart about having to tell Ms. Dana Cready that her cats would have to go, the city just wouldn't allow 30 cats in a single household, it's an ordinance, I'm so sorry... when suddenly, he drove through a spot where the trees had not quire reached across the street, and the sunlight poured through a rift in the boughs and brightened the street, and suddenly, it was 1969 again, and everything seemed possible... and in that moment, he knew what he really needed to do for Ms. Cready, and everyone else in his old neighborhood... something that would put color into women's cheeks, and swell men's chests... something that would bring the children back outside on their bicycles, laughing and running into each other in careless, carefree moments... he could save this suburb with a single act of daring, and if he was lucky, the authorities wouldn't figure out what he'd done before he was safe in Jamaica, sipping white rum and laughing louder than anyone else at the bar.
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