Small Town Rules
Cash Rabley
Small towns aren’t good for much, and they sure aren’t kind to anyone who doesn’t fit in. Yes, they’re pleasant places for brief stops on your route to wherever you actually want to be. The endless miles of corn or wheat or wheat or corn make for great scenery on your trip around the country. The people do, too. The man riding his tractor on the only paved road will tip his hat as you pass (after 15 minutes of steadily going slower and slower and slower), apologizing for his dawdling driving. And the nice old woman cashiering at Speedway will ask polite, but slightly intrusive, questions while your change clunks into her palm.
“Heading somewhere fun?” She’ll ask, because she knows you aren’t from around here.
More small talk will follow; she’s chatty, and something about the way she smells reminds you of your grandma. You’ll talk for longer than you meant to, guaranteed.
These small towns are lovely to visit, but living in them is another story. When you’re only passing through, the inhabitants of these humble villages feel the need to turn up that small-town charm. Growing up in these places, you see the same people every day of your life and, truly, they’re wonderful people, as long as you follow the rules.
Every small town has its own set of convoluted cultural norms. They're unspoken commandments written into the very fields you passed, going 70 in a 55. You don’t always know when you’ve broken one. How could you? Nobody hands out copies of The Small Town Rules. Your only indication is the harsh glares from your neighbors or snippets of conversation you overhear in the church bathroom. For better or worse, small-town rules are almost impossible to break on purpose. Well, at least the first time.
The first time I remember breaking a rule, I was probably about 8 or 9 years old. My extended family had a system of shipping kids between this house and that one, depending on who was working on which day and when. I’d just started Third Grade, so the After-School Kid Swap was in full swing. My mom had picked me up from Lee Elementary with the back seat of her black Ford Fusion looking suspiciously full.
“Oh… they’re here, great.” I thought.
My Aunt must have been working, because Mom had been tasked with looking after my cousins, Chris and Amy, for the night. They’re my only cousins on my father’s side, but they’re still tied for my least favorite. Chris had a habit of pissing someone off, then entering a barbarian-style rage whenever they retaliated. Amy had her moments, too. Saying she was a drama queen would be offensive (to drama queens), but it's not inaccurate.
In an attempt to mitigate any bloodshed my cousins might have engendered, my mom set us all up in the living room for a movie night while she cooked. Spaghetti was on the menu that night, I think. I could smell the sauce simmering from our makeshift movie theatre. It was a strategic move, placing us there; the burnt-orange walls of the upstairs living room bled into the blue of our kitchen. A perfect position to prepare dinner and monitor the monsters simultaneously.
I’m sure picking a movie was nightmarish, because I remember Mom stomping into the living room after about 10 minutes of arguing. She snatched that old DVD binder right out of my hands, the pages slapping against each other with a thick THWAP as she rifled through.
“Here, you’re watching this!” Exasperated, she set the disc into its tray and clicked the OPEN/CLOSE button.
Our Blu-Ray DVD player whirred to life, playing that distinct hum preceding the start of a film. The play menu blinked across the screen. My mom had picked High School Musical. I hadn’t seen it. I don’t think any of us had. In agreement for the first time all day, a chorus of groans escaped the throats of my sister, cousins, and me.
“Oh, stop that! You’ll like it!” Mom rolled her eyes and smiled like she knew she was right.
She was. As much as I hate to admit it, my mother has fantastic taste in movies. She always picks the right one. So, with the occasional clink or clang from the kitchen, we watched with wide eyes. Bobbing our heads with Troy and Gabriella as they belted about their love, lives, and basketball.
“Get’cha Head in the Game” was just about over. Zac Efron was singing something about his head being in the game, but his heart being in a song. My mom had left the stove to bear witness.
“Zac Efron is so cute!” Squealed my sister.
“Yeah!” Amy agreed
“If I weren’t married to your father…” My mom mused.
“Yeah, I’d marry Zac Efron if boys could marry boys. He’s really pretty!”
Stupid, stupid, stupid. I shouldn’t have said that. Someone paused the movie. Blank stares from my cousins, their jaws slack. My sister, confused. A questioning stare on my mother’s face. It looked like she was finally fitting those last few puzzle pieces together. I like to believe I can perfectly imagine her thoughts at that moment.
Doesn’t play sports, likes Taylor Swift, sews, only ever talks about girl friends, wants to marry Zac Efron… Oh… OH!
Worst of all, my father, home from work just 15 minutes before, squeezed between Chris and Amy on the cracked, brown couch my grandparents gave us. The leather crunched as someone shifted, uncomfortable. I couldn’t read his face then; to this day, I can't decipher it. I just knew it wasn’t a good look. His brow furrowed, his lips pursed, and there was that glare. That “someone broke a rule” glare. I think he and my mom might have reached the same conclusion.
But hey, how was I supposed to know I wasn’t allowed to say that? Nobody had bothered to tell me that, written in bold black letters on its own special page, The Small Town Rules said:
Boys can’t marry boys.
Cash Rabley
A junior at Western Michigan University, Cash Rabley is studying English literature and language. He’s worked for Third Coast as an editorial intern and Inlandia as a teen editor. When Cash isn’t working for a journal or on something for his classes, he enjoys reading horror novels and poetry. Cash’s own poetry has been published in The Blank Quill and The Laureate, and he has fiction forthcoming in a Beyond Words anthology.