Disclaimer: In honor of Thompson’s unique style of journalism, parts of this story are fictional. Nobody was harmed during the creation of this article.

It was not an event that I chose to cover, but more so, an event that befell me.

It was a cold and damp day, but that hardly mattered. I must have been driving back from work along the Skokie highway. I usually exit at Lake Cook Road. This time, however, I exited too early and got off at Deerfield Road. Upon entering the overpass, I drove west and had the option to continue left on Deerfield Road or turn right onto Berkeley Road. Maybe I was so distraught from my mistake that I was aiming to avoid all things associated with it. As such, I chose to turn right as a possible means of getting back on course.

The road descended to street level as if I were still departing the highway. I came upon an intersection where turning right led to a dead end, going straight would be the complete wrong direction, and a U-turn seemed impossible. There also was another road, McCraren, that ran along Berkeley on the left side. It was distinct and didn’t seem connected to any other road, almost coming out of the ground. In light of these peculiar circumstances, I chose to turn left. I then turned left on the next street, Arbor, to head south. I tried turning left again to get back to the highway, but Northland Avenue only led to a dead end. A left on the next street, Midland, would have led to another dead end.

Aside from a small park, I was surrounded by houses. In desperation, I weaved left onto the next street I saw, which was Southland. Low and behold, yet another dead end was in sight. Using a driveway, I turned my car around to get back on Arbor. Just as this occurred, my car died—and so did my phone. 

I got out of the car and walked toward Arbor. I swear I had seen cars parked on the street earlier, but at that moment there weren’t any: only one in each driveway. I walked further south on Arbor and came across a residential intersection without any street signs. I looked left, expecting to find a dead end, but was surprised to see that the street stretched on. I figured it would eventually lead to the highway, so I walked down it. The street curved to the left, and then I came across another intersection, not unlike the one before. It had no street signs, no stop signs, no cars; only two lanes of asphalt and concrete coming together and branching off with no end in sight. Dumbfounded and irritated, I ran back the way I came.

Arriving back at Arbor, I was surrounded by almost indistinguishable houses every which way. I felt boxed in and had never longed to see a commercial building or business so badly in my life. With my car and phone dead, I figured my best bet would be to knock on someone’s door and use their phone to call someone. And so I did.

The first person didn’t answer. Neither did the second. Or the third. I lost count of how many houses I went to. Long past caring for law and order, I even tried breaking into cars and homes, but the windows would not budge and neither would the police for that matter. There was no sign of life around me besides the facade of a suburban neighborhood. Exhausted, I trudged back to Southland Road where my car was parked. At least I would have a place to sleep for the night. 

As I walked towards Southland, I saw that it too had lost its street signs. All my kafkaesque suspicions were confirmed when I turned the corner. I was horrified to see that my car was gone while the street was empty. And there was no longer a dead end. The street stretched on and so did the houses.

Forever stuck in a suburban abyss, I reflect on how my ordeal encapsulates the great problem with the layout of American towns. In some European villages, it is possible to take a step out of a home and walk across the street to grab a coffee. The commercial and residential sectors of society are intertwined. Here in the United States, and there are many examples along the North Shore, homes and businesses are geographically separated. Not only does it feel like a maze to sometimes drive around residential neighborhoods, but community potential is blunted. For the most part, people don’t walk or bike to make daily trips into town. Towns are far less walkable, and the cohesion between the businesses of a community and its inhabitants isn’t brought forth. 

Ok, but the regulation is necessary, the zoning laws. Right! Ask racially segregated Chicago about that. Ask racially segregated Glencoe about that. Yes, it all ties back to the North Shore. Even if you haven’t been ostracized by your fellow human beings and have the privilege to live in the North Shore, ask yourself if you feel a tang of isolation? If so, you may have good reason.