Neon Junction

Neon Junction

Don Boles

Published by Rogue Phoenix Press for Smashwords

Copyright © 2015

ISBN: 978-1-62420-134-9

Electronic rights reserved by Rogue Phoenix Press, all other rights reserved by the author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law. This is a work of fiction. People, locations, and business establishments even those with real names, have been fictionalized for the purposes of this story.

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Dedication

To Steve, George, James, and Paul for showing me the power of story.

Christmas, 1991...

The boy sat cross-legged underneath the sagging, green, plastic branches of the tree. On the hulking, wood-grained television in front of him, Jiminy Cricket was crooning the benefits of wishing upon a star. The boy was transfixed by how natural the insect looked in top and tails, not to mention the luminous voice that came forth. Blue cilia of shag carpet warmed the spaces in between the boy's bare toes. His face was illuminated completely by the expanse of the twenty-six inch Zenith screen.

Commercials followed and an ice-skating Ronald McDonald could not hold the boy's attention. Instead, he felt drawn to the red and blue flickering of the artificial lumber beside him. Winking snowmen and popcorn balls hung, concerned with the forces of gravity hard at work.

Behind the boy sat his parents on the loveseat that his grandmother bought them for Christmas. His mother wore one of her customary holiday sweaters that made him itch just looking at it. His father sat half-reclined with his Santa suit still on. The boy had suspected the validity of Kris Kringle, and his suspicions were confirmed a mere two years ago at the age of seven when he heard a thump in the living room, late Christmas Eve. He took the steps two at a time, hoping to get a glimpse of the jolly, jelly-filled fat man. Instead, what he got was his father setting a bicycle upright on a flimsy kickstand. His hair was still brown, but his scalp was becoming more visible with each passing Christmas.

Motherfucker, his father said as the bike continued to totter anxiously on the carpet.

A sudden drought washed over the boy and settled in his stomach as he watched his father continue to fight and curse with the bike, while also careful not to spill a drop of whiskey on the floor. He felt a brief sense of self-satisfaction having his theory proved right, but that feeling gradually turned to apathy as he watched for a minute as his concept of Santa was replaced by his drunk father, desperately trying to make his new bike stand up properly.

His father slowly backed his hands away from the bike, ready to catch it in his non-drinking hand if the chrome bastard decided to fall over. After twenty seconds upright, his father backed away several steps as one would if they had just come across a sleeping Kodiak. He spun around with a glowing sense of accomplishment on his face and locked eyes with the boy.

After a moment, his father raised his eyebrows and his glass, Ho, ho, ho.

Now at the wise old age of nine, the boy had a better understanding of the truth of Christmas, something his father would rant about every night between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve. His father had the cold-bitterness that can only be attained by becoming a department store Santa and placating the, Godless savages that sat upon his lap requesting Barbie Dolls and Gameboys.

The boy's mother said his father took the extra job to, keep us from spending the holidays in the poor house. The boy questioned this logic as there didn't seem to be a large influx of presents under the tree, but the pungent smell of bourbon was always present in the season of the Savior.

Hey, kiddo, his father called from the couch. Spread some holiday cheer and get your old man beer. The boy stood up and went into the kitchen.

He opened the fridge and was immediately awash in the cool light that housed two quarts of milk, a tub of margarine, a brick of cheese, and a six-pack of Old Milwaukee. He pulled the cans of beer out of the refrigerator and peeled the empty plastic rings off the top. He opened the cupboard underneath the sink to throw the plastic away and in doing so, saw a small, black shape scurry out of the cupboard and into the kitchen sink.

The boy quickly flipped on the light above the kitchen sink to examine the tiny intruder. What the boy saw was a brown cockroach, roughly an inch in length, motionless in the sink. The antennae twitched spastically, but the bug didn't move. The boy reached over to turn on the faucet. He expected the roach to move, but it didn't. It sat there in the stainless steel basin as if it had accepted its fatal error and awaited final sentencing. Instead of turning on the water, the boy reached over the roach and unplugged the strainer from the sink. The insect crawled over to the lip of the drain. Before scampering away into shadowy freedom, the roach turned his head to the boy and winked...

Chapter One

Jamie was a drinker. While not an expert by any stretch of the imagination, Jamie did know that the difference between rum distilled in Des Moines, Iowa could produce a far less satisfactory, more vomitose experience than that which is brewed in Kingston.

Without taking his eyes away from the silent television behind the bar, he brought the drink to his anxious lips and downed half its contents. The TV was tuned to a highlight show on FSN. He wasn't sure whether the region was Southwest, Texas, or Midwest. Watching a mute double play made by the Royals didn't help distinguish the fact.

He listened to the timbre of the ice cubes as they rattled around the bottom of his tumbler. A cool breeze floated up from the glass but was quickly dissipated by the sharp aroma of bourbon and Pepsi. The cubes began to dissolve helplessly as the liquor slowly consumed them.

There was no one near him in the lounge side of the restaurant as he enjoyed his happy hour, which began at four and lasted until he awoke in the middle of the night, with crippling nausea and a paralyzing fear of what he may or may not have done. The action on the TV moved too fast for him. He lost track of the highlights and who was playing so he turned his attention back to the grains of wood racing underneath his bourbon. He ran his fingernail along a swirling knot of red oak, not quite able to find the center. At least he thought it was red oak. It had been a while since he read Thoreau's Nature and he hadn't paid that much attention.

He took a long, sour, hot gulp that briefly colored his vision in a deep amber glow. The liquor held its breath in the back of his mouth before diving down his throat, past his chest and settling in his gut. There were shaved men in Speedos racing under water on the TV when he looked back up. He finished his drink and put the glass down on a folded napkin that was given to him in place of a proper coaster.

What were once cubes of ice, now nothing more than chips, clutched together at the bottom of the glass; the brown bourbon stain taking away their transparency. Jamie glanced over to the girl tending bar. She didn't look old enough to walk through the door, more or less work the bar. She was rapidly clicking away at her cell phone that she held out in front of her breasts, the tops of which were peeking out of the v-cut shirt she wore. He raised the glass to eye level and opened his mouth to say something but forgot who he was going to say it to. The bartender came over and mechanically refilled him. She didn't make eye contact. He tried to but couldn't climb out of her cleavage. She walked back to her post behind the register on the far end of the bar. The ice cubes were suffocating in bourbon now, but at least he could not see the stain.

After a slow draw from his drink, his eyes drifted from the ice cubes to the bright green carpet underneath his stool. Not all the alcohol made it to its desired destination; some of it dribbled down the side of his mouth and he grew a whiskey flavored goatee. He saw his reflection in the mirror, warped by the fresh glasses hanging upside down in front of it and wiped his chin with the collar of his shirt looking around to see if anyone noticed. The lounge was empty with the exception of two middle-aged women who gently nursed cocktails in a back booth.

He looked at his watch. There were forty more minutes he could drink. Invigorated by the prospect, he finished his drink and made his way to the men's room in the back. As he passed the two women, he tipped an imaginary hat in their direction. They didn't notice. He thought maybe they didn't like the hat.

In the bathroom, he pissed for a solid half a minute, proud of his aim. He washed his hands and placed his palm on the door before stopping. A wave of nausea hit hard and he reached his left hand out to the sink counter. He felt his knuckles turning white as his grip tightened. He could not remember the last thing he ate, but he felt it crawling out of his esophagus and toward his throat. He turned all his attention to a scuffed screw in the shiny brass plate on this side of the door. He wondered why no one bothered to keep that screw shined like the rest of the door. It shouldn't be too hard to polish a screw, but then again, maybe the polish ran out. The nausea subsided and he moved more cautiously out of the bathroom to his stool in the front.

When he got to his seat, his drink was no longer waiting for him.

We just did last call, the bar tender said from behind the register. Her face was too busy tabulating tips to pay him a visit.

He panicked