The Neon Lights Are Veins by Nolan Knight

Author:Nolan Knight
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

The radio was tuned to a.m. stations for the ride home. Alvi was trying to catch the hours’ top news stories, hoping for answers. A broke down school bus had gridlocked the 405, clogging airwaves. He reached to flip the dial; hand trembled, stomach did the Twist. He managed to pop in a Kill Dads cassette. The Benz floated over the 6th Street Bridge into downtown. Three coffins helped calm busted nerves. Had to chew them though. Mouth was dry as the concrete river below.

He detoured up Sunset, cruising by the Paradise, scoping for Chester’s Rambler in the lot. Nope—must be workin’. Liquor Royale waved up ahead, its King Cobra sign winking through barred windows. We meet again, old friend.

Grabbed a Times at the counter, checking the front page before noticing the date. He smirked, shaking his head. This was a first. Was usually everyone else’s birthday he forgot. Thirty-fuckin’-eight. He grabbed the clanking paper sack, pocketing fresh smokes, thinking, Light upstairs is dwindlin’, old boy.

A child approached the counter, grimy hands ransacking a licorice jar. Mom was having trouble holding twin boxes of Merlot.

“Get yer hands outta dere, Jake! Come help.”

“Ah, just a couple?”

“I said, no!” She set a box down to smack his skull.

Alvi got goose bumps: familiar pains of youth. The cashier sprinkled change. He left it on the counter, nodding towards the boy. “G’head, kid. Grab all you can for eighty cents.”

“Thanks buddy!”

A grin washed over Alvi as the kid clawed the jar with filthy black nails. One of those things he’d wished would’ve happened, back then.

Mother sent Alvi scornful eyes, floating crunched dollars for her supply.

“Sorry, lady—struck a chord. Your boy reminds me of someone I knew.”

She prissed.

He winked at the kid, whispering, “Don’t worry, Jake. I turned out all right.”

Out the parking lot, Alvi’s need for the bottle nearly had him crash into a walking man, shirtless and leathered. He sighed, cursing stupidity before soldiering on. Had been a while since he drove this stretch in daylight. Signage for a foot doctor spun up ahead; a sad foot with arms and legs wobbled on crutches. Tried to remember the last time he was welcomed by the happy healthy foot, on its flipside.

The short dog cracked at a red on Sanborn. He hunched over for mouth numbing nips; friendly drips burned the esophagus. Surrounding sidewalks were alive and hip. Slender bodies rotted in magnificent sun. Sunset Junction had newfangled charm but Alvi missed those pre-gentrified days. He fixated on a flamboyant stud, weaving through idle commuters, waving a baby chainsaw, screaming, “Five-bucks, people! Who wants it?” This peddler had been around for years, living in a gypsy commune behind the Jiffy Lube. Usually carried a rainbow flag, wearing only cut-offs, always slanging something odd for survival. By the flabbergasted looks towards today’s appendage slicer, the bargain seemed a no go. The peddler couldn’t care less, swinging his sharp toothed apparatus like Townsend at Leeds. Was nice to see something remained wild on the beat.

The pill-booze punch began to swell.

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