Perfect Neon
798 Words
Perfect Neon
Boris L. Glebov
Alex sat on the edge of the roof, his feet dangling four stories above the street and his hands thrust firmly into the pockets of his greasy jeans. The past day’s heat was still radiating off the bricks and the asphalt. Below and across the street, an eager crowd was swelling out of the Silver Coliseum.
Behind him, a door briefly opened and then closed again, spilling a burst of music and conversations that all blended together.
“Hey, you’re Alex, right?” The voice was energetic and upbeat. He nodded without turning around.
“Didn’t you guys play Damien’s party like a week or two ago?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought I’d recognized you. You guys were pretty alright. That was some cool stuff.”
Alex looked up as the girl circled into his view. Then he hung his head again. “Nah, we sucked. We suck kind of a lot.”
“So? Everyone sucks. You have to, right? The Clash were pretty bad.”
“What are you talking about?” His eyes darted up from the street.
“I mean like way early. Early-early. Before they were The Clash. A friend of mine played an early club bootleg of them….”
“No way!”
“I know! That s**t belongs in a museum. Anyway, pretty damn terrible. You guys didn’t suck, like, as much.” She frowned and bobbed her head from side to side, mentally weighing the possibilities. Then added more definitively, “As much.”
She sat down on the low brick wall and leaned against the aging chimney.
“Yeah, I get—I get it!” He raised his hands in mock surrender and cracked a smile. “Still, kinda wish we didn’t suck, you know? Really pulling for when we get to be The Clash. Our own Clash.” He vaguely gestured toward the theater across the street.
She closed one eyed and squared the marquee with her fingers.
“What are you guys called? Your band.”
“The Diner Heroes.”
She snorted. “Ha, what’s that about? Like the sandwich?”
“No, we all work the kitchen in the same diner. It’s up on Miller Road. The one with the giant chrome cowboy.” He mimicked the wooden hand wave and the bend-at-the-waist bow.
“No way! That place is a treasure.”
The conversation hit a lull. White noise of unintelligible voices filtered in from the party and up from the street.
“So what was the deal with the blond chick? She kind of ran outta here. D’you say something to her?”
“Gave her my number.” He held up a movie ticket stub with a number scrawled along an edge.
She looked at him quizzically.
“She stuck it under a beer can. Thought I wouldn’t notice.”
“Some rock star you are.” She guffawed and snapped the ticket out of Alex’s hand. “Hey, you went to see Grindhouse?”
“Yeah, that was my fifth time. Best car chase I’ve ever seen.”
“The one in Death Proof? Hell yeah it is. Hey, I work at the Brickhouse—stop by the booth next time. I’ll get you a free popcorn. Just ask for Isabella. Or La Lagarta, a lot of people call me that.”
“La Lagarta?” This piqued something in Alex’s memory.
“Well, La Lagarta Rápida if you wanna be formal. My brother started calling me that when I was a baby, and it stuck.”
“Wait, whoa, like, the La Lagarta Rápida?”
“Ah…can’t say I’ve met any other ones.”
“You draw Los Grandes Beanbots?” Alex pulled himself up, fully turning toward Isabella.
“Yeah, I do—heard of it?”
“Totally. Your comic is dope!”
“It sucks. It kinda sucks a lot.”
Alex laughed. Isabella took out a fine-ink marker and started spinning it between her fingers.
“I just thought La Lagarta was a big deal. Didn’t really expect her to hang out at a party like this.”
“So I’m not a big deal just because I work at a movie theater? Or hang out at a party with a cooler full of cheapo cans?”
“That’s not…not really how—everyone has to suck, right?” He fumbled with the words in an apologetic kind of way.
“Sure, but it’s nice not to.” She grinned at him, the way Technicolor Zorro would grin just before leaping off a mission church onto his horse and escaping into the night. Her face was outlined in the perfect neon glow of Silver Coliseum’s marquee and it made her eyes gleam.
Someone rapped on the glass door. Isabella quickly looked toward the party, smiled, gave a thumbs up, then stood up with an easy jump. Isabella handed the ticket stub back to Alex and he palmed it unconsciously.
“Hey, I gotta go. My ride’s leaving. See you around, rock star.” She took a couple slow, stiff steps and kicked an empty Natty Light can. Then she stopped and spun around, loose gravel grinding under her Doc Martens, clicked her tongue, and pointed a finger gun at his clenched hand. With that she disappeared inside the crowded loft.
Alex unfolded his hand and there, in a row of perfectly printed digits right under his own chicken scratch, was a second number.
- Writer
