Rhodes

Prologue

PROLOGUE

            There comes a time in every person’s life where they cannot be bothered to make a decision. For Arthur Rhodes—that’s me!—this was no foreign feeling, especially at 11 P.M, in a Bypass shop, with one NOFX album in my hand, and two pornos to choose from. “Star Whores” or “Six Degrees of Penetration”? I never quite liked long titles, so I grabbed the one with Darth Vader fondling Princess Leia’s breasts and proceeded toward the check-out aisles.

            There was no line when I arrived toward the front, just a chubby, beer-gut ginger reading a magazine and trying not to drool over the register. But trying would be an over-exaggeration. With or without saliva, he was the only worker on duty, so I approached him with the CD and DVD and put them on the counter. He sighed, realizing he had to work, and scanned the album. He grabbed the porn and studied the cover and backside, grunting with disapproval. He glanced up at me, narrowed his brows, and stuck out his palm.

            “I’ll need an I.D, my friend.” He said in a slight Southern accent. I groaned internally for my early pubescent looks at age twenty-one, but handed him my driver’s license nonetheless. He looked at it then glanced back up at me with a cocked eyebrow. Once he was done, he handed me back my I.D and scanned the movie, making it a total of $22.78. I handed him my money (well, technically not my money) and grabbed the plastic bag.

            “Please, do come again,” The ginger said in a dull, apathetic voice. I could sense sarcasm as well.

            “G'night,” I replied with a yawn.

            When I came home, Lloyd, my subtly gay roommate and interior designer extraordinaire, was playing Street Fighter II, a game he won in a bet. The arcade game sat awkwardly in the kitchen, seeing as our apartment was small, and Lloyd was really bad at spacial reasoning.

            “What’d you get?” Lloyd asked, getting back into his game. I set the environmentally friendly plastic bag on our ketchup-stained table and took out its contents.

            “I got NOFX’s Punk in Drublic,” I said, “featuring the world renowned single, ‘Don’t Call Me White’.”

            “Nice, nice. And?”

            “Star Whores; Feel the Force.”

            Lloyd slapped the side of the game when he lost, but quickly made his way over to check out what I bought. He was more interested in the pornographic movie, though. He frowned after inspecting it a little more.

            “What? Are we all straight in this apartment now?”

            I rolled my eyes, “Bypass is a homophobic shit hole, man.”

            “Wow,” Lloyd sighed, “You’d think a porno store would be more accepting.”

            I laughed, patted his back, and snatched the DVD from his fingers. At least one of us should be able to enjoy it. Besides, I like puns. Lloyd scoffed, but grabbed the album instead. He flicked the disc against his fingers as he leaned against the counter.

            “Hey,” Lloyd said, cracking his knuckles, “I’m gonna make like Tigger and bounce tonight. I might not be back until tomorrow, ya know what I mean?”

            At this, my lips curled into a frown. My head was already submerged into our fridge, looking for anything edible and without questionable mold growing around the edges. My best bet was some left over spaghetti from when Lloyd’s mom came to visit.

            “Ugh, dude.” I muttered, ripping off the aluminum foil from the bowl.

            “What?”

            “Your sex life bugs me out.”

            “It’s ‘cause I’m gay, isn’t it?”

            “Yeah,” I nodded, putting spaghetti on my paper plate, “It’s ‘cause you’re gay. As if. Don’t be an idiot, Loy.”

            “Whatever. I’ll bring you back something. Maybe.”

            Lloyd straightened up from the counter top and fixed his black tee. He never wore logo shirts or flannel, which was odd for a guy living in the 90s. Even I was wearing a Goosebumps t-shirt with my yellow sweater wrapped around my waist. He passed me, but not before gloating the NOFX album. Immediately, I grabbed his arm and shook my head.

            “My money,” He whined.

            “You are not the one who’s gonna be alone all night. Drop it, b.”

            His face contorted to something between anger, frustration, and whimpiness. He gave back the CD and just ducked under my arm toward the door. He grabbed his denim jacket (free of buttons and stickers) and bolted out the door, only to come back a minute later and swing the door back open.

            “Oh, and your turn to grab the laundry.”

            He dodged the spoon I threw by closing the door with his pathetic laughter on the other side. Sighing, I heated my meal and put the NOFX album in our small, garage sale boom box. I sat down at my kitchen table as I ate spaghetti and listened to punk music at midnight, alone. I couldn’t help but wonder as I intertwined noodles onto my fork if this was as good as it gets. 

A/N: It starts off slow, yeah. Give it a chance. - Parker