Date: Tue, 16 Jan 2024 20:39:14 +0000 From: CraigsMyth <1craigs.mith@proton.me> Subject: gay / adult youth - Pervy Neighbor - 7 This fiction. All characters are fiction. Nothing is real. Nothing. Keep the server forges burning. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html Pervy Neighbor - 7 ++++++ Work. It is what it is. We are slaves to the dollar. We get up, do things we don't want to, find what little joy we can in making the cans straight, helping old feeble peeps to their cars and making dirty loors clean. It fills my day. I finish fronting the shelves, making the customers find their beans easier and selling more beans, and find myself in the staff room pulling off my hideous green apron. It reminds me of Larry and his kilt. I think that might be cool to try, something different. I make a mental note to buy one. I grab my coat and make my way to the parking lot. I walk to the end of the lot. It's not there. What? It's always there. I park at the end of the lot under the sign. It's so far away from the door, people don't want to park there and it's close to the exit. It's blank. I look around. I parked there? I replay my memory. Park. Lock the doors. Walk to the doors. I parked there. It's gone. Stolen. I am pissed. I walk to the store. Half way. I run. On my way to the door that was an "Out" door and now is an "In" door, I start to cry. I run in the store. "Call the police," I sob. Everyone in the store is looking at me. A hot mess. Clair, my frumpy manager says, "Andre! What's going on?" "Stolen." I sob, "My car is stolen." "You parked in a different spot?" "I know where I parked. My car is gone." "I'll get the phone." She disappears to the back. Red and blue lights. I sit on the the sidewalk and have pulled myself together. Mostly. The cops don't help much, "Who is it registered to?" "Dad." "Names, not titles." The cop isn't interested in finding my car. I explain the logistics of the car and he tells me, "Could be a junkie selling his stuff. We can't search for something that isn't stolen." He leaves me crying on the sidewalk. I shuffle my tears to the back and find my phone. I call Larry. "Hey bud. Just got home. What's up?" His voice is uber cheery. A burst of sadness runs through me and I cry into the phone. Larry's mood changes in that instant, "Dude. What's going on? Talk to me." "My car is stolen. The cops think it's Dad. They won't help." "Give me twenty. I'll pick you up and we can sort this out." He says. He doesn't pry and ask uncomfortable questions. He shows up four minutes early, his crusty old Volvo station wagon appears in the parking lot. I climb in. "I've been thinking," Larry always skips the hellos for some reason, "And I think that your car probably isn't stolen at all. It is registered to your Dad?" "Pragmatic as always. Yes. Dad was supposed to give it to me this fall." I sniffle. "Okay. I can fix this. Oh, thanks for helping out at the bath house. I made a boat load of cash. You have no idea how much you saved my ass. That ass, Domingo, Daryl, could have ruined my business. He used to be a customer, but came to know Meth on a very intimate level. I'm not saying your dad is on the same path. Anyway, there were two old guys that came to my bath house. They are wealthy. It was their first time. They had expectations. Domingo's timing was bad. Your timing was good. I especially liked the way you chambered a round in his pistol. Anyway, you made me, roughly the sum of a small used old car in one night. So I will return the favor." I am not sure I heard him right, "Huh?" "Your car is gone. That's a fact. We can fix that." Larry wheels the car into a car lot with banners, ballons and large lettered signs all over. "What?" I am not sure. "Let's take a look." Larry says. My red eyes must be nearly glowing from my crying. Larry looks over and smiles. He doesn't care. The car lot is filled with cars well beyond my meager bank account. Seventy Five bucks. We get out and look the lot. I love the two seater cars, the sports cars, but they are pricey. "How about this one?" Larry says as he taps a gray older Porsche. It is a convertible. "Yeah. That's cool." I try and fail to hide my enthusiasm. "Let's talk to the slimy salesman." Larry says. I shut up as Larry works the salesman over. He is a power. He starts off asking about the Volkswagon and goes to minivans. Bob, the salesman, is trying to coral Larry. Larry moves over to the Lamborini knock off. Bob smiles thinking he's got a sucker. Larry asks about the Porche. He corners him and buys the car. It's an incredible amount of money. Larry does the paperwork. It's lengthy. I am on the deed, and Larry punches his phone transfering the money. Keys are in my hand and I start to cry. Again. But for completely different reasons. No one has ever done anything like this for me before. Larry tries to tell me something mundane, like it is nothing, and I grab him. I hug him fiercely. I hold onto his crusty old carcass and feel warmth, love. I drive. The car is tight. Everything is awesome. I drop the top. The wind blows through my hair. Larry rides shotgun, his car, we stashed it at his house. My heart pounds. My windy road, the road that goes by my house, and Larry's, has curves and corners. It's set back from the hustle and bustle of city life, and the car eats the curves. The hills come and go and become more familiar as we near my house. Smoke. I don't understand. Smoke means death, around here. We had wildfires that devoured houses last year, where it poured smoke into the pristine blue sky creating havoc and chaos. I drive, but slow. Larry sees the smoke, "Keep going." "The familiar corners keep coming and I round the final one. My house is on fire. I inhale. "Pull over." Larry tells me. I see my house from the road. Flames pour out of my bedroom window, what used to be my bedroom window before I changed my room to my Dad's old office. I have no more tears left to shed. I watch and feel my life implode. The flames wash over everything. There is no stopping this. It consumes. I shake. Uncontrollably. The flames lick my house without emotion. It is a force. A force of the elements that do whatever they do regardless of our petty little lives. The orange flames belch black smoke agreeing with my philosophy. I feel the tears run down my face. My old house was burning. My old life was burning, physically. It had long since burned, but now my eyes told me it was real. Very real. The black collumn of smoke rises into the sky. I sob. If there was an end to the world as we know it, this is it. My house is lost. My blue car, gone. Nothing stopped me from melting. Larry called the emergency number and talked like everything would be fine. We moved into the house when I was nine. The fire would burn. There was already nothing to save. Everything is lost. Larry talks to emergency. He talks like something can be saved. Red flashing lights. Hoses. Water. The house crumbles. It's gone. All of it. Larry has his arm around me. He tells me everything is going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay, is the opposite of truth. Everything is good and truly fucked.