my first short story.

[greene-machine.livejournal.com]

Greetings, I'm new to this community and livejournal as well.  I recently wrote a short story for my Beginning Fiction Writing Workshop class... and my opinion is that the only way to get better as a writer is to get feedback from others, so any feedback about the story would be appreciated. Thank you! 

My earliest memory is of a neon green dollar sign.  I was four, walking along the street for some reason or another flanked by my parents, each of them holding one of my hands.  I happened to look up and see this dollar sign in a window, radiating a color that is plentiful in convoluted glass tubes all across this city but can be found nowhere in nature.  

"Four years old and already seeing dollar signs, she's on the right path!"  Dad joked.  

"I can see it now, our little Lily is going to make Mommy and Daddy very proud one day. Maybe she’ll even take over the family business once we're too old to count our money."  They laughed a rich laugh.   Then they looked in towards me and tilted their heads slightly as they sighed happily.  I had no idea what they were talking about, I just liked the color green.  

They were talking about their casino.  That was the 'family business', even though it actually wasn't a family business at all. My parents were the only people related to me that had ever owned it, but they had high hopes of either me or my sister (or both) taking over one day.  They loved every inch of cheesy carpet, every molecule of stale cigarette stench, and the fact that people with everything to lose would walk through the door and lose everything.  They were on the winning end of a win-lose situation, and they were happy.  As long as their customers' bank accounts were running dry, they would stay happy.

I didn’t really understand why they liked it so much.  They'd bring me there when I was growing up to show me all that behind-the-scenes shit that kids are expected to marvel at with wide eyes and wonder how they could someday be in charge of something so important.  But none of that stuff really interested me. No matter how intricate the vaults and security rooms were, I couldn't stop thinking about the customers.  Those poor, poor people would sit in front of slot machines for hours on end, drinking away their meager profits (if they made a profit at all), only breaking their trance to realize their two gallon bucket of quarters had vanished mysteriously, just like the time they had spent in that godforsaken place.  Watching those people made me sad even as a child before I could explain why, but I'd spend time there anyway because I had no reason not to.  Sometimes my sister and I would walk there after school if there was nothing else going on.  We never really talked about whether she liked it there or not, in fact, most of my memories of her are of conversations we never had. 

One Sunday afternoon during the summer that I was ten and she was sixteen, Mom and Dad and I went for a quick trip to the casino and she stayed home. I don't remember why she stayed behind, probably a feeble excuse of homework or PMS. I guess it really doesn't matter.  After, Mom and Dad wanted to go out for food but I wasn't hungry and it was still light out, so I walked the three blocks home instead.  As I turned the corner onto our street, I noticed a crowd slowly forming in front of our building and the people were speaking in fast, important sentences. I got closer and realized there was something on the ground everybody was looking at, standing in a circle around, getting closer to examine but then backing up, covering their mouths, shameful of their own curiosity. I wondered if our upstairs neighbor had gotten shitfaced and passed out on the sidewalk wearing a less-than-acceptable amount of clothing. It wouldn’t have been the first time.  

But this crowd’s object of interest wasn't our neighbor. It was my sister. Above her, the window to our fifth floor apartment was hanging open. Gaping. Exposing. The white curtains hung motionless in stagnant, humid air.  I couldn’t believe it. How could anyone justify taking that leap?  I wondered for a short while if it was some sort of accident.  If maybe our alcoholic neighbor had come downstairs to push her out or something.  I took advantage of my small size and squeezed my way through the crowd to look at her, lying there face-down on the pavement.  No matter how it happened, I did know enough to know that bodies weren't supposed to bend in the way hers was bent and there was much more blood than the amount that trickles from a scraped knee. I had never seen so much blood, and still haven’t.  She would not be getting up.  

My parents had their cell phones off in the restaurant, so they leisurely enjoyed their expensive dinner and didn't find out until they got home.  The ambulance had already come, in vain, and gone.  So had the crowd. The policemen that stayed to watch over me respectfully removed their hats when they explained to my parents what happened.  They all cried.  The day is kind of a blur to me after that. My parents went to the hospital to see the body where my sister's life used to be but I stayed home.  I think I just went to bed.  I did not know how I was supposed to feel.  My feelings pertaining to my sister had always been like that.  Maybe because I was so young, but probably because she treated me like lint and I didn’t know why. I realized that even though our rooms and lives were separated by just one thin wall, I didn’t know anything about her.

The day after she died, Dad searched her room for a note, but there wasn’t one.  That was the last time anybody went in her room, until eight years later.  Until my eighteenth birthday.  After school that day my parents were gone like usual, and I went in.  I’d outlived my sister, and had begun to wonder about her. I sat on her bed.  I opened her window and looked outside. I left the window ajar as I began looking through her desk drawers.  It had been so long, and it's not like there was a reason for anyone to mind me invading the privacy of someone that didn't exist anymore.  I found some old pictures of her with her friends at a birthday party when she was thirteen or so, and she seemed happy enough.  

Then I found her journal.

I'm not going to go into detail about what I read in that little purple book.  But I will tell you that I could feel her unrelenting pain and I could feel her hatred for this city and I could feel her resentment toward my parents for contributing to the nonstop neon madness.  It made me so sad.  Sad that she was sad.  It’s easy to feel helpless in this city, in any city, and she did.  I read every page of that book, front to back.  I couldn't stop, how could I?  I finally felt like I was getting to know her. That was how I spent my birthday, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

By the time I read her journal I was old enough to start realizing on my own some of the things she had realized about Las Vegas.  How all the tourists are just greyhounds running around a track, chasing unattainable dollar bills being waved in front of their faces by people like my parents.  How everyone is only interested in the fucking money.  How the flashing lights and extravagant displays were only there to distract people from what Las Vegas truly was: a city of greedy tycoons and people willing to help them; everybody just hoping to get their piece of the pie, no matter how unethical the means. I had a bad taste in my mouth about it all, but no one else my age seemed to so I just kept my mouth shut. Every night I would spend time in my sister's room and know that there was at least one other person who felt the same way about Vegas as I did.  Even if she wasn't alive anymore.  I’d sit on her bed, look out the window, and sometimes fall asleep promising myself not to let the city get to me like it got to her. 

Fall weather came and nights cooled down so I would open the window to avoid being stifled by the fact that somebody had decided to end their life in the room I was in.  Spending a few months’ worth of nights in her bedroom aged me more than anything in my entire previous eighteen years. I became so frustrated looking out that window.  This city had killed my sister.  By ten o'clock every night most of the people on the streets were wasted, and regardless of whether they were happy drunks or sad drunks, their eyes shone with those neon green dollar signs. They were blind to the fact that all they would wake up with was an empty wallet and a hangover.  

I didn't have many friends at school, but I had some.  Like Mark, who sat behind me in Chemistry. I guess I could call him a friend.  His parents owned a liquor store and it was easy for him to take a handle every once in a while without them noticing.  He'd get me vodka whenever I asked.  I drank while I sat in my sister’s room.  It wasn't because I was depressed or anything like that, I just wanted to feel something different, better.   Mark stole me a flask once, too.  I hadn't requested it, and when I asked him why he got it he said he couldn’t think of a better way to show me that he was in love with me.  I accepted the gift, but told him to shut up. I knew he didn't love me, he just liked looking at my tits.  I caught him staring all the fucking time.  I only put up with it because I didn't feel like finding another alcohol connection.

With the winter came an inexplicable inner turmoil.  Contemplating things in my sister's room had been a good outlet for my thoughts, but it wasn't enough anymore.  Animosity for my surroundings had been festering in my chest and I was ready to explode. I started climbing down the fire escape to roam the city at night because walking seemed to calm my mind.  Plus now that I had a flask I could bring vodka with me.  It was stupid; a slightly intoxicated eighteen-year-old girl walking the streets of Las Vegas at night is basically asking for something bad to happen, but I needed it.  Whatever it was about walking around the city at night that made me feel better, it seemed worth the risk.  I guess I did it because I realized that I was alone.  My parents were always at the casino, my sister was gone, and most everybody else was so caught up in the Las Vegas state of mind that I couldn't stand to be around them. After a while I started recognizing a few faces at night, other wanderers. Lots of them were homeless people, but there were respectable businessmen types too.  You could tell who had what kind of money by the thickness of coat they had on.  I wore nothing but average clothing as to not draw attention to myself.  The alcohol helped warm my insides, mitigating the bite of the icy air.  I simultaneously dreaded and yearned to see somebody familiar in the nighttime neon sunshine.

One night, and for many nights after, I did see someone familiar.  Nate Tomlinson. I’d gone to school with him since he moved to the city a few years before.  That kid was filthy rich.  His parents owned a casino, too, but one three times bigger and brighter than my parents'.  At least he wasn't ostentatious about his wealth though, it pisses me off when people are like that. He wore normal clothes and didn't talk himself up like the other rich kids did.  Actually, in all the years I had been seeing him at school, I don’t think I had ever heard him utter a single word.  

Two months after I started seeing him at night, I was walking home from school and felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Hey, uh, Lily right?" It was him.

"Yeah... Nate?" I pretended not to know.

"Mhm.  I just thought I'd let you know that your pants don't fit." What? He didn’t say this in a menacing way like you might imagine.  It was friendly, playful. But still I was caught off guard.  Obviously.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" 

"They're practically falling off you.  Maybe it's all that walking you do.  I see you out there almost every night."  I didn't know he had ever seen me, and was secretly glad. I was going to lie and say I was walking somewhere important, to some glamorous nighttime job, but then decided to let my guard down and be honest. 

"Yeah, I do walk a lot.  It just calms me down I guess." 

"Really? I do the same thing. Nowhere to go, just people-watching."  I was surprised for some reason, that someone else my age did it too. I was also surprised at how comfortable this made me feel, or rather at how it made me realize how uncomfortable I had been before.  I started to feel some sort of curious affection for Nate, but didn’t know what to say.

“Anyway, next time I see you out I’ll come say hi. Maybe we could get an ice cream or something, it’ll help you fit into those pants better.” 

We smiled at each other and parted.  Next thing I knew, I had walked eight blocks. Our conversation had consumed my thoughts the whole way home.

Turns out, Nate was a lot like me. He was so over Las Vegas.  He had moved here from Boston in seventh grade so I had been here longer, but that didn’t matter.  He was already just as jaded as I was.  I started taking my walks with him every night. We’d meet up on the corner of East Charleston and 593, roaming until the small hours as we talked and smoked cigarettes and shared liquor from my flask.  I had never talked to anyone in my entire life as much as I talked to him.  We talked about anything, everything.  I always looked forward to being with him.

One Saturday night in mid-February, Nate and I almost didn’t go out because the weather was absolutely terrible.  It couldn’t have been more than 25 degrees, accompanied by a harsh, unrelenting wind.  I was a bit more inebriated than usual on this particular night, but the chill in the air was inescapable even with warmed blood.  I don’t think I’ve ever been more cold in my entire life.  That fact combined with my vodka-induced lack of constraint gave me the guts to edge in closer towards Nate and link my arm around his.  The very second I made this bold move, a man walking a few feet ahead slowed his pace, stood still for a moment, then proceeded to double over and puke violently right in front of us on the sidewalk.  We were, unfortunately, within the splash zone, and both Nate and I got a bit of it on our boots.  If I had been by myself this would have disgusted me beyond belief, and I mean, it was definitely gross, but for some reason the fact that Nate and I were experiencing it together made it hilarious.  We hurried past the drunken vomiting man and then burst into laughter.  

“Seriously? Did that seriously just happen?” I said, catching my visible breath and trying to shake my shoes free of whatever that man had eaten for dinner. “They should establish a  limit on the number of drinks they can offer players at the blackjack table, Jesus.”

“Well if they did that, then people wouldn’t stay half as long.  And you know what that means.”

“What?”  I asked, even though I could tell where he was going with this.

“People wouldn’t hand over half as much of their money.”

“Riiiight.  How could I be so naive?”  I replied sarcastically.  It had long ago become apparent to me how and why casinos operate.

“I don’t know, but that’s what I like about you.  Some part of you still wants to believe that Las Vegas isn’t a complete shithole.”  

“No, Las Vegas is definitely a shithole.  Seriously, in the long run, what are our options here? Let’s see there’s... bartending, working at the casino, going to... police school... is that what they call it when you want to be a cop?”

“I have no idea.  But I bet they have a fancier name for it.”

“Yeah, probably. Like... police academy, or... police training center.”  He paused before replying to my mindless ramble.

“God, you’re so cute when you’re drunk.”  I smiled and glanced up at him. He was already looking at me with a smitten expression. 

“Shut up,” I said, returning my gaze to our surroundings, trying to hide my grin.  “But really, can you imagine living here for the rest of our lives?  What would we do?”

“I don’t know, I mean, we’ve both got jobs lined up with our parents already.  They’d probably cut us off if we left Vegas to do something else.” 

“But that’s bullshit, they shouldn’t be able to dictate what I do with my life, ya know?” I noticed myself getting a little worked up and let out a sigh to cool off. “You’re right though, I guess we’re pretty much stuck here.  We’re so used to having all this money, we probably wouldn’t survive on our own.”

“Nah, we could do it if we really wanted to.  It would be an adjustment, but we could do it.”  I paused to consider what he had just said.  If we wanted to live on our own, we’d probably have to get full-time jobs and live simpler lives than we had grown accustomed to, but that wouldn’t be so terrible.  He had been speaking theoretically, but supporting ourselves started seeming like it was actually feasible.  

“Let’s go, then.” I blurted.

“What? Go where?”

“I don’t know.... Tahoe, San Diego, L.A...  the middle of nowhere for all I care.” I began tugging at his arm, hoping it would convey my point further. “Come on, you just said it yourself... we could do it, we could get out of here!  No more casinos, no more parents.  Why not?” As I found these words coming out of my mouth I was trying to convince myself as much as I was trying to convince him, that this was a risk worth taking. His expression slowly evolved from doubtful to thoughtful, and I could tell that he was seeing what I was seeing: an opportunity.

“I’m not saying tonight, or even this week.  But Nate, I don’t think I can stand this city much longer.”

“Let’s sleep on it.”

So we slept on it.  And after weeks of deliberation, we decided to make our departure after graduation, in May.  Vegas would be bearable for a few more months.  

When the time came, we had saved almost $1000.  We were ready.  The only thing holding me back was that I felt guilty about abandoning my parents.  They had already lost one child, and I was making them relive that again.  But if I wanted to maintain some shred of sanity, I had to leave.  I had to do this for myself. I knew that If I told them our plan ahead of time they would find some way to keep me in Vegas.  So I did what my sister didn’t: I left a note.  I wanted them to know that I was safe, I was going to be happy where I was going, and that it wasn’t their fault I was leaving.  Now that I think about it though, I guess it kind of was their fault, because who honestly thinks Vegas is a good place to raise a kid?  

We bought a shitty used car for $200 cash, then stocked up on food and cigarettes before we left town. The high-rise city buildings became smaller buildings became desert.  Las Vegas grew distant behind us.  It was glowing audaciously in the fading daylight.  We were heading due west and directly in front of us was the sun, setting oranges and reds and pinks that melted into each other such that you couldn’t draw a line between them if you tried.  You would never be able to find colors that beautiful inside a neon tube.

We had planned to drive straight through the night but didn't realize how draining it would be to travel on lonely two-lane roads through the desert.  It was three A.M. when we pulled to the shoulder of the desolate road and reclined our seats, preparing for sleep.

“Remember when I came up to you that day after school and told you that your pants didn’t fit?”  I chuckled affirmatively.  “I didn’t really mean it in a bad way, like, I wasn’t trying to be a jerk or anything. I just wanted to talk to you.” 

“I know.”  I understandingly replied.  I began to drift off to sleep in the comfortable silence.

“Lily?” Nate asked in the dark, even though he knew I was there.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.” I smiled.  I could have smiled forever.

“I love you, too, Nate.”  There was something new about the air and I could feel that he was smiling too, over in the driver’s seat.  As I stared at the rusted metal roof above me, my smile widened as I realized that I had made it out alive.  There was nowhere I would have rather been.