Space Junk excerpt - chapter one

[The following is an excerpt from the completed, unpublished novel Space Junk by JD Fox]

Part 1: Launchpad

Deeper shades of red descending
smear our names, the stains unending
(Dark Tranquillity "The Wonders at Your Feet")


1: Hugh

“I have an Xbox, too!”

The sloppy, thick-tongued voice irritated Hugh and he fought the ensuing grayness to his thoughts it encouraged. Not today, please not today. Same old story, same old verse. It's neither a gift nor a curse, it just is.

Hugh's vision shifted to his left index finger and the skin connecting the upper knuckles. Earlier teeth marks were no longer visible. Self-consciousness kept his hand down and that bad habit at bay.

Stupid geographic proximity.

Why couldn’t he live in Felden’s Crossing like Derek? The Crossing's mismatched architecture evoked verisimilitude. The Ranch's copy-and-paste pretension stolen from Oooh and Ahhh Monthly summoned prevaricated conformity.

“You do not.”

“Yes, I do, Huewee!”

Hugh cringed at Rory's version of his name. Rory had called him that since they were little kids. It never bothered him before.

BD, that is.

Before Derek.

His gaze returned to Rory. Hugh would rather his vision be occupied by Derek of the perfectly messed-up black hair. And not by Rory of the not black, imperfectly messed-up, quasi-red horror-show hair.

Rory's speech had improved, though some words still discombobulated him. An apparent surplus of Ws, Rory splattered saliva-filled breaths across butchered syllables; stringy consonants kept slaughterhouse vowels alive long enough to die slow deaths.

Heck, Rory couldn’t even pronounce his own name correctly. Rs were contentious. If he concentrated, he could say the first R in a given word. Subsequent Rs broadsided him in moments of excitement, stress, or stupidity.

Rory’s last name was Rodenroctor.

“Oh, just ignore him, Hue,” Callen said, his own undiluted vision baptized by Derek. He picked at an imprudent lump of grass that had pushed itself up by its roots through cracked pavement.

The Don't Give A Shits formed a squashed circle at the far end of the Little Shits playground. An adjacent fence protected the hallowed baseball diamond from those deemed unworthy. Steroid-infused testosterone lines connected its bases.

The Littlest Shits school day had just ended. The jaws of the yellow monsters opened up and swallowed the students one by one. Whistles blown by teachers cracked through screams, giggles, and occasional tears. A handful of second-graders still populated the swings, having been there all period. A tired-looking woman blew incessantly, believing that sound alone could bring the children to her.

The Big Shits school day would likewise soon be ending, relying on bells instead of Derek to tell them when to leave.

The Biggest Shits of all would ooze out onto the field, having finished their self-aggrandizing pats on backs. Or butts depending; pre-game circle jerks marked another banner year of hitting balls with sticks. Go Amoebas. If practice made perfect, then the Biggest Shits should be damn near divinity: two or three hours on the mowed sacrosanct each and every day. Except Sunday, of course. That particular day was holy; God asleep at the wheel and all that. Out of mutual respect for Sabbatarian hangovers, both team and coach rested.

It would bother the Biggest Shits to see Derek and the Don’t Give A Shits sitting there. Even with the fence.

Derek sat with his back pressed against a telephone pole that oddly enough didn't connect to the school. Instead, the wire originated at the pole itself and went off into the not so blue yonder.

“Besides, your parents couldn't even afford one. So why don’t you just go on home? Go shuck corn, fuck your pig, play with your mother's snatch, or do whatever it is you inbreeds do for fun. We don't care. Just leave us the fuck alone.” This suggestion from Martin. Uneven laughter.

Humor belied truth. The Rodenroctors were, if not rich, definitely on the upward path of middle-class. That is why they were able to live next to Hugh in Caligar's Ranch.

Hugh's folks were theoretically teachers.

Mom and Dad Berris still taught at Kelington University, but they no longer had any papers to grade. Or students, for that matter. Hugh wondered what it would be like to be a student without teachers or homework.

Hugh didn’t know what Rory’s parents did for a living. Rory showed Hugh one of their checkbooks during a sleep-over. Hugh didn’t realize you could have that much money in one account.

Having money and doing something with it didn’t always coincide. Rory looked sufficiently well-fed if unkempt beneath his tucked-in, buttoned-up, blue oxford. Yet toys at his house were all but nonexistent. The likelihood of the Rodenroctors splurging on something like an Xbox would be slight. Not impossible, just doubtful.

“I d-do, t-too.”

“Shh,” Hugh said.

“Yeah, Sh-Sh-Shh!” Martin said.

“W-why d-don’t you go home, W-Wory,” Hugh mocked. Ashamed, Hugh still managed to keep his color neutral. Rory, though, turned an obvious crimson; the color of a red dwarf before its layers collapse. This added to the detached amusement of the other Don't Give A Shits, prompting Hugh to continue: “Go on home to your c-castle, W-wory. Wory the W-wed King!”

Derek snorted.

Hearing Derek's reaction, Callen grimaced.

“Now, that’s not nice, Hue." Martin said. "After all, Rory is famous. He voiced all those cartoons. Fuck Mel Blanc. It was actually Wory the Wonder Wad!”

“St-st-top it, Mahtin!”

“Oh, St-st-top it! Just top it!” Martin said.

Rory’s eyes flooded. Hugh knew he should do something to stop the tears. It was up to him. It was always up to him. His stomach knotted and his knuckle beckoned. Eyes scrutinized the ground, afraid to meet Rory's plea. Or bewildered reproach.

Clear lava flowed down Rory's cheeks. Redness penetrated pigment. Martin opened his mouth to comment. Rory sniffled hard and squelched trembling. Before Martin could add to his taunt, Rory ran away.

“Th-th-that’s all, folks,” Martin said.

“So my dads said," Derek continued from a few minutes ago as if uninterrupted, "that if I helped them out with inventory all of September – which, of course, I did, being the Numero Uno Good Son that I am – they would get me an Xbox SE, which, of course, they did. This weekend being near the end of both the eighth Roman month and the tenth Gregorian month, I thought what more fitting way to . . ."

“I thought you already had a PlayStation 2,” Callen said, cutting Derek off. Envy laced suspicion and other emotions.

"Well, yeah. And your point being . . .”

“Wait a minute,” Martin said, paying more attention to the conversation now that his target of torment was gone. “There is no such thing as an Xbox SE. You are so full of shit, Derek!”

“Ah, but there is when you have connections. My dear, sweet, anachronistically quaint little Martin. You see, the times have moved substantially beyond the Atari 2600 days of antiquity. Dad2 is a big horror buff and worked on the original Caves of Bledsoe. That naturally included working with the programmers. The software gods have not only designed and updated the game system itself, but they have also begun development of Castle Bledsoe SE. Yours truly, Derek Donald Jamieson, the First and Only, has humbly volunteered to beta test the game.”

“Jesus,” Callen said, “Your dads rock!"

Martin exhaled and shook his head. “Holy shit. Holy fucking shit! I wish my old man liked dick.”

At first, Callen just gave Martin a dirty look. Then he decided that wasn't sufficient and went ahead with his initial impulse; he jabbed Martin with his elbow.

“Ow." Martin rubbed his side. "What the hell's your problem?"

“It’s okay, Callen. Although I can't attest to their own personal likes and dislikes regarding the male anatomy, I can say with certainty that no offense would be taken. My dads have been together so long I doubt they give a rat's testicle what anyone says about them, let alone Martin J. Borostotski! If you told Dad1 'eh, I hear you like dick,' he’d probably say, ‘And your point?'”

Martin stood up, stretched, and yawned.

“Hey, man, it wasn’t like I was making fun of your dad. Or dads. I just wish my own dad was a little less, you know, rigid in his thinking. He is such an uptight prick. Maybe having a great big fat dick up inside him would do him some good." Martin shrugged. "You never know.”

"Did it do you any good?" Hugh asked, surprised at his own audacious words. With Rory gone, the knot in his stomach loosened and he felt like a normal kid. Almost.

Martin pushed him.

Hugh fell over onto the grass. His laughter blended with the similar sounds of his friends.

"Ha-ha. Very funny," Martin said.

Callen threw some grass at Martin. “I can’t picture your dad giving it up the ass, let alone taking it. I mean, Mr. Borostotski? Come on.”

Martin threw his own retaliatory green.

"It'd be a prick within a prick!" Hugh said.

Derek laughed.

Then said, “Hmm. I never thought about it before. You know what? I can’t picture my parents having sex. I find that interesting because I can picture a whole lot of other people having sex . . . just not my dads! Do any of you have clear images of your parents having sex?"

Callen shuddered.

Martin snorted.

Hugh's facial expression hesitated, not knowing whether to consider the question an honest one, a joke, or somewhere in between. He felt the knot in his stomach tighten again. His head began to ache. He mentally counted down from five, reflexively pulling out his own little clumps of terra firma to keep his fingers busy.

Martin studied the sky. Heaven promised rain. It would thrill the Don't Give A Shits to have the Biggest Shits game canceled due to weather. They would give a left testicle to Jehovah's brother for that to happen. Maybe not their own testicle, but still . . .

Despite ominous overtures, rarely did more than a few sprinkles venture from the safety of clouds. Brekdalian water relied on snow.

“I can’t picture my old man eating pussy, let alone cock,” Martin said.

“I don’t know, your mom’s pussy tasted pretty good last night!”

Both Martin and Callen picked up clumps of grass and threw them at Hugh.

“That was so lame, Hue,” Martin said. "Would you like to borrow my gun, so you can put that joke to rest?"

Callen chuckled, but faced Derek again. “Tell us more about your, ahem, so-called job.”

“Hey, It was a real job; I more than paid my dues helping them do inventory all friggin month long.”

“Like that’s real hard work. It’s not like your dads own an aluminum siding company or sell insurance. I wish I could get paid to look at CDs for a couple of hours each day!”

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. My dads are, like, totally into '80s music.”

“I thought you liked '80s music,” Hugh said, drawing from the mental files he had kept on Derek since camp. Two months into the school year, the Derek cabinets overflowed. Eclectic bits of information spilled out into his neural caverns.

Faux paus?

Sweat formed on Hugh's brow. He had finally made it into the ‘in’ crowd. Or at least an ‘in’ crowd. No more Pyu, It’s Hugh. And now, a blunder. His tucked-in oxford constricted his abdomen and his underwear rode up his crack. He had thrown the comment into the group as one of them and it hung in dead air.

Pause.

Then Derek said, “Yeah, man, I do. But if I hear 'Big in Japan' one more time, I’m going to fucking leave the planet!”

Derek continued, “After all, one can have too much of a good thing. I mean, it’s like pussy . . . No, wait, bad example. One can never get enough pussy!”

Laughter.

"That's cause you can't get pussy!" Martin said.

"Your mom gave us hers last night!" Hugh said.

Callen and Martin groaned in chorus. Together, they pushed Hugh over. Derek picked up two handfuls of grass and covered Hugh with it.

"I hereby declare all mother jokes dead, buried, and otherwise eradicated from this fitful Mother Earth. All in favor say, 'Aye'."

Resounding "Ayes" all around, including from the newly buried Hugh.

Cool relief flowed through Hugh. His underwear still needed repositioned, but it no longer seemed important. Self-consciousness had left the building. Thanks for visiting. Hope you enjoyed your stay. Now stay the fuck away. Please.

Hugh sat back up, brushing grass off the front of his blue shirt. He frowned as his conscientious hands made matters worse.

"I don't care what you say, Derek, "Martin said. "You can't have too much of a good thing in any real sense of the meaning."

"Of course you can. Hey, Hue, give us a good thing?"

"Huh?" Hugh said, still focused on the grass stains on his shirt, wondering if they would come out.

“Yeah, Hue, tell us simple-minded folks something that would be too much of a good thing,” Callen said.

“Vacation days,” Hugh said, without realizing he had said it.

Shit.

“What do you mean?” Eyes on him like he had just eaten a big turd. Shit, shit, shit.

“Well, um,” Hugh swallowed dryness, his insecurity blossomed. His disembodied knuckle rose to his mouth, but he did not bite. “You would appreciate the days off more, if . . .” He was losing them. Shit. “If you . . . Well, you can then skip school. That’s always sweet.” Goddamn it. Could he be any more lame?

Pause. The other two turned towards Derek.

“Right on, dude,” Derek said. With that vindication, Hugh breathed relief to the sound of “Yeah, man” from Callen and “Sweet” from Martin.

“Didn't your dads let you play any of your music?”

“Yeah, but only certain artists.”

“What, no Ah Cama-Sotz?” Hugh asked, rifling though a glut of Derek information.

“Now that would truly be sweet!”

“Maybe followed by Proyecto Mirage?”

“Man, you rock, Hue,” Derek said. "Though I have to be in the mood for rhythmic noise. And I can relate to some eighties offerings."

“Misunderstood?” Hugh asked.

Derek laughed.

“Who? Is that like the Misfits?” Martin asked.

Both Hugh and Derek laughed.

“Enola Gay!” Hugh said.

“Huh? Who’s gay?" Martin asked.

Derek shrugged.

“Things will happen while they can."

“I will wait here for my man tonight!” Hugh finished.

Derek and Hugh toppled over, laughing amidst Martin's bewilderment. Callen shared Martin's confusion, but uneasy jealousy infused it as well.

"What?" Martin asked. "You aren't making any sense. What the fuck are you two talking about?"

Hugh and Derek sat up and stared at each other. Derek's unintentionally sculpted raven hair perched on a young Pallas. Hugh longed to run his fingers through it.

Air and words locked inside Hugh's throat. He swallowed.

Derek grabbed Hugh's hand and squeezed it. Hugh's lungs opened. They faced Martin and Callen.

In unison, they sang, "It's easy when you're big in Japan!"