Dying Of The Light

Chapter One

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There were a lot of reasons I hated working at Miller Speedway. The pay wasn't good, even though my dad was my boss. I was always stuck in the busy concession booth behind the bleachers, so I never got to see races. I could never get the smell of burnt popcorn out of my hair. My summers were spent cataloguing the scrap yard instead of going to bonfires at the beach and camping at the dunes. The list went on and on.

There were reasons I liked working there as well, though none of them could outweigh the bad. I was the only one of my friends that consistently had a car. I always had money in my pocket, even if it was never super large amounts. My dad always worked, so my days off were spent in a blissfully empty house. I missed my older brothers, but with them being away at college on the west coast, the house was much quieter, just the way I liked it.

I was positively giddy on the last Saturday of the summer, because it was the last racing day for months. I wouldn't have to wear my red Miller Speedway polo for a long, long time. The night started out just like any other. I drove over around five; the gates opened at six. I had already sold a hundred beers by the time the first race started. Between then and intermission, I sold the same amount of candy to bored kids looking for a sugar fix and an excuse to walk around. Business was booming until the demolition at the end of the night. It had always been a crowd pleaser. I remembered coming to the Speedway as a kid, back when my grandpa owned it. I loved watching the cars smash into each other and the metal crunch of destruction.

I'd been chewed out by my dad for leaving the concession to watch the show in the past. As tempting as it was, I didn't leave. I sat down on one of the bar stools I kept by the counter and opened up a crossword puzzle book. It didn't keep my attention for long. Over the crowds cheering, I heard the jangle of someone hitting the chain-link fence that enclosed the arena. I hopped over the counter and watched as a boy jumped over the top, landing on all fours. We'd only ever had someone break-in without paying once before, years ago. I remembered watching my dad tackle the guy to the ground. He had been middle aged with a huge beer gut and reeked of alcohol.

This boy, though, was young. He was tall and lanky, wearing a batman shirt with holes in it. His jeans were worn and faded with grass stains on the knees. It was abundantly clear to me that he was homeless, or at least poor. Why else would he be sneaking in? Admission was only five dollars.

Rather than confront him on my own, I climbed back over the counter and found the small walkie-talkie I kept in the back in case I needed to get ahold of my dad during the show. I pressed down on the "talk" button just as the boy disappeared into the bleachers. "Dad? It's Laine."

I waited a few seconds before my dad's booming voice crackled over the small speaker. "What's wrong honey?"

"I just watched a kid jump over the fence by me. He's wearing a Batman shirt and jeans."

"Alright, thanks."

The rest of the closing night went just as planned. I closed up the concession ten minutes before the end and went out into the gravel parking lot with my flashlight to help direct traffic. It took nearly a half-hour for everyone to clear out. The speedway had been packed to capacity.

I didn't wait for my dad to finish up inside. He'd probably be there for a few more hours, cleaning the arena and counting money. I didn't feel like staying out late, so I found my old Grand Marquis in the backlot and drove home.

Compared to the rest of the houses in Powell, ours was big. I'd living in the two story craftsman since I was born. I didn't remember a time where the house hadn't had the paint peeling off the sides or the grass hadn't grow in ugly, weed ridden patches. My dad didn't care much for aesthetic beauty. The house didn't sway, the roof didn't leek, and all of the windows were intact. That's all he really cared about.