Neon Girl

Scene 1 - Best Day of the Week

Fridays suck.

I take that back. Fridays are fabulous. All the best parties happen on Friday. But Ripley also happens on Friday, and brothers are annoying. Which is why Fridays suck.

Diesel fumes spew from the tail end of bus fifty-five, and I hold my breath as the yellow reminder of my weekly drama hurtles down the street toward the stop sign. Even if disaster strikes this weekend, I won't have that mess to deal with. And it's a good omen that I escaped before someone mentioned a certain ex-boyfriend. You'd think after two months people would let that crap go. I have.

Regardless of exes and bus fumes and annoying brothers, nothing can ruin the mood of a Friday. It's all about what Melody Holiday wants, and the rest of the world can stick their business elsewhere.

Standing in the shade of the dry cleaner's sign, I bask in my freedom and ignore the chick with the spray tan hanging out of the pick-up window. She isn't Lenny. Lenny tells the best jokes. People drive across town to bring their dry cleaning to him. He should charge admission.

My cell quacks and I dig into the pocket of my Sublime hoodie. It's a text from Presley. More about the rave we were discussing on the bus ten seconds ago. The girl is so needy.

(Did I mention the theme?)

(Yes, London punk)

(You wearing your new trench?)

(👍)

(😁)

I pocket my cell and pretend I'm in a hurry to avoid fake tan chick's wave, blowing past the dive bar and its funky upholstered door. The red vinyl and brass tacks were a fashion statement back in the sixties. Now, it's just an advertisement for old Vegas, the one with Sinatra and Elvis, although neither of them would have worked at this joint.

That's not true. The place wasn't always a dive. Papa played there back in the day, before they renamed it Fire in the Hole. I'm tempted to stick my head in and give a shout-out to Guy, the owner, but I'm pretending to be in a hurry.

I scan the gutter as I make my way home. Drunks are notorious for dropping things: money, tickets to concerts, drugs (not that I'd partake). Ripley found a game token for Caesar's arcade once and he wouldn't stop pestering Mom until she took him. He's the sweetest kid you'll ever meet, but he can be insufferable when he gets on a rant.

Today, there's nothing but the usual cigarette butts, club flyers, and chewed gum. I use the distraction to avoid a couple of tourists walking toward me. They're dressed in hot pink Flamingo Hotel tees and carrying long-stemmed souvenir cups. Clearly, they're under the illusion that every street off the strip has something exciting to offer.

I arrive at my destination and dig my key chain out of my backpack, squinting against the sun as it reflects off the bullet-proof glass of my little slice of paradise—The Paradise Place Apartments. Conveniently located off the strip, the historical monument was mercifully saved from the wrecking ball by a group of nostalgia fanatics and is now the home to a bunch of weirdos. According to Papa, the fanatics and weirdos have the best tales to tell.

Before I unlock the door, I glance into the alley to check for our resident vagrant, Harry. After the divorce, Mom and I moved into Paradise Place with Papa, and a month later this bum shows up in the alley next door. There's never been a problem with homeless people on Papa's street, mostly because the cops make routine drive-bys.

That didn't stop Harry from making himself and his shopping cart at home behind the dumpster under my third-floor window. It's no surprise he's always gone when the cops come around, but we all know he's camped there. They love him at Fire in the Hole. Think he's a freakin' genius. Lucky for me, Harry the Genius isn't home, or he'd be out here trying to talk to me.