Neon Girl

Scene 2 - Batman

"The damned lid was on too tight. When did we start hermetically sealing the peanut butter?" Papa holds an ice pack to his bruised shoulder and complains while I arrange a pillow behind his back.

"You should have waited until I got home. There's other stuff to eat around here besides peanut butter and jelly sandwiches." I hang his cane over the arm of his recliner, the recliner that doubles as his bed despite the perfectly good bedroom down the hall.

"When a guy's got a taste for peanut butter and jelly, he's not going to let a lid get in his way."

"You could have broken a hip. You could have been lying there for hours. Now, I'll be worried about you every time I leave the house."

Papa smiles, showing me his gums. He looks ancient when he doesn't wear his dentures. "You sound more like your mother every day."

I cringe at his comment. Thankfully, he turns to stare at the TV and doesn't notice. I don't want him to know the thought of turning into my mother freaks me out. "That's because we both care about you. I don't want you to end up in a nursing home because you can't get out of your damned chair." I turn the volume down on his cooking show and hand him the remote. "Now that you're upright again, do you want one or two sandwiches?"

"Two, if you please."

I walk into the kitchen and unscrew the lid on the peanut butter jar. It's totally easy.

"So, it's Friday again," I say.

"Best day of the week," he calls back. "What's on the agenda...besides league bowling with your dad? There are a million stories to be made out there. I'm living proof."

"I know. You've done it all and now you're stuck with us boring people."

"I would never use the word boring to describe our family. Maybe quirky, unorthodox, even uncouth. But never boring."

I glance over the counter at him. His brown eyes are wide and exaggerated behind his drugstore glasses, and his powder white hair is sticking up on his head like downy feathers, which always happens after shower day. "I was invited to a rave. It's at the Jungle Club."

"The Jungle Club?" He blinks his owl eyes. "Now there's a place with some classy residents. Some of my closest friends lived at the Jungle Club back in the day."

I smile and nod. It's what I do when Papa remembers stuff from back in the day. He doesn't know the Jungle Club's reputation has tanked and only deejays and con artists live there now. But Mom knows.

"The rave is on the roof. There's going to be live deejays and probably talent scouts. This one has a theme, London punk."

His fuzzy eyebrows shoot above his glasses. "How the hell do you dress like a London punk?"

"You know...black leather, spiked pink hair, plaid. Some people will probably do Doctor Who. We love the British."

He quiets down as I cut his lunch into quarters so he can gum them easier. By the time I get his milk poured and walk back to the living room, he's dozing. I clear a space on his TV tray, which serves as a catch-all for crossword books and junk mail, and set down his lunch, kissing him on his baby shampoo-scented forehead. As I make for my room, my cell quacks. Presley again.

(Boots or heels?)

(Hopefully boots, gotta ask Mom)

(Liza has a white pair. Totes chic, you wanna?)

(Who am I, Andy Warhol?)

I'm not surprised Presley's sister has white boots. That girl is one pair away from being a hoarder. But I give her a pass. Liza makes her living by dressing chic. I check the time on my cell and send a quick (Meet you in 5) text to Loki as I unearth my wallet from my backpack.