Neon Girl

Scene 6 - Nosy Bums

The detour Ripley takes us on to the hotel's pool only adds five minutes to our travel time, and we hit the crosswalk before nine-thirty. One block to go and we're home. At this rate, I won't lose any party prep time. But we're talking about Ripley here, and anything can happen when Boy Wonder is involved.

"Neon is the fourth most abundant element in the universe," Ripley says as we stand under the buzzing Bally's sign. "Right after oxygen."

"Brilliant, Ripley." I've heard his neon factoid more times than I can remember, but the man standing next to us bobs his head like he just learned something. The cars nose up to the intersection as the 'walk' sign flashes, and I tighten my grip on Ripley's arm. "It's our turn. Let's walk to the other side of the street."

"To the Seven-Eleven?"

"Yes. To the Seven-Eleven"

A hoard of people rush the crosswalk and I volley for a clear path, steering us through the weaving bodies and avoiding the elbows. Halfway across, I hear the roar of an airplane's engine over the traffic noise, and I know what's coming next. Ripley stops in the middle of the street to look up, waiting for the big metal bird to pass overhead. They're a miracle of science, according to Professor Ripley.

"Ripley, we have to get to the sidewalk. We can watch the airplane from there." I tug on his arm but he's not budging, and I know forcing him could make it worse. He leans on the hood of a limo like he's a cabby waiting for a fare. "Ripley, please. The 'don't walk' sign is blinking. Look."

I point to the bright red warning, hoping it will distract him. Nada. The airplane is finally in sight, but the crosswalk is empty now. Any second the light will change, leaving us in the middle of Friday night strip traffic.

The limo door opens and a man steps out. "Do you need some help, miss?"

Oh, God. Could this get any more embarrassing?

"No, thanks. He'll be fine as soon as the airplane passes over." I glance at the man to smile my apologies and my stomach does a back flip with a half twist.

It's Batman.

The airplane roars over us, momentarily silencing the honking horns as annoyed drivers take out their road rage on me and my special needs brother.

"Keep your pants on!" Batman yells at the cars. His eyes are so intense, I can sense the passion behind them. And his pouty lips are set perfectly inside his goatee. I bet he's an excellent kisser.

"Mel, the airplane is gone now," Ripley says. "We need to get to the sidewalk where it's safe."

I shake my head and heat rushes to my cheeks when I realize I'm the one holding up traffic. Batman climbs back into the limo and I mouth "Thanks" to the cars that haven't already inched through the intersection. By the time we reach the curb, my heart is pounding, and I turn around to stare after Batman's limo as it creeps toward the next light. Before I have a chance to replay the scene and pause on Batman's lips, Ripley is at it again.

"There's Seven-Eleven where they sell those delicious Slurpees. Seven-Eleven is also a date that many interesting events have happened. In eighteen twelve, the United States invaded Canada. And John Quincy Adams was born on July eleventh."

"Interesting, Ripley. But we aren't going to Seven-Eleven tonight. We're going to see Mom. And Papa is there too, remember?"

I guide him away from the fluorescent distractions and down Lady Luck Way. There's so much to accomplish in so little time. I still need to find my demo CD's and do a Google search of London punk to see how they dress. I also have to text Presley and Loki and...

The bells jingle on the door to Seven-Eleven and a man walks out, heading in our direction. His hair is long and his beard is rough. He's wearing a denim jacket and carrying a brown paper bag wrapped around an extra-large can of something. When he sees us, he hurries over.

Not Harry. Not tonight.

"Ripley, it's good to see you." Harry's voice is gravely, the kind of voice you get when you smoke too many cigarettes and sleep in the rain, although I've never seen Harry smoke. He probably can't afford them.

Ripley stops to look at Harry. He studies his denim jacket, then he stares at his face, or what can be seen of it. I know Ripley is confused. The setting for Harry is all wrong.

"It's Harry from the alley," Harry says. He doesn't look embarrassed.

"It's Harry from the alley." Ripley's eyes light up as his brain locates the memory.

"Just coming back from your weekly bowling adventure, I take it?" Harry smiles like we're old friends. I wish he didn't know so much about me. Those drunks at Fire in the Hole are such blabbermouths, including Mom and Papa.

"Everyone needs a hobby." I look down his brown paper bag, although I don't think he catches my hint.

"Dad and Mel's team won the points tonight." Ripley pretends to throw a bowling ball down the lane.

"Ripley, we need to get home before Mom starts to worry." I nudge Ripley into motion and, of course, Harry follows us. The smell of his armpits is poorly concealed under a layer of pine-scented cologne of the Dollar Store variety.

"Any big plans for the weekend kids?" Harry asks.

Wouldn't you like to know, Mr. Nosy?

"Mel is going to a party." Ripley broadcasts my agenda as he stops to stare through the window of the nail salon. He points at the nail polishes lined up on a shelf. "There's only three orange sunsets now. There were four last week."

"Orange sunset is a popular color these days, Ripley." I lead my eternally inquisitive brother across the street to Paradise Place, and when we hit the sidewalk, he breaks away from me and bolts toward Fire in the Hole. I knew he would.

"Let's say hello to the bar!" He flings the red vinyl door open and yells as loud as he can, "Hello, Fire in your Hole!"

A gang of voices call back, "Hello, Ripley!"

"Your brother is a star around here," Harry says. "You'll have to work hard to surpass his fame."

Right. Too bad for me I don't suffer from six hundred syndromes. Ripley is by my side before I'm forced to go after him, and I practically drag him to the iron bars of home.

"Goodnight, Harry," I say instead of Take a hike, Harry.

I unlock the door and let Ripley push it open. His muscular superiority makes our escape quicker. As he rushes to the elevator and pounds the up button, I watch Harry through the glass. He's writing something in the shabby notebook he always keeps on him. He says he collects stories in it, but he's probably writing instructions for the criminals he works for.

Friday night, 9:35, third floor tenants arrive home from bowling. Tonight's a no-go.

What he needs to write is... Female tenant wants to throw me under a bus.