in Florida
November 21st, 2004
The sun had shone brightly on June 17 in the city of Sulphur, Louisiana. The only clouds in the sky were pure white, and added to the sense that it was going to be a perfect day. The local parks overflowed with families playing ball, having picnics, or just enjoying the sun. Bobby Caan had slept through it all.
At 9:00 PM all signs of the day had faded from existance. When the sky had sunk into its darkest hue of black, Bobby woke, carefully stepped over a pile of books, and slumped into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He paused along the way to examine himself in the mirror, grunted in disguist, and continued on. He didn't necessarily dislike his appearance; by many people's standards, he was handsome. It was the albinism that bothered him. ALbinos were shunned by thier peers, outcasts of the social crowd. At least, that was what his mother had told him. Bobby, on the other hand, looked . . .cool. He looked like the kind of person you wanted to talk to, the kind of person you wanted to trust. Bobby disagreed with this on two grounds: first, he hated everything that was allegedly 'cool,' and he was a solitary creature. He held nothing against anyone who wanted to talk to him, but if the conversation lasted more than two minutes, he held a good deal less for them.
He reached the kitchen, slowly poured a cup, and set it in the microwave. He peered out the window, thinking only of how good it was to live on his natural schedule. That was the only thing he actually enjoyed about the summer; he had nothing against school in general, but the hours were so inconvenient.
Many people had asked him why he was such a nocturnal creature, and he always gave the same response: do I have time to talk to you? He had pondered the question himself, though, and came to the decision that the night was the only time you could pass judgement on anything. During daylight hours, people lied to themselves and everyone around them, trying to convince the world that they were fine, nothing was bothering them. But, when the sun set, you said what you meant to say. If you could find a city that was as happy at 3:00 AM as it was at 3:00 PM, then you had found paradise.
Sulphur was by no means that town.
Even now, Bobby could make out silhouettes of roving groups, the ominous precursor to Sulphur's gangland takeover. There would be fighting, and someone, somewhere would be hurt. It was brutally honest, no lying, no bull, and Bobby had grown accustomed to it.
The buzzer on the microwave went off, sending Bobby's wandering mind crashing down to Earth. He popped the nuker's door open, savoring the coffee's powerful, almost cloying aroma as it met his nose in an overpowering wave. He began to drink, sip by sip, until he had finished his first cup of the night, and made his way back to the bedroom.
Bobby was proud of his 'suite', as he called it. On the east side of the Caan house, there was a door, painted an inconspicuous shade of blue, that led to an entire sub-house: a mammoth bedroom, a bathroom with gleaming porcelain fixtures, and three samll closets. The entire edifice amy have been the Caan household, but it was truly a duplex.
For a room inhabited by a boy of fourteen, his bedroom was astoundingly neat. Apart from the ruffled bedsheets that Bobby had not yet made, everything was in complete order, bearing stark contrast to the rest of the house. His room, at first glance, would never reveal the fact that a teenager lived here. The clarinet on the nightstand, (whose keys, Bobby noticed with mild annoyance, were beginning to lose their luster), the bookshelves various occupants of Stephen King, Terry Pratchett, and George Bernard Shaw, and the Smith-Corona typewriter would al scream out 'thirtysomethings' to the casual eye. A closer inspection would, however, reveaal telltale signs that offered a different story: the Playstation 2 under the TV, The poster nestled comfortably in a corner, bearing the image of the USS Enterprise-E, and between King's THE SHINING and Dostoevsky's CRIME AND PUNISHMENT sat the entire Harry Potter series.
Bobby reached into the nearest closet and pulled out a white linin suit. He began dressing, silently plotting ways to kill the owner of the Blue Haven club. Bobby was an author by trade, but his lack of a publisher, coupled with the fact that no mens' magazine would take anyone's work when they could not pay by check, meant that Bobby had to find another way to make money. He turned to music, quickly discovering that he had a talent for jazz. He taught himself clarinet, and two years later he held a part-time job at the Blue Haven. The owner, a portly man by the name of Johannsen, had no objections, but insisted he wear the suit. Makes him look classy, he said. However, Bobby knew that Johannsen would hold onto a stereotype like glue to paper, and he had just seen The Matrix: Reloaded. The thought of having one of his own Twins sent the balding little fat man into swirls of glee.
Bobby sighed, and pulled himself together. He hated it, but a job was a job, and it paid moderately well. Once he had enough of a savings, he would get an agent, find a publisher, and Johannsen could replace him with a tap-dancing chimp, for all Bobby cared.
In the meantime, it was time to go get paid.
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