Until He Merits

By Wade Armstrong

In 1980 Los Angeles California, a trio of outcast latch key kids from broken homes are about to embark on a journey together. Jesse Lewis is at a crossroads following the separation of his parents. After the sudden disappearance of his father, life is different. His mother, Rhonda, is left with the mortgage and spends all her free time with her new boyfriend, Brad. When he comes home late one night and fights with his intoxicated mother, tired of the lack of support and guidance in his life, Jesse runs away from home. Yesterday he signed his band up to play a five-show tour of the southern California, just to impress a girl (a show promoter) he met.

An adventure is what Jesse craved, but he manages to put his bandmates, Johnny Rights and Baker Wilson through hell. As he and punk rock Cindy grow closer to one another, Jesse and his bandmates drift further apart and tension mounts with him and a gang of skinheads following along on the tour. When he finds himself face to face with their leader, Trent, things go sideways, and the last show gets canceled. Jesse parts ways with his friends and reunites with his mother, where they finally sit down and talk about some heavy matters. Something they should have done a long time ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wade Armstrong
• Release date: Nov 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463687161

Wade Armstrong

Used to be a screenwriter and then I wrote this book.Stay at home dad | part time employee | brain tumour survivorist

Book preview

UNTIL HE MERITS

by

Wade Armstrong

Smashwords Edition

Published on Smashwords by:

Major Paradox Productions

Until He Merits

Copyright 2018 by Wade Armstrong

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

CONTENTS

Intro

1 – Chronicle

2 – LatchKey Kids

3 – A Home, Broken

4 – Risky Business

5 – The Runaways

6 – Party At Harry’s

7 – This Is Where The Fun Begins

8 – Jughead

9 – Star Gazers

10 – Perfect Strangers

11 – Rock With The Wolves

12 – Homecoming

Spring 1981

INTRO

The air is warm. So thick it almost hurts to breathe because it feels like someone has a foot to my chest––but I do smoke a lot for someone my age; suppose that may have something to do with it. I’ve been coming up here late at night to write in my journal and do some soul searching. Some days I’d like to go to college and study academics. There’s some days I aspire to be a known author, but most days I just want to be a teenage kid, get wasted and play punk rock with my stupid friends.

My back is arched flat against the letter Y of the Hollywood sign and the view of the city below is absolutely stunning with lights spreading across the dark landscape for what seems like infinity. I shouldn’t be up here…

A haggard wolf, the oldest in its pack jumps up on a large rock in the distance and howls at the full moon above; but I’m coming down from some pretty strong weed I smoked a few hours ago. For all I know this might not even be happening right now. I could be high in my bedroom just thinking all this shit up. This is probably why Baker hates getting high with me. He says I’m annoying and ask too many questions. Wonder what the hell that’s supposed to mean?

The wolf has chunks of fur missing, and a fresh wound over its right eye. There’s enough distance between us that neither of us pose a threat to the other, but close enough to get a good view. The ink from my pen is starting to fade, so I scribble hoping black ink will start to splurge on the page, but nothing happens. All I have managed to write tonight is:

Neo Nazi surfers

Ronald Reagan

Pepsi

Brad sucks

Up until last year baseball was my life. Well… more like my dad’s life. He forced me into it when I was a young kid and that’s all I was allowed to do; it was all I ever knew. Music is what I wanted to study but he wouldn’t allow it because that meant less time focused on baseball. Like I was a little-league prodigy or some shit (I wasn’t). My dad left six months ago, ironically it was on the day my team won the state championship against The Hill Valley Bolts. It was the only game he had ever missed, and I thought it seemed strange him not being in the stands, but it was also a huge relief. I got home that night and my mother told me he left and wasn’t ever coming back. That was over a year ago and we still haven’t heard from him. My uncle Ted, his brother, figures he faked his own death and moved down to Tijuana. Apparently––this is something my father had always said he’d do if push came to shove. At this point we all just assume push shoved him off a cliff. My mother works three jobs now. I quit the team and started a punk rock band with my friends. Guess I don’t want to get really serious about anything right now.

My calculator watch chirps.

It reads 2 AM, so I gather up my journal, backpack and skateboard and begin my trek to the road. The wolf watches as I climb the hill and stays on his perch. Our eyes make contact and lock for a beat, then he looks back up to the moon as I make my way through the dark. Mostly I know where I’m going from memory, but every few steps my trusty Bic sure comes in handy, but it burns my thumb if I keep the flame going for too long. If I really hustle I can be in my bed by 3:30. That gives me around three hours of sleep before school, so that’s plenty. I finally make it out of the darkness and onto the road. Not two seconds after my feet hit the pavement, the wolf starts howling from below. Then the cries of another can be heard, and another… and then growling, followed by a sudden whimper. I hop on my skateboard and push away. To save some time I light a cigarette AND a joint, so no unnecessary stops have to be made along the way.

1

CHRONICLE

I’ve been skating for about a half an hour now and I’m low on cigarettes, so I veer into a 7/11 parking lot. It must have just stopped raining here because the pavement is wet, and the pot holes are filled to the brim with murky rain water, and some fresh broken chunks of parking lot now floating to the top. A Pepsi truck putters past me and slowly exits onto the street and drives away. As I open the door to the store a very annoying alarm chimes and the clerk eyes me like a vulture on a soon-to-be carcass as I enter.

The store is empty except for the clerk himself, who is standing behind the cash counter. He’s listening to a radio and the commentators are speaking fast and very… frantic. The broadcast is fading in and out so even if I could speak Arabic there’s no way I’d ever be able to decipher any of it. The clerk follows my every step. He does this every time and I don’t know if he remembers me or if this is just him being a dick. I’m willing to put my money on both and since I have never given this guy a reason to distrust me, he’s gonna have to do some foot work tonight. I walk down the candy bar aisle and take my time on deciding what I’d like... Right now, I could go for something sweet, a little bit of salt wouldn’t hurt. I’m one of those weirdos that won’t eat a mixture of the two. After five long minutes of deliberation I finally reach for a Milky Way and quickly back off.

What should I get? I’m asking.

The clerk is annoyed with me but I’m just getting started so I decide that a candy bar isn’t the right choice. A nice cold drink is what I need as I still have quite a trek home; so, I make my way to the back of the store to the cooler wall. There he is, right beside me but now I’m starting to annoy myself, so I grab a soda and browse around. He notices a canned good not fully faced and lags behind. I stop in front of the magazine section and notice a copy of a certain news magazine with Ronald Reagan on the cover baring the slogan, Let’s Make America Great Again! "Let’s not," I say aloud.

I make my way over to the cash counter. The clerk is just getting back to his post, I guess my annoyance paid off and he just gave up on following me. I place the soda on the counter and grab a package of beef jerky and add it to my order. The frantic voices on the radio are fading in and out.

Can I get a pack of smokes, please, I say to him.

He looks me up and down and lets out a big sigh and I can’t help but wonder why he dislikes me. One time a few months ago we passed one another on the street. I nodded to him. He didn’t, but I mistook him recognizing me for him just trying to place me. Point is, I don’t understand it. I am at least a tolerable customer. What gives? He drops a package of cigarettes on the counter and rings it all in on the register. I hand him a crumpled twenty and then take it back to uncrumple it and hand it to him again. I think this even annoys him. He hands me back my change and I carefully place it in my wallet and load my things into my backpack.

The clerk sighs again as I gather the last of my things.

You and I are going to be friends one day, dude, I say to him.

He doesn’t say anything, just slowly descends to his stool and adjusts the dial on the radio. The frantic voices are still moving a mile a minute, but he can’t get a clear signal. The clerk just sits there, arms crossed with a hard look on his face and doesn’t respond. I walk to the door and grab my skateboard, where I had placed it when I came in. Then I hear the words,

Come again.

I don’t know what the hell this guy’s problem is but I’m going to change his mind about me. Not really sure how but I’m going to make it happen, damnit!

I’m making pretty good time so I slow down in the town center up ahead for another cigarette. I know, I know, another one? Seems like a lot but after I quit baseball it’s just something I started. My parents smoked when I was a kid and I always wanted to try it, I remember wanting a cigarette after a meal from the time I was five-years-old. In front of the old theatre I used to frequent as a kid seems like a good place to have a quick puff. I hop off my board and open my new pack of cigarettes and place the plastic wrap in my pocket, I hate when people just throw their trash on the ground and make it someone else’s problem. I light one, take a great big, satisfying drag and look up at the marquee of the theatre. The Empire Strikes Back is still playing and well it should be. This was a film with some great twists and there’s some theories on the streets that Luke Skywalker will take Darth Vader’s spot in the Empire in part 3 or 4. I guess time will tell.

It isn’t really cold, but it cooled down a lot and I wish I had brought a sweater or something. I’m closer to home now, barrelling down a residential street at 3 am. Everyone on this street probably hate my guts right now because all was quiet and still before I got here. It isn’t like I’m ripping through or anything, I’m going at a steady pace, but the street is paved with the asphalt that mostly consists of rock and mixed gravel, so my wheels actually sound way louder than they would on smooth pavement.

Dogs bark and police sirens can be heard a few blocks away. I take a look around at the houses and realize I went down the wrong street. This is kind of a bad part of town. If I had been paying attention I would have noticed that I took a left on Harriot, instead of Wainwright. This time of night it is a really common mistake to make because it all looks the same. Even the houses on the corners look the same on both blocks. Almost identical, so imagine the sick fuck who designed this neighborhood. Dude was having a bad day and decided to take it out on the residents of this place for generations to come. All he had to do was make a distinction between the two streets. Maybe a bigger sign or something? Or maybe different FUCKING HOUSES!

After skating non-stop for nearly an hour and backtracking, I finally make it to my street. It is dark because most of the streetlights are burnt out. This neighborhood was built in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s and has been neglected ever since. The houses mostly all come from the same cookie cutter design and the majority of them are two storey homes. The lawns are all neatly kept, all except for one. That would be my house. We are one of the only bungalows and also the only yard with two-foot-high grass. I can’t remember the last time the lawn was cut. Just so you know, I’d do it myself if my father had not taken the lawnmower with him. I know what you’re thinking. What the hell is a dead man going to do with a lawnmower in Tijuana? I stop in front of my house before I make my way up the walk. On the Brightside, the lights are off, so I guess that means my mother is working tonight. She usually stays up all night with a light on whenever she isn’t working.

My key jams in the lock again, so I check to see if the kitchen window was left open. Luckily it is open a crack and I’m able to squeeze through. Times like these I wish I knew how to fix things, anything really, because this place is literally falling apart. After crawling through the window, I feel around on the wall for the switch until the light comes on. I unlock the door and pry my keys out of it. I’ll just leave it open a crack, so my mother doesn’t make the same mistake I did. The kitchen is a mess.