Junkyard Boys

By Hadley Vega

Zeke Marcus, who has always fantasized about life as a runaway, is found living under a bridge. Danny Winters had been living a reclusive and truant life with his agoraphobic mother.

Their travelogues after being taken from the only lives they knew bring you front and center to their fight as they’re forced into an adult world they weren’t ready for. The boys, upon meeting at their first foster home, begin manifesting their own individual symptoms of surviving their situation and the complexities and paradoxes of being bastard and estranged adolescent boys. Shock, defiance, spiraling humiliation, and an incurable insanity all begin for Zeke and Danny when they realize the indefinite futures that wait for them. As impressionable teens full of rage, separation, and distrust, they continue their path to self-destruction.

There are some comparisons to Sapphire’s PUSH, while this book tells a similar story that, for some, will heighten awareness and expose adults and youths today to the plight so many less fortunate kids face. Their sometimes humorous and other times heart-wrenching lives are unraveled through a series of vignettes narrated by Zeke and Danny, as they merge throughout the novel to become one story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Feb 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665738743

Hadley Vega

Hadley Rune Vega is an American author based in Whitewater, Wisconsin. Although born and raised in Iowa, she spends most of her time traveling. She is most well known for her columns in The Cedar Rapids Gazette and the Iowa City Press Citizen. She is an avid children’s and youth rights activist and acts as a liaison connecting families and children together who have been separated. Junkyard Boys is her debut novel.

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Copyright © 2022 Hadley Vega.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by

any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue

in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3876-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3875-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3874-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023902876

Archway Publishing rev. date: 03/21/2023

CONTENTS

Chapter One Zeke

Chapter Two Zeke

Chapter Three Danny

Chapter Four Zeke

Chapter Five Zeke

Chapter Six Danny

Chapter Seven Zeke

Chapter Eight Danny

Chapter Nine Zeke

Chapter Ten Zeke

Chapter Eleven Danny

Chapter Twelve Zeke

Chapter Thirteen Danny

Chapter Fourteen Zeke

Chapter Fifteen Danny

Chapter Sixteen Danny

Chapter Seventeen Danny

Chapter Eighteen Zeke

Chapter Nineteen Danny

Chapter Twenty Danny

Chapter Twenty-one Danny

Chapter Twenty-two Danny

Chapter Twenty-three Zeke

Chapter Twenty-four Danny

Chapter Twenty-five Zeke

Chapter Twenty-six Zeke

Chapter Twenty-seven Danny

Chapter Twenty-eight Zeke

Chapter Twenty-nine Danny

Chapter Thirty Zeke

Chapter Thirty-one Danny

Chapter Thirty-two Danny

Chapter Thirty-three Zeke

Chapter Thirty-four Danny

Chapter Thirty-five Zeke

Chapter Thirty-six Danny

Chapter Thirty-seven Zeke

Chapter Thirty-eight Danny

Chapter Thirty-nine Zeke

Chapter Forty Zeke

Chapter Forty-one Zeke

Chapter Forty-two Zeke

CHAPTER ONE

Zeke

Waiting for her was like standing in line for the guillotine. But I guess I still had hope. As if hope was bringin’ something good and good things came to those who waited, I wondered how long a kid like me would be waiting. It was another one of those days. The next day I was planning on running away.

At about four o’clock, like usual, I listened for my mom’s beat-up old clunker to pull up next to the front curb of our house.

A few months earlier the muffler started dangling from the underside of mom’s car and scraped the pavement whenever she drove it. Since Dad wasn’t around anymore to tie it up with a wire coat hanger, she told me to go outside and fix it. Except, I didn’t have a goddamn clue how to work on cars or what to do, so I twisted and turned it until the rusted contraption fell off completely.

In some profound, yet inexplicable way, I felt a huge sense of accomplishment. I didn’t actually fix the problem since I didn’t know a goddamn thing about mufflers—not that we had the money for a new one even if that was the case. Still, it was better than a broken car. If that happened Mom’d lose her job and I’d end up on the streets giving hand-jobs to strangers for my lunch money. As a result of my mechanical retardation, the car sputtered, popped, and back-fired so deafeningly, everywhere we drove people would hunker down and cover their heads with their hands when they heard what sounded like gunfire.

But that particular day I was waiting in the kitchen for her to come in. I heard car doors slam. Door‘s’. As in, two of ‘em slammed. That day she was not alone. Trailing behind her was a small Mexican man who looked like he’d been dipped in asphalt and rolled in a pubic-hair pile. Honestly, I didn’t know a person could be so hairy. The back door opened and in walked mom and her strange guest.

Zeke, this here’s Eduardo. He works at the plant. He’s gonna stay for a few drinks, so you need to keep an eye on dinner for me.

Uh, what dinner?

What the hell s’at supposed to mean? I told you to put the cornish hens in the oven before I got home! she said while glaring at me.

No, you didn’t say anything about any goddamn cornish hens. I don’t even know what the hell those are! I fired back. The words we spoke had Eduardo swinging his head from side to side trying to follow our conversation like he was judging a tennis match, obviously unaware of what he’d gotten himself into when he’d agreed to come home with my mother.

Maybe I should just wait outside or something, he offered, speaking some spanglish dialect.

No, no, she said, trailing a finger from his chin down his chest. My son is just being a little difficult.

I swear to God my jaw dropped the entire length of my body and hit smack on the floor. Her complete persona and demeanor changed. I’d never in all my life heard her talk so nicely. I was hot with rage and hatred. Weak-minded whore, I thought.

Wow, mom! Maybe if you would’ve talked to dad like that, he’d still be alive!

Well, Zeke, that’s really not a very nice thing to say, she said innocently to me. She’d never sounded so phony in all her life.

Fake. Fake. Fake.

That was all it took. I turned and flew up the staircase, with my fists balled tightly and my top teeth piercing my bottom lip. If I’d stayed and continued the conversation, I would have punched her in the head. Instead, I controlled my anger, although I could feel it surging like a tea kettle ready to scream. I ran up the steps, two at a time, got to the top and reached behind the attic door–a place mom would never go. I grabbed my backpack thinking, what the hell, I planned on running away anyway.

Before my mom bothered to drag her fat ass out of the kitchen, I was up and back downstairs. Without looking at her face or muttering one, single word, I stormed out the front door, threw the bag over my shoulder and sprinted through the front lawn and into the street.

A fresh, metallic flavor coated my mouth.

I’d bitten clean through my lip.

I don’t think I’d ever run so fast in all my life. I might have been crying. No, I’m pretty sure I was. My face felt wet but it wasn’t raining. If it was tears, they weren’t meant for that bitch. They were meant for my dead dad. Maybe my brother or sisters, who were hauled off long ago by a social worker. I began running faster.

And faster.

And faster, hoping maybe if I just moved fast enough the wind would grab hold of me so I would soar like Superman, and then I wouldn’t feel like such a goddamn weakling.

It wasn’t fair. She was supposed to love and protect her children and not be so calloused and nasty. How could any mother give her kids away like they were an old pet she’d grown tired of? She was supposed to be the one telling me how funny and great and amazing I am. Instead, she made us all feel worthless and discarded. At least now I felt as if I’d been offered a last minute stay of execution.

But I got out.

Two thoughts were playing tug of war in my mind as I ran down streets, sidewalks, and backyards of my neighborhood.

I loved her because she was my mother.

But I hated her.

No, I didn’t love her.

I just hated her.

I ran all the way down the streets and through alleys until I reached the edge of town. My heart was pounding, but I refused to slow my pace. Each step I took was a step closer to freedom. I’d been pushed to run away, which was not how I had planned it. There was no going back. Nothing was ever going to be the same. The last conversation between my mother and me was about imaginary goddamn cornish hens.

CHAPTER TWO

Zeke

Here’s how it all started. I knew I never in a million goddamn years had a chance at a normal life. I figured I could either make the best of it or get the hell out of town. To be perfectly honest, I was surrounded by too many fucking idiots and morons to sit back while hoping for the best. Only thing left for me to do was bail on everyone. Start over fresh. I knew running away from home was my only choice. I needed to get the hell away from the crazy vortex that was my life.

On the other hand, there aren’t rules for running away and no one can tell you how easy or tough bein’ on the run is. You’d think it’s simple, right? I mean, how hard can it be to pack a bag, bring a little cash, and just keep on walkin’? The rest would work itself out. The biggest worry would be, where would I go? Was there anyplace worth running to? Most days I felt like a stale bag of Cheetos. No one bothers to throw them out ’cause of the hard-earned money they’ve spent on them, but they got no real use anymore, except maybe making the cupboard look fuller.

To make matters worse, we lived in Iowa—a place where nothing frequently happens to people like me. To me, Iowa was like a canvas painting that only used one dark and drab color.

My mom complained about working her ass off, and my dad whined about working his ass off. Somehow we managed to stay broke all the time. I used to wonder how it was they always bitched about workin’ their asses off and still manage to drag around some of the biggest ones in town. It wasn’t just a figure of speech at my house. Mom and dad owned some pretty gigantic asses.

Sometimes when folks get too tired of workin’ all the time and bringing home pathetic pay-checks, I think they go looking for other things to make ’em feel better. Like my fat, stressed out parents did. That was really the start of it all. Mom got to drinkin’ and smokin’, and dad began his new hobby of visiting bars every night. People said he was always chasing low-life skirts who hung out in the same bars because he wasn’t happy at home. As sad as this seems, this was a daily routine.

My mom worked at a factory that made refrigerator parts and dad worked at an auto parts store. They had the kinds of jobs that didn’t require a college or high-school degree. They were also the kinds of jobs where a person didn’t need too many brains, or I’m sure my folks wouldn’t have been workin’ where they were. Both of them were on the day shift which was cool. During the summer us kids could do pretty much whatever the hell we wanted until they got home.

As soon as they’d get home from work, mom would pass out on the couch, with a cigarette still burning in the ashtray that sat on the carpeted floor. Her fingers wrapped loosely around the neck of a half-empty plastic bottle of Pepsi that she’d spiked with Jim Beam. Then dad would get home and start slamming things around like cupboard doors, stacks of bills, or the mangy cat we’d adopted a few years back but always seemed to forget to feed.

How come there’s no goddamn dinner ready? he’d yell out, knowing full well he was being ignored. Soon after, the verbal combating would begin and he’d soon be grabbing his keys from the hall-table to head out for the night to a bar. Then he’d get comfortable on whatever bar-stool he’d chosen for the night and drink our money away and try to go home with anything with boobs.

That was pretty much it.

Our place looked like one of those abandoned homes you’d see in a horror movie. You know, the ones supposed to be slated for demolition that somehow never got done. That was our house. Home sweet home. Cracks in the walls. Cracks in the windows. We had a front door that wouldn’t shut all the way, so we used a wooden board and propped it from the knob to the floor just so the wind wouldn’t blow it open or let in mosquitos or vagrants. The back kitchen door was the same. At least we still had electricity and running water. Most days. Yes sir, we could pose as any typical after-school special rerun.

Now, thirteen can be a hard enough age for a kid to go through and anyone who saw us youngsters would have thought we were four of the plainest kids there ever were. None of us had any dazzling features. No pretty eyes, long eyelashes, or flattering cheek-bones for anyone to ooh and ahh over. Even if we did, no one said anything. I’ve got a splattering of freckles across my nose that overpower my dark blue eyes but I’m told they won’t last…the freckles, I mean. Not once do I ever recall anyone saying things to my parents on outings like, Those are some mighty fine-looking children you got there, or Aren’t they just a precious bunch? But then again, our parents never really took us anywhere.

Nope.

We were homely and there was no two ways about it. My brother Aaron, who’s three years younger than me, is quite possibly the ugliest out of all of us. His eyes are jammed way too close together. He looks like someone stuck his head in a vice for three days and squashed it from top to bottom. I’m sure that’ll keep him from ever having a girlfriend.

Esther and Maebel are my sisters. Four and six, or maybe five and two? I can’t really remember. They always looked like someone had just raked a pile of leaves with their heads. Neither of them could eat anything without missing their mouths and smearing their faces and clothes with food and that’s pretty much how they looked all the time.

We fit the white trash description pretty fuckin’ well.

Besides being unsightly and broke, none of us really thought much about our futures. Sometimes when us kids would be out back playing and I could hear mom and dad yelling at each other in the house, I’d wish for some kind of normal life. Staring at the house of screams, I wondered if this was what everyone else was hiding? I knew the good life had to exist somewhere else in the world or I wouldn’t want it so bad. I mean, people don’t yearn for things they’ve never heard of. And it wasn’t totally unrealistic to want a tuna-salad-on-white kind of simple life. But even I knew better than to think a decent life was gonna happen there in that house.

Most days us kids would keep each other busy and come up with games. If we were outside we’d play hide-and-seek using a block radius of the house. If we were inside, we’d make up stories and color pictures. We only hung them in the attic. I was too afraid they’d just get thrown away if we tried putting them on the refrigerator.

Like most messed up families, us kids had to learn to listen carefully to avoid being brought into the constant fighting between our folks. Believe me, my parents fought a lot. There was always plenty of shrieking going on. Mom would threaten to leave, and then dad would threaten to leave, and then both of them would realize they didn’t have anywhere to go. Sometimes the yelling would stop, but I knew they were still fighting by the way the air felt. Thick as mud. I guess for the most part, they hated each other. I don’t even remember seeing them make eye contact. Usually they’d quietly spit contemptuous words at each other in passing. I bet they would’ve thrown piss and turds at each other if they thought us kids weren’t watching.

Mom would say mean things to dad like, One of these days I’m gonna make you a nice key lime pie sprinkled with rat poison. And you ain’t even gonna know it. Then she added, And then you’ll shit and puke your head off for days. Hell, you might accidentally shit your pants while you’re helping some dumbass customer at the parts store. Would you like that honey? Would you like a yummy key lime pie?

Then dad would say, Yeah, right! Go on and get off your lazy ass and make me a damn poison pie! But I doubt I’ll get a chance to eat it ’cause you’ll already have it stuffed down your chunky throat!

I used to wonder if other families existed out in the world like mine—folks who’d go back and forth taking turns flinging insults. On occasion, one of them would say something that was actually kind of hilarious. My first impulse was to laugh but then I’d have to quickly cover my mouth with my hand to contain it. It had happened before. I’d chuckled at some insult my dad shot out about my mom being as sexy as a pig in lingerie. Before I knew what was happening, all eyes were turned on me and I was the one getting yelled at.

Somethin’ funny, smartass? You findin’ this amusing? Dad asked. It felt something like being tied up in a tree and used as a piñata. Then the verbal whacking would commence. Everyone grab a stick and go after the boy, I’d think to myself.

Keep your goddamn mouth shut, Zeke. This don’t got nothin’ to do with you, mom would add. Both their eyes would be glaring through me like I’d set the house on fire or something, all for just laughing. It was the only time I can remember them agreeing on anything.

One night, my brother Aaron forgot to prop the door shut and I didn’t remember to check it either. That night a husband of one of the ladies my dad was screwing around with broke into our house and decided to pay us a visit. He wanted us all to know he was not at all cool with his old lady boinkin’ some white trash, piece of crap like my dad. The guy was obviously shit-faced, and I’m pretty sure he was still holding a can of beer when I saw him standing in our kitchen. He was hollering at my mom and dad pretty good.

You pieece of sshit! No faaat bishs ’gonna bang my wife ’cep me! the guy slurred. He waved his arms around like a harpooned octopus. Only the octopus had a gun and was shaking it around with every hand movement. I couldn’t tell if they’d known each other or not. But if they had been friends, that was likely the end of that.

The girls were playing in the corner of the kitchen with some dirty silverware that was left scattered on the table when that all first started. I scooped up Esther and grabbed Maebel by the hand and hauled them out to the living room where Aaron was sitting on the floor behind the couch reading a book.

Mom and dad fighting again? he asked