Fingerless Gloves Read Online Free PDF Page B

chain where James and I used to rent direct-to-VHS horror movies and old video games. The tapes were worn and the game cartridges required pretty primitive means to get them to play on our consoles. The clerks used to know us by name because, more often than not, we’d end up in the store for an hour before we found something to rent. Sometimes we’d just look at the box art, wander around, and not rent anything at all.
     

At the end of the strip there was the arcade, glowing with purple black lights and neon, that had a group of about ten high school kids hanging out front smoking. Back in my high school days, that area was off limits. You only went to the arcade if you had something to prove: A high score to defend, or to find the guy who was rumored to be talking shit, or to throw down in air hockey. You went there to smoke and you kept cologne for when you had to go home. Parents were weary of the stereotypes that hung around the arcade. Those kids were burnouts and metal heads…genuine freaks and maniacs. They came from other towns, or, for all we were concerned, the end of the world. At the end of an arcade night, once you’d either staked your claim or left with your tail between your legs, everyone smoked outside. The smell, even from where I was standing, nearly 8 years after my being at the arcade was anything close to acceptable, was undeniably menthol. It mixed with some perpetual air of burning wood that seemed to engulf this area of our town. Further down the strip, snaked around the arcade, is the pancake house, still lit up blue and orange and full of late-dinner patrons.
    The pancake house stands awfully generic and old. Every girl in this town, regardless of clique, has worked as a waitress there at one time or another. The food, to this day, remains fair at best. Often, the eggs are served overcooked and the pancakes err on the dry side. Yet, it never closed. The pancake house was never in danger of going under. They never got a terrible rating from the health board. Families made it a point, on Sundays, to forego better diners or chain restaurants, and come to the dilapidated pancake house. The funny thing about places like that is how the quality of the food doesn’t really make a difference.
    After every high school dance (including the morning after the prom), every football game or broken-up house party, the pancake house came alive. Tables were filled with undone ties and half-drunk girls, heels off, allowing their bare feet to graze the sticky floor. During the weekdays, the pancake house belonged to mechanic and laborers or the families traveling through suburbia to get to the highway. On the weekends and at night, during the very defining moments of an open 24-hours shift, the pancake house used to belong to us. Now, of course, during those times it belongs to the respective high school class. If a college graduate is seen in the pancake house during primetime, he or she is regarded as a scummy local…a person who could never quite break off from the umbilical cord of nutrients that a hometown has a way of force-feeding. Stoned or not, I would have been seen as infantile if I made an appearance in the pancake house. The parents of boys and girls who had gone on to colleges or careers in other cities and other states would be having dinner. That night, the situation would have proved humiliating, especially given my chemical-induced state.
    At 9pm, I was back in the Escape, parked across those two parking spots in the back of the lot. My high had begun to wear off, leaving me hints of an approaching headache. After swigging the rest of a diet iced tea I found lodged in the pouch behind my passenger seat, I loaded the one-hitter and smoked again. As I exhaled, I watched from across the lot as the eyes from the arcade begin to sniff the air, and then begin to search the lot. Even from this distance, cannabis smoke travels in such a way. It was time to go. The key turned and the car rolled on. I