Past Redemption

CHAPTER 1
Joker raised the volume on Saved by the Bell to drown out the sounds coming from his father’s bedroom at the back of the trailer. He’d like to just up and leave, but there weren’t many places for a thirteen-year-old to go, especially one with no friends, no money, and living in a beat-to-shit trailer.

“Shut the hell up in there,” Joker yelled over the TV, then turned his eyes back to the screen. A big problem for Zach Morris, from Saved by the Bell was doing his homework or having a date for the prom, not listening to his father getting it on with some slutty bitch.

When Joker was younger, he’d clamp his hands over his ears because the noises scared him. Now, they were just fuckin’ annoying. Yeah, his teachers were up his ass all the time for cursing, but what did they expect when every other word out of his father’s mouth was “fuck.”

Ace, his father, had been at it for over an hour and unfortunately hadn’t passed out yet, considering all the booze he’d sucked up.

He used to think his life was normal, but every day, the differences between him and his classmates hit him square in the face.

Most of the boys in his class had a common name like John, Peter, or Steve, but his old man was a wiseass and tagged him with “Joker” due to his sullen nature—just like the way people called a big guy “Tiny.” Freakin’ prick.

The kids talked about their mother and father, and even if they didn’t live with both parents, at least they knew who they were and spent time with them. Joker never knew his mother, but who needed her anyway.

All his classmates had clothes that fit them—warm coats to ward off the cold Upstate New York winters and matching clean shorts and t-shirts in the hot summer. Big deal. Joker made a game out of sifting through the discarded bag of clothes that the town charities would drop off, trying on crazy combinations until he found his size. Then he’d haul his findings to the laundromat on the corner and treat himself to a candy bar from the vending machine while waiting.

What really bugged him the most was not having any friends. Even when the girls made fun of his old, out-of-date clothes and shaggy, sometimes dirty, hair, it wasn’t as bad as not having a friend. No matter how many times he’d ask, no one was ever allowed to come to the trailer park on the ass-end of town. Fuck them anyway. It wasn’t his fault the water didn’t work right in the trailer, and he had to shower at the truck stop two blocks over.

Even with the teasing and lack of friends, school was better than being at home.

Weekends were the worst.

Joker ran his finger through the residue of white powder on the coffee table, then rubbed it between his fingers. When he’d come home earlier, his father and the screechy bitch were shoving this stuff up their nose, then rubbing it on their gums. Fuckin’ weird.

He eyed the Marlboros sitting next to the white powder, glanced at the bedroom door, then snatched up the pack and knocked out a cig. The last time he copped a smoke, his old man clipped him upside the head, not for smoking but for stealing from him. Big fuckin’ joke on him. Joker slipped a few bills out of his father’s rubber-banded money every week so that he could eat on the regular.

He figured stealing came naturally to him since Ace and buddies always stashed stolen crap in the trailer. Then they’d all sit around and get stinking drunk, bragging about the bitches they boned or their next big job. Joker wished they’d hang out somewhere else; then, he wouldn’t have to listen to or clean up after their puke and piss.

Joker flicked his father’s Zippo and lit the tip. Unlike the first few times, he didn’t choke or feel dizzy like he was going to barf. He let the smoke fill his lungs and slowly blew it out in a steady stream. Very cool.

A loud bang on the door disturbed him.

“Yeah?” Joker pushed off the couch, cigarette dangling from his lips. He twisted the dented metal door, and two guys barged past him, almost knocking him on his ass. “What the fuck?”

“Your old man here?”

Joker swallowed hard. These weren’t his father’s guys.

When the one guy turned toward the kitchen, he read the back of his cut: Raiders MC. They didn’t look happy either.

“Answer me, kid.” The bigger guy bellowed as he loomed over him. At five feet seven inches, Joker towered over most of the other boys in his seventh-grade class, but this guy dwarfed him. Fuckin’ massive and scary.

“He ain’t here,” Joker spat out the lie, then prayed his father would keep it down.

As if on cue, the bimbo screeched, “Fuck me, daddy. Fill me up with your cream.”

The bikers exchanged a look, then glared at Joker. “Not here, huh?”