Children of the Program by Brad Cox Read Free Book Online

Western Avenue.  His free time was spent dismantling and reassembling untagged motorcycles and listening to the hard rock wisdom of his heroes.  Occasionally, his father would join him and rally his support, but a long string of false promises to someday help him ride, left his discourse falling on a deafening soul. 
                  The underbelly of his long brown hair was shaved and typically drawn to intimidate others.  His cred was noted by fellow classmates; academics were a back-burner priority.  He was the criminal.   He'd learned how to manipulate the system and others.  Just about everything he loved was stolen and his misdemeanor rap sheet was an expanding insult to justice.  Video game competitions, cheap wine and cocaine consumed his focus.  A trail of broken and deflowered hearts lead directly to his doorstep. 
                  His cold heart didn't know how to care.
     
    +++
     
                  The summertime breeze was unseasonably crisp and whistled through my cracked windows, as I traveled toward the Painted Desert.  The air conditioner remained full throttle, blasting a hurricane upon my pale affected face.  The goal was to keep my shuttering eyelids in a northern position, while pushing off the east coast, charting a western course, down an endless highway.  
                  Disturbing discourse with myself made the clock's mockery of my progress tolerable.  The dirty passenger side seat was stocked like a corn silo with my favorite snacks and the buckling glove compartment was filled to the brim with paraphernalia, worn-out rock tapes and an avalanche of state specific maps.  Nestled within was a spoken word cassette that my father had personalized and given to me, making his sentiments and the memories of our departure replay like a broken record.
                  Looking back, the morning following the awkward glow-in-the-dark crayon incident was a second chance.  Slinking into a bright new day, I remember seeing my aloof father shrouded in the kitchen's sunlight, solemnly staring into a miniature television set.  His words were chosen, rehearsed and delivered, carefully; he feared any missteps would send me running — faster and further! 
                  I was already gone.
                  “So, you're really going to go?” he said, in hopes my conviction had wavered.
                  “Dad, I have to...” I started, knowing my explanation would fall on sane ears, I clammed.
                  “You don't have to go anywhere,” he insisted, “But, if you have to leave, please be safe out there.  It's a jungle!” he exclaimed, as if trying to convince us both of his blessing, while stomaching the dramatic shift my Rumspringa inferred, atop his emotionally-driven and brimming third bowl of banana covered Cheerios. 
                  After a few rotations of the small hand, my shortsighted packing was complete and my pilgrimage began.  The complexities of the situation were never given the weight they deserved, nor a chance to take hold.  My cronies, neighbors and relatives were signaled, presumably by smoke, we exchanged swan songs, and my vehicle nonchalantly reversed from the driveway.  I made it to the closest convenience store, checked off my itemized to-do list, withdrew the last 200 dollars to my name and began descending into the abyss, to which I was called. 
                  There was a certain romanticism to it all, but when I fastened my seat belt, it all began to click.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    chapter 6
    back from a suicide
     
     
    The sun was a persistent antagonist.  All energy, siphoned; no explanation given .   The murderous growl of a motorcycle broke-up the monotony.  The hindquarters of the throttling hog kicked up a hellish sandstorm, blocking the group's vision from what lurked behind.  When the dust settled, an