Miles Before Sleep (Excerpt II)

5250 Bungalow Lane was the only home address Julius ever had to memorize. He was born and raised in the same house for twenty-one years. Built in the early 1970's, the house was one of the first to be constructed within the newly created suburbs established in answer to the sudden growth spurt surging through Grand Shores at the time. John Keller had built the house with help from a family friend in the construction business. Some of Julius’s fondest memories were growing up here; in the gingerbread house nestled quietly amongst the pines tucked away from the onslaught of human interference.

But the house had changed. Sure the beat up basketball hoop still stood where it always had, on the left side of the driveway where Julius had drawn a free throw line with his sidewalk chalk a million times. But now the driveway had been re-paved with fancy, hand cut shards of flagstone costing a fortune. Over time, the quaint safe haven of Julius’ puerility had become another strange face throughout the years courtesy of the family prosperity. The house was the same, but its familiarity had changed. He felt the faint onset of the veneration begin to rise as he stood face to face with his childhood home which was now almost unrecognizable. It seemed to have assumed an authority of mock superiority as it dangled the secrets of its insides in beleaguerment. The living room lights were on as he approached the familiar strangeness, walking cautiously up the driveway, across the marine oil treated Philippine mahogany planked porch, and through the front door.

The house was quiet. Almost immediately, he realized it was empty. The veneration began to dissipate. There was a note on the dining room table: “Went out for sushi. Be back in a few hours.” He opened the refrigerator door and grabbed the last bottle of Judas from the crisper. His father drank Budweiser before hitting the big time. Now he only drank imported beer from countries like the Czech Republic, the Netherlands, or Belgium. Julius knew he only did it to impress his friends. Just like the 1968 Fiat 850 Spider Series 1 sitting in the garage next to the fully restored 1971 BMW that the Kellers only drove on sunny days and had clocked a combined mileage of 11,000 miles over the past five years. The pretentiousness of wealth had woven its way into the Keller family lifestyle like strands of the Ebola virus through a third world country. He slugged down half the bottle setting it on the designer marble counter top exhibiting a series of ethnic cookbooks that were for “display purposes” only. He couldn’t remember the last time they all sat down at the table together and had a home cooked meal. John and Sandra were constantly hosting social events at the Grand Shores Yacht Club; entertaining potential clients from out of state who owned sailing vessels with names like The Misty Morn IV or Catalina’s II Cruiser. Sandra, who had once aspired to be an actress, would sashay through the Yacht Club delivering her best Greta Garbo impression as she hobnobbed with the wives of possible vendees. Meanwhile, John would entertain the husbands, pouring expensive scotch and smoking the finest cigars while discussing consumer rates and docking fees. The Kellers spent outrageous amounts on dinner tabs entertaining high end prospects. Usually at one of the more swanky dining establishments in town: San Chez or DiAngelo’s On The Water.

Julius sauntered into the living room, flopped onto an overstuffed, coffee-colored Italian leather sectional and picked up the remote off the stainless steel Italian polished Cristallo Tulip coffee table. He pointed it at the 103" Panasonic plasma flat screen waiting for the HDTV to come to life. The St. Michael's chimes of the grandfather clock echoed the last reverberations of ten. The door to the den was opened slightly and from the couch Julius could see the family collection of World Book Encyclopedias that had not been updated since 1987. The shelf they sat on was made of the finest oak money could buy. He carelessly flipped through the channels pondering his direction of study at Cedarbrook College.

Julius loved Cedarbrook. The well-manicured sprawling lawns and lush gardens woven throughout the Renaissance architecture hiding the occasional coffee café resembled more of a Beverly Hills Mental Resort than a campus. The girls who attended Cedarbrook were among the finest the nation had to offer: tanned, long-legged petite breasted beauties that came complete with nose jobs, Louie Vuitton’s and daddy’s checkbook. It was his choice of major that didn’t settle well with him. But a degree in business was simply expected by his father who, in moments of unyielding epiphanies (almost always induced by means of Glen Livet single malt scotch), also thought it best Julius go on to procure a law degree. “That way you can defend the family business from a leeegal standpoint,” his father would croon ambitiously. If he had to hear his father recite one of his annoying analogies like “the only thing that really twists my pistols other than Jesus is the business” one more time, he would vomit. The television screen’s glow was hypnotic as he slipped his feet out of his Doc Martens and hoisted his legs onto the long, leather sofa. The last sip of beer was warm. He slowly closed his eyes and drifted off.

He was awakened by the front door buzzer. Staggering to his feet, he lumbered out of the living room and over the cold Tiara Beige semi-polished marble flooring toward the door.
“Who is it?” he asked groggily.
“It’s me dude. Open the gate.”
Julius watched from the window as Byron wheeled his newly purchased jet-black Alfa Romeo 8C Competizione up the driveway coming to a standstill in front of the open doorway.
“Nice play toy. Italian?” Julius asked disembarking from the front porch.
“My dear, sweet, lovely, out of the loop, East coast educated, precociously pensive, naive to worldly affairs friend,” Byron exclaimed as if offended by the mere suggestion. “This is the fully equipped, road worthy Picasso of its time. The finest piece of European machinery money can buy.”
“Cakes gave it to you, didn’t he?” Julius smirked.
“Okay, so maybe he did. But check this bad motherfucker out,” Byron shot back opening up the hood and racing back to the driver’s seat to rev up the engine. “4.7 litre intake, V8 Maserati engine producing 450 horses at 7,000 rpms, 347 pounds per feet of torque at just under 5,000 rpms, and a six speed dual clutch with 20" wheels under my feet,” he recited as if he were in the running for World Master Blue Book Champion. “I get so much pussy in this car it smells like a French whorehouse,” he sang over the scream of the engine. “Pretty sweet, huh?”
“Yeah, she’s hot all right. But don’t your knees get sore from all that time spent sucking Cakes off,” Julius sneered looking out over the hood of the car. Byron ignored the insult. He reached into the glove compartment retrieving a neatly wrapped silver gift box complete with golden bow.
“Happy birthday buddy!” he announced proudly.
“My birthday isn’t for another six months?”
“Just open it,” Byron instructed.
Julius opened the lid and peered inside. The light from the front porch illuminated the crystals of cocaine glistening like an early morning snowfall in December.
“Jesus B! There’s got to be at least $500 worth of coke in here!”
“$525 to be exact. Three and a half grams of moderately fine white Persian lady ready to dance, baby.”
“You really shouldn’t have, man. Thanks.”
“Hey, what are friends for?” he said playfully punching Julius in the ribs. “Besides, it’s good to have you back in town. Now, let’s blow this cheap charade and see what this motherfucker can do!”

Julius climbed inside the passenger door and opened the glove box. “Don’t take off yet,” he instructed. “We gotta take off first.” He took a sheet of paper out of the glove box. A closer look proved the paper was actually the cover of an underground zine that Byron had subscribed to since the age of fifteen and still read faithfully. “Why do you still insist on reading this conspiracy theory bullshit?” Julius probed knowing it would bring instant backlash.
“It’s not bullshit. It’s your future if you’re not careful. Truth Serum is the only magazine around with the balls to say what’s really happening in this growing corporate facade we call America. Preacher is about the only person out there I can actually relate to when it comes to the concerns I have for our nation. I plan on going to visit him shortly. Ya know something, Jules? For one of those uppity, snot-nosed college brainiacs, you sure don’t know shit,” he laughed. “Sometimes you gotta close your eyes in order to see.” Byron had a habit of quoting facetious one-liners he had picked up along the way. This time it was from Paul Gauguin.

Julius let it go and cut two large lines of powder with his driver’s license. He rolled up a fifty and snorted a line. He opened his eyes wide letting the drug work its way through his nostrils and into his bloodstream before handing the bill to Byron.
“I see you haven’t lost your taste for the finer things in life,” Byron beamed rolling the bill tighter. With one quick snort the line was gone. Julius barely closed the passenger door before Byron turned over the ignition. He slammed the Alfa Romeo into gear with intrepid recklessness and sped down the flagstone driveway. The CD player screamed out Corrosion of Conformity’s ‘Clean My Wounds’ as they careened onto the main road and into the oncoming night.