The Anomalies Read Online Free Page A

child in my romanticism. I am a flipper baby in my idealism. And admittedly, I cannot look an adult in the eye without laughing. But all things considered, I am fortunate. Studies show that considering my personal background, family history, and the habitat in which I grew up, I should be in jail or dead by now. Dead or in jail is the condition of most of my brothers, the normal ones of the family. I should be in jail or dead, but instead I get the beer to the dog-track patrons and look forward to my future. As I said, without contraries, there is no progression.”
    “You’re really gonna have to stop talking to yourself like that,” I says. “I’ve had reports of you scaring some customers. And by the way, I’ve been walking alongside you for ten minutes, you crackhead.”
    “Joe is a redneck. It says so on his truck,” says Johnson. “But Joe does not have to advertise his social status on his vehicle. Even if he rode a moped and walked around with nothing but his Kentucky cap on, his position as pure white trash would be evident just from the empty look on his face, the same look that eighty-five percent of the people in this townpossess. Roger that.”
    “Shut the fuck up, Johnson,” I tell him. Shit, that boy pisses me off, but he’s a hell of a worker—I’ll give him that. And for some reason, there’s something comforting about having him work for me. Plus, he’s been here longer than me even—nearly ten years.
    “Hey, man, you can just put that beer in the back of my truck,” says a patron. I smile and laugh. I wouldn’t mind getting that beer in the back of my own truck, to be perfectly honest.
    “Joe, I am just trying to get through the nightmare day,” says Johnson. “If I had someone to talk to, I would talk to them. For instance, let me talk to you, Joe. Let me ask you: Do you have any dreams?”
    “No.”
    “I do. I want to rock it for the sake of goulash on the conch shell caviar table of life. I am playing for keeps, but not in the geometric sense of the word.”
    Johnson laughs at himself in that big, annoying laugh of his.
    “Shit, boy. I sure would like to be on whatever you’re on,” I tell him.
    “I hate it when people say things like that.”
    “Shit. Come on, boy. It’s only fair that I’d think you was on drugs by the way you act.”
    “Hey, man, I’m parked right outside,” says another patron. I just kind of laugh politely since I heard a similar joke a minute ago. Johnson shakes his head.
    “I guess you would find it unfathomable if I told you that I have never done drugs in my lifetime,” says Johnson.
    “No, I couldn’t fathom that. Not with how you are. And specially not after hearing your brothers are drug dealers.”
    Another customer spots the beer being pushed by.
    “Hey, man, my truck—”
    “Shut the fuck up!” yells Luster at the customer. “You people act as if you have never seen beer before! I appreciate your attempts at reaching out with humor. I really do. But you are not being original! You people are stale. You people are stale!”
    “Johnson! Shut up!” I says. “I’m sorry, sir. He’s on drugs.”
Luster
    Aurora, Ember, Opal, Ray, and I got dressed up tonight in formal evening wear (shirts untucked) and went roller skating all over the downtown streets. We are tired now, so we loiter on the sidewalk outside a local hangout, Rookies Sports Bar, occasionally making grotesque faces at the patrons inside.
    I am so sick of my pointless job. I almost got fired again today. I think I will quit.
    “You say that every day,” says Ray. My effeminate Iraqi friend speaks the truth.
    I know, but I mean it this time. It is time I crawl out of this life and start getting big. Statement: In order to do so, our rock band is going to have to start practicing more.
    “It’s not our fault,” says Aurora. Despite her confinement to a wheelchair, she still wears roller skates. “The only time we get to practice is when your house is free.” My