I, Jimmy Cheng

5. Where The Story Really Starts

5. Where The Story Really Starts

I’ve never understood what most people see in clubbing. That’s right, I’m one of those guys. No parties, no late night excursions. I despise the taste of beer, and I can’t for the life of me stand party music. Please. Excuse me for not appreciating the heartless, mind numbing drivel of Black Eyed Peas, or Fergie, or Poker Face.

God. At seventeen years old I feel like such an old man sometimes. And I even get the same occasional feelings of wooziness whenever loud music hits my ears, which makes it funny that I couldn’t have picked a better place to be.   

As I was standing outside club 4KX, it felt like every hip hop, pop, RNB, and soul music ever made started tag teaming against my eardrums. Even from outside I could feel the air of shitty base music pervading every molecule of space surrounding me. It was eleven o’clock at night, and yet when I arrived it felt like the party had only just begun.

Practically everyone in Angel Valley High was inside celebrating the recent home team victory. Minors and booze, 4KX; Angel Valley’s best kept secret.

The place was run by one Havard Tetch. A guy who used to go to Angel Valley until he dropped out. He was a senior when my ilk were freshmen, so he was in his mid-twenties by now. He kept a lot of close ties with the students at the school. Namely the seniors (his most loyal and trusted customers), and the juniors (his seniors-to-be).  4KX is something of a special place in the community of Angel Valley. Most notably due to Havard Tetch’s close connections. Were this any regular bar serving drinks to under-aged kids, 4KX would have gone out of business before it could even see the light of day. Except that Havard Tetch had friends in the local city police. Close friends, mind you. And all of them ex-Angel Valley alumni.

I’m detecting a very distinct pattern about the people here. Everyone with a possible future outside Angel Valley tends to leave while all the losers stay behind. Tells you something about the people here. Tells you how much I want to leave.

A text on my cell. Veronica wanting to know where the hell I am.

I lingered outside my Honda Civic with the door opened, parked just outside the club. Veronica was already inside, hence the decision to text rather than call. I stared at the entryway flooded with people, and lights, and shitty music. There was nothing in it for me. I wanted nothing to do with the crowd. I wouldn’t get along with anyone there, which was why it was my contention that Veronica was either completely stupid, or she derived some perverse sense of pleasure out of making me feel like an asshole. 

I considered getting back in my car, driving home, and telling Veronica that I was too sick to show. But Veronica shot me another text, this one telling me that she was getting impatient.

Grudgingly, I placed my phone back inside my pocket, locked the car, and made sure that my good friend Jack Daniels was tucked safely inside the breast of my jacket. I knew I’d be needing him a lot that night.

Before I went inside, I noticed Oliver Wyndon was there too. His jeep was parked right beside the empty handicap spot, which begged the obvious question; why does a nightclub have handicapped parking? Could this even be a good idea?

Also, when I saw his car sitting by itself, unattended and completely vulnerable, my checklist of payback spurred immediately to mind.

I checked around for any wandering eyes. There was no one outside. No witnesses. No windows in the nearby vicinity. It was just me and Oliver’s ride. All too easy really.

I casually strolled to his car, got out my key, and pierced his tires. A few stabs at the back, and a few at the front. He’d be short one spare. Almost enough to make me feel better about the wheezing in my nose. Almost.