The shades are drawn creating a cocooned tomb. The attack room is messy. Clothes are stacked in corners resembling small mountainous piles. Naked feet retreat under stale sheets at the sound of the buzzing alarm clock. A determined hand jolts out from warm confinement and delivers a deliberate blow ending the piercing sound.

Jonathan J. Williams, JJ to most, groans, and sighs, then slowly raises his head. The alarm is lying on its side several feet from the nightstand, the illuminating red numbers scream out 6:00AM.

"Damn it," JJ mumbles in annoyance. He can't reach the clock without considerable effort. Due to his aggressive reaction, the option of snoozing has been removed and a string of curse words spew from his pasty lips. JJ inhales deeply and release air from his nostrils attempting to settle his anger. The start of the day is unavoidable.

JJ throws off the top sheet and lifts his rigid body like Dracula awakening from a deep slumber.

"Wake and bake is what I need," he whispers. And opens his nightstand drawer where he keeps his stash. The option to move his room up to the cleared attack space three years ago, a suggestion his parents did not fight him on, provides JJ with the ideal privacy he requires.

"Thank god," he says with relief when he sees he has one already rolled and waiting for him. He tosses his legs over the side of the bed, grabs a lighter, and fires up. Inhale, hold, exhale. Inhale, hold, exhale. Inhale, hold, exhale. His body digests the instant familiar euphoria.

Through releases of smoke, JJ guffaws, "It does a body good."

Then pounds on his chest with his left fist and announces, "Vive ut vivas," humoring himself. "Live so you may live," he chuckles.

JJ came across the Latin phrase when thumbing through a book of poems. He was in the library with his English class and his teacher required everyone to check out at least one book. JJ wasn't interested in reading a lengthy novel and the collection of poems he found was only one hundred pages. When his teacher, Mrs. Starling, asked about his choice, he lied and said he felt connected to the beauty and simplicity of poetry. Surprisingly, JJ found some of the poems to be kind of okay. He liked the idea of looking at life without limits.

JJ scans his room for jeans and a shirt. He settles on a pair of 501's and an Aerosmith concert tee he bought two summers ago when the band toured in '82. Both need washing, but they will do. Pulling on his clothes, he locates his deodorant and slaps on a generous layer while glancing in the mirror. His blonde curls are matted from sleep, so he runs his fingers through them, then presses down the locks just above his forehead. Admiring his good looks, JJ strokes his chin and winks at his reflection.

"You look just like James Dean," Mrs. Adler remarked one afternoon when JJ was mowing the law.

The name didn't mean much to him, other than he knew Dean was a movie star a long time ago. So, one afternoon he stopped by Phillips Movies and More to check out their collection of old films. He was in luck; Mr. Phillips had all three of Dean's movies on tape. JJ was drawn immediately to one title, Rebel without a Cause, and eagerly rented the VHS.

JJ enjoyed the film and beamed at the idea of being compared to someone who was clearly talented and influential. During one scene, an asshole pulled out a switch blade and slashed Dean's immaculately clean whitewall tires. JJ couldn't believe how the guy held it together. JJ shook his head knowing he could never exhibit that type of control.

"Only in the movie's," JJ snickered.

Black socks and calf-high boots are resting by a large chair which holds stacks of Road & Track, Creem, and Hit Parader magazines. Balancing on one foot, JJ yanks on his sock and then shoves his feet firmly into his boots. He grabs his denim jacket from the door knob and takes one last hit before stubbing out the tip of the joint on a glass ashtray. JJ makes a quick pit stop in the bathroom to finish up before heading downstairs.

Eating cereal and humming, JJ's sister is sitting at the kitchen table. Caroline is thirteen, four years younger than JJ and in eighth grade. Their parents both work shift hours at a medical supply company during the week. JJ is tasked with the responsibility of walking Caroline to school every morning, a routine he doesn't mind since he doesn't have to wait around for her when school gets out. JJ actually likes the company, not to mention the extra cash his mom throws him for personally escorting Caroline safely to school. As long as Caroline doesn't jabber on about what he considers stupid girl crap, then the morning walk is tolerable. Sometimes he has to remind her about her pointless chatter. She can go on and on about the stars featured in Teen Beat or Tiger Beat.

"Seriously Caroline, who cares if Brooke Shields has bushy eyebrows? Or if Timmy...Tommy Howl, whatever his name is, got along with Matt Dillon when filming The Outsiders."

"Move it. We need to get going," JJ orders.

He grabs a sleeve of strawberry Pop-Tarts from the pantry while Caroline dumps her cereal into the sink.

"I'll be outside," JJ mumbles through bites of sticky filling. "Hurry your ass up."

A few minutes later, Caroline appears with her eyes painted in royal blue shadow and lips coated a glossy orange. JJ snickers and they traipse down the driveway.

Most of the walk is in silence. The pair cut through the woods which separates their neighborhood and a shopping plaza.

Not far past the plaza tucked in a corner is a small market and deli. A lot of kids stop in before or after school to pick up snacks and sodas.

"Hey. I want to stop for smokes," JJ informs his sister.

"Great. I need to get gum anyway," Caroline replies excitedly.

When they walk into the store they see Howie, the owner, reading a newspaper and leaning on a padded stool. He looks up from his paper and greets them with a smile and a nod.

Howie is a fat, pleasant man in his early sixties. He runs the shop alone during the day. Every weekday at 3:30 a couple of high school kids, come in to help out with the after school and early evening rush. The same pair can be seen working Saturday and Sunday mornings.

Howie has a wall of pictures plastered behind the checkout counter. They chronicle the youth of a man who once believed he would leave the town and rise to become an icon of football in the NFL. He is the cliche of every failed athlete, bragging endlessly about his heroic abilities and his high school glory days.

Muscles working overtime, punishing his body during two-a-day practices, Howie was dedicated to excelling at his position as a wide receiver for the Mohegan Lake Moccasins.

In 1940, the school stood as one towering brick building, holding just under 1,000 students. Howie's father was the head janitor at the school which employed two custodial workers. Mr. Lombardo was a proud man who supported his son's efforts to craft his talent in football. But, despite a supportive father, Howie refused to acknowledge Mr. Lombardo when he saw him at school. The recognizable army green uniform and embroidered yellow insignia, tagged T.Lombardo Janitorial Services, was a continued reminder that Howie had to accomplish more with his life.

On a rainy fall night, during the second game of his senior season, Howie's ambition of playing at the collegiate level came to an unfortunate end. It was the fourth quarter of the game, and the Moccasins were losing 21-14. Howie received the ball from the quarterback as planned, then pivoted to make a turn to run, when he was tackled by three players on defense. His knee obtained a direct blow causing him to collapse to the ground in agonizing pain. Lying there on the field, unable to move, Howie' s dreams dissipated as quickly as the rain clouds had that evening. The news was grim, a torn ACL which would keep him out for the remainder of the season. According to Howie, he lost his scholarship to Syracuse, and without football, his grades were not strong enough to keep his admission. Be a thinker, not a stinker, he would advise any teen, athlete or not, who entered the shop.

Today, Howie limits his involvement in sports to sponsoring a youth football team. Every fall, his business name, Howie's Corner Deli, is stretched across the back of fifteen hopeful and energetic twelve-year old's. JJ previously played on the team for two seasons and would benefit from wearing the jersey into the store. Proudly beaming at the sight of his name, Howie never failed to recognize the effort, thanking JJ with a complimentary slushy.

"A pack of Marlboro Reds Howie," JJ requests.

Caroline is fiercely chewing the Hubba Bubba she came for and holds up the opened pack to show Howie.

"That'll be $1.50," Howie announces. JJ reaches into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a crumpled five-dollar bill.

Caroline smiles through lubricated lips and says, "Thanks J.J," assuming her big brother is paying for her purchase too.

JJ shakes his head slowly showing his slight annoyance and slides the cash across the counter. Howie rings up the items and JJ stuffs the change back into his pocket.

Pounding the Marlboro pack sternly on the palm of his hand to pack down the tobacco, JJ stuffs the cigarettes into the top pocket of his jacket and gives Howie a nod.

In unrehearsed unison, the two siblings say, "Bye Howie!" causing the shop owner to giggle like a young child.

He watches the two teens exit, picks up the newspaper and resumes his perch on the stool. Howie glances over the sales advertised by the local Buick dealer. The ad reads, Eats Corvettes for Breakfast, Buick Grand National. Smirking, he continues folding back the pages when a headline catches his eye, Missing: Local High School Girl.