Luke Randall wasn’t exactly what you’d call a good-looking guy, not even half-ways worthy of a second glance from a girl’s viewpoint. In fact as far as that was concerned, there weren’t any girls in Trinity, Idaho had gotten as far as even having a viewpoint as to Luke’s particular existence.
Now nineteen, he had somehow completed his education at Westmore High, his grades having been no more impressive than his peer-ranking. Perhaps his science lecturer had nailed it succinctly when he wrote on Luke’s essay "Atomic Fission: The Post War Challenges"… "Luke, if you ever find yourself within the proximity of a nuclear reactor – don’t touch anything!"
Five-nine at a stretch, dark lanky hair that defied any particular style. It simply grew! More than his share of acne and with a dress sense that ranked somewhere between white trailer-trash and Dennis Hopper mid adolescence.
It wasn’t as if he had the opportunity to excel in sport. He could neither wield a baseball bat or cut it as a line-back. Not that he was especially weak, simply un-cordinated as all hell. Thus, with basically no friends, no future and less than no self-esteem, you can understand Luke’s resentment at having been born.
Life at home was little better. The youngest of three children, his two sisters being several year’s older, Luke himself was an unplanned and in his view unwanted addition. His father, a retired welding contractor, had no interest in anything much beyond keeping an eye on the beer stocks in the fridge. Parenthood had simply been a rude interruption to his life-style. He knew he’d had a son but would have needed prompting to describe him.
Luke’s mother, one might kindly refer to as a faded beauty, but then one would really be lying. A mousey blonde, her best days were long behind her at sixteen, not that this would have been a problem for Luke’s father, whose eyes rarely strayed between the neck and knees of any girl……then or now.
But Luke had one friend, two if you... Læs hele novellen
