From the time I was promoted to Big-Kid Sunday School, I'd heard stories about Purple Palace and the faulty moral compass of those who succumbed to its wicked pitfalls. Sunday morning services, Preacherman Jebediah nearly busted a blood vessel, pounding the pulpit with his meaty fists while conjuring up numerous commandments broken by merely uttering Purple Palace's degenerate name.

"The sins of the wicked-dah shall be punished-dah, saith our Lord God-dah Almighty. As Sodom-ah and Gomorrah, so hellfire and brimstone-nah awaiteth those who are drawn in by purple neon-nah."

Preacherman Jebediah over-annunciated when he caught the holy spirit and spittle flew from betwixt frothy lips—watering the star lilies and gardenias that adorned the communion table, its hand-planed cypress literally spit-shined to an impervious golden luster. Droplets were cast wide, splatting the front row Bible-thumpers, who automatically dabbed the flecks from their cheeks using monogrammed white hankies before shouting, Thankie Jesus!

Of course, the scare-tactics worked to rein me in when I was but a young lad, but not so much when I became a strapping young man. Purple Palace beckoned me like those treacherous yellow-haired sirens who lured unsuspecting bowlegged seamen to their death. Those who'd gone too long without a cozy nest in which to rest their willies, though in my case, it was a different kind of yellow-haired beauty that haunted my dreams.

I waited for the house to go all quiet-like before gussying up in my Sunday best and dousing my nether regions with the old man's Paco Rabanne. Then I tiptoed to the kitchen. The keys were where they always were, and I whispered a little prayer, "Lord, forgive my thievery," before I snatched 'em off their hook and hoofed it to the Impala, a puddle of her power steering fluid, cast in colors of the rainbow by the streetlight, spreading thin in the driveway.

The old girl's dry rods groaned as I navigated the back roads. Over rolling hills and through mosquito-infested valleys, I drove like a madman to finally spy my quest high on a distant mountain top. Purple exes flashed, a depraved beacon of welcome in a harsh judgmental land.

PURPLE PALACE

I pulled into the parking lot, sweat glistening upon my forehead as I searched for a spot that would hide the family vehicle, for I was ashamed of everything that piece of shit represented. The old gal's leaks and balding tires. The rust, encroaching on a paint job as old as the Lord and Savior who judged from above. But it was mostly the collage of bumper stickers marring the back window that gave me pause, and I shifted into park, leaned over and opened the glove-compartment. The hinges squeaked as it fell open like my old man's jaw, that time he'd caught me in bed beating it to his April 1975 centerfold, and the puckered scars upon my back burned at the memory.

My hand sifted through a tower of receipts. Oil changes dating back to the 1960s, sparce tune-ups, used tires purchased at a discounted rate. Elbow-deep, my arm pushed through varying degrees of eroded paper until my fingers met with the retractable razor tucked beneath the owner's manual. This would be my salvation; this blade having more than once quelled the abomination of my desires. Distracted me, an atypical boy born into a clan of crazed zealots, from the depraved cravings of my adolescent body. The scars on my wrists, hidden beneath wide leather cuffs, called to be opened, but that was not the purpose of the blade on this night, the eve of my demise.

I eased forward when I caught a glimpse of a shiny red Corvette vacating a space. Upon passing, the driver recoiled as clouds of black smoke from the Impala's tailpipe wafted through his open window, and the razor's soft vinyl grip pulsed in my palm, keeping time with the rapid beat of my heart. I carefully backed into the spot; the vastness of the Appalachian hills lay behind me. No prying eyes to witness what was to come next.

I exposed the sharp tip of the virgin blade, its intended purpose not yet clear in my mind. My wrists? Or perhaps it would be the removal of the bumper stickers. Scraping Jesus Loves You into oblivion, along with a host of like-minded sentiments, was tempting but I removed the bedazzled cuffs from both wrists instead, watching blue veins beneath ropy scars pulse in anticipation. I lightly ran the blade across the ulnar aspect of my wrist, shivering as pinpricks of blood rose to the surface.

A burst of music and laughter followed by the hollow slam of a door caught my attention, and the fascination with my wrists abated. As in my dreams, my yellow-haired beauty stood erect at the Purple Palace front entrance, then hunkered to light a cigarette. He was a magnificent specimen. I watched the way he swept his long golden hair aside, out of harm's way, before striking the match. The tip of the cigarette glowed red and he stood upright, his lips pursing as he breathed out a string of wispy smoke rings, tinged by the purple glow of the neon sign.

I smiled and retracted the blade, pushing it back into the depths of the open glove compartment. My mouth was dry; my lips bitter with the taste of my near-demise, and I cupped my hand to check my breath. Rank. Popping in a stick of brittle Wrigley's Spearmint Gum, another ancient glove compartment treasure, I watched purple smoke roil from between pursed lips and made my decision. May my soul be damned to hell for all eternity.

I shouldered the old girl's battered door, it unfurling like a moonflower vine, and her hinges screeched a warning for me to turn back before it was too late. Of course I got out anyway, delighted by the crispness of the mountain air. I slammed the car door and the yellow-haired beauty looked up. Took a final drag of his cigarette, dropped it and crushed it under one silver platform heel, then strutted to meet me halfway.

"Name's Jacob… JACOB." I shouted it a second time, so as to be heard over the din of rock-and-roll, when the door opened. A group of scantily clad patrons emerged, all blinking at the assault of neon light upon their eyes.

"Right on," he said when I took his calloused hand in mine. We walked beneath the warm glow of purple, stepping down into a wave of pulsating music.

-