The American Idiot
Becca Gray
December 1, 2014
The bitter cold November air, seeped through my thin black hoodie. It was probably just passed one a.m. and the streets were almost, void of life. Over my music I could hear the scuff of my converse on the pavement, and sirens off in the distance. I had been walking for a few hours and as I came to the corner, something caught my eye. The street sign almost pristine, and it seemed kind of ironic. Looking around at the houses surrounding the block, taking in their decaying state, before once again reading the street name. Dream boulevard.
Shaking my head, I lit my smoke and carried on my way. 'More like the boulevard of broken dreams.' I thought to myself as I stepped back into the shadows. Sauntering along my path to nowhere, I found myself outside of a 7-11 by my house. Trudging in the door, I took my buds from my ears and walked to pour myself a Slurpee from the machine. It was silent in the store, apart from the buzzing noise from the fluorescent lights above my head.
Walking past the till I threw a $5 bill over my shoulder, and mumbled at him to keep the change. I stumbled my way home, and kicked open the front door and closing it with a hip-check. Shuffling my feet across the living room to my bed, and flopping down through my open door. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
The sun was high when I opened my eyes, I could see it streaming through my bedroom window. From the doorway I could see the smoke from my mother's cigarette rising into the air before dissipating altogether. I huffed out a breathe I didn't realize I had been holding, and hoisted myself off my bed. On my way through the door I grabbed my melted Slurpee and smokes, before flopping on the couch across from her.
"What's wrong with you?" she asked skeptically.
I took in her appearance, and thought of how to answer. Her long dirty blonde hair was matted and greasy, and she was wearing a long faded pink house coat. I got it for her 14 years prior as a birthday gift.
"Your face⦠you come in here looking at me like I'm the loser, and all you do is sit there with your scratch tickets. You're throwing away money we could use for the house, I mean look at this place, its crap- mountain." I spoke in a strained voice.
"What are you? Jesus nailed to the couch suffering for my sins, and I'm the loser? That makes you the son of a loser, you moron. You come in here all high and mighty, and if you don't like 'crap-mountain' than leave. I don't care anymore Jimmy." Her dead eyes were maliciously shining as she stood up and stormed to her room.
Rage boiled in my core, I grabbed my black dirt-bag and crossed the floor to my room. Stuffing anything I would need into my bag from my guitar, to my knife, as well as money and clothes. My eyeliner sat on top of my dresser next to my car keys, as I walked to it I caught my reflection in the mirror.
My makeup was smudged, my dyed black hair stuck up in all directions, bruises and cuts littered my face and hands. But my eyes is where I truly looked. The deadness I had seen in them for the last 7 years had lifted, I felt free. It was like I had been going through the action for months, as if I had been looking through a haze. I was filled with a dull rage for so long, I was no longer Jimmy.
I walked out the front door, and started the car. Mom was looking out the living room window, watching as I backed up and drove away. I didn't know where I was heading, but that didn't matter. My name is St. Jimmy and don't wear it out.
