Green Days: American Idiot, the Full Story
She's A Rebel
She’s A Rebel.
July 4
Jesus has been out of the hospital for two weeks now. He finished his final physical therapy session three days ago and was starting to get his life back. Vinny did as he promised and works double-shifts at La Valle’s Pizza. He comes home late and leaves early. Jesus is basically by himself for most of the day and since he’s learned to tidy after himself and Vinny isn’t there long enough to mess anything up, he has nothing to do.
Vinny will not allow him to get work so he’s stuck in the house most of the day. He’s picked up a new hobby, walking. He walks everywhere, their low budget not allowing them enough cash for a car. The walking does him good, mellows him out, and allows him to see her.
Who is she? He doesn’t even know her name but he sees her every time he passes that damn gas station. She’s amazing. Her long, black dreaded hair and big, brown eyes. He’d go up and talk to her but he always gets a lump in his throat.
She’s a rebel. She’s always brandishing a freshly painted protest sign. There’s this fire in her eyes that he just can’t describe. There’s this passion in her that Jesus had never seen in anyone before. She’s a saint. The salt of the Earth and she’s dangerous.
Jesus shagged his hair out a final time and checked himself in the mirror. He didn’t look too shitty and decided that’s as good as it was going to get. He tossed on his trusty pair of beat-up Chuck’s and pulled on his white wife beater and walked out the door. Hopefully she’s out there again.
He looped his thumbs through his belt loops and kept his steady pace. Cars whizzing past as he inched closer to that fateful gas station on the corner. There she was, just as perfect as the day he first laid eyes on her. Her fist pumping the air as she saved or slandered whatever was on her mind today. She’s a vigilante. Missing link on the brink of destruction. You never see people these days adamant about their beliefs, or as adamant as she is. Whatsername.
Jesus kicked his leg up on the wall of the large building he was leaning on. Digging his hand in his pockets until he grasped the flimsy box of cancer sticks. Placing one between his lips and lighting it, inhaling the toxic smoke.
He watched a man attempt to get away from her gaze unnoticed as she went on and on about the issue at hand. She’s the symbol of resistance. The embodiment of a middle finger to what’s fucked up in this world. She’s intoxicating, more than the nicotine coursing through Jesus’ veins, and she’s holding on his heart like a hand grenade, set to go off at any moment.
Jesus took one last drag and snuffed it out beneath his weakened soles. He got back up and looked at the gas station. Come to think of it, he needed another pack and the house could use some more drinks. He mustered up the courage from some hidden depth inside him and walked towards the gas station, towards Whatsername.
Her voice became louder, more legible as he got closer. It was a rant about the toxins in cigarettes, the irony not lost on Jesus. His hands grasped the metal frame of the door, hot from the summer heat and almost made it inside the nice air conditioned establishment when he felt a tug on his arm.
He turned around to face the owner of the hand and found himself face to face with her, Whatsername, the rebel. Is she thinking what he’s thinking? Is she the mother of all bombs? Going to detonate much like the heart beating beneath his own chest. He gulped and looked into the deep, chocolate eyes he gazed at from afar for so long.
She’s a rebel.
July 4
Jesus has been out of the hospital for two weeks now. He finished his final physical therapy session three days ago and was starting to get his life back. Vinny did as he promised and works double-shifts at La Valle’s Pizza. He comes home late and leaves early. Jesus is basically by himself for most of the day and since he’s learned to tidy after himself and Vinny isn’t there long enough to mess anything up, he has nothing to do.
Vinny will not allow him to get work so he’s stuck in the house most of the day. He’s picked up a new hobby, walking. He walks everywhere, their low budget not allowing them enough cash for a car. The walking does him good, mellows him out, and allows him to see her.
Who is she? He doesn’t even know her name but he sees her every time he passes that damn gas station. She’s amazing. Her long, black dreaded hair and big, brown eyes. He’d go up and talk to her but he always gets a lump in his throat.
She’s a rebel. She’s always brandishing a freshly painted protest sign. There’s this fire in her eyes that he just can’t describe. There’s this passion in her that Jesus had never seen in anyone before. She’s a saint. The salt of the Earth and she’s dangerous.
Jesus shagged his hair out a final time and checked himself in the mirror. He didn’t look too shitty and decided that’s as good as it was going to get. He tossed on his trusty pair of beat-up Chuck’s and pulled on his white wife beater and walked out the door. Hopefully she’s out there again.
He looped his thumbs through his belt loops and kept his steady pace. Cars whizzing past as he inched closer to that fateful gas station on the corner. There she was, just as perfect as the day he first laid eyes on her. Her fist pumping the air as she saved or slandered whatever was on her mind today. She’s a vigilante. Missing link on the brink of destruction. You never see people these days adamant about their beliefs, or as adamant as she is. Whatsername.
Jesus kicked his leg up on the wall of the large building he was leaning on. Digging his hand in his pockets until he grasped the flimsy box of cancer sticks. Placing one between his lips and lighting it, inhaling the toxic smoke.
He watched a man attempt to get away from her gaze unnoticed as she went on and on about the issue at hand. She’s the symbol of resistance. The embodiment of a middle finger to what’s fucked up in this world. She’s intoxicating, more than the nicotine coursing through Jesus’ veins, and she’s holding on his heart like a hand grenade, set to go off at any moment.
Jesus took one last drag and snuffed it out beneath his weakened soles. He got back up and looked at the gas station. Come to think of it, he needed another pack and the house could use some more drinks. He mustered up the courage from some hidden depth inside him and walked towards the gas station, towards Whatsername.
Her voice became louder, more legible as he got closer. It was a rant about the toxins in cigarettes, the irony not lost on Jesus. His hands grasped the metal frame of the door, hot from the summer heat and almost made it inside the nice air conditioned establishment when he felt a tug on his arm.
He turned around to face the owner of the hand and found himself face to face with her, Whatsername, the rebel. Is she thinking what he’s thinking? Is she the mother of all bombs? Going to detonate much like the heart beating beneath his own chest. He gulped and looked into the deep, chocolate eyes he gazed at from afar for so long.
She’s a rebel.