Status: Active
The Suburban Sons
Something's Calling
The day I met the legend that was Bobby Sanders I was standing outside the local K-Mart, smoking my first cigarette and pretending I looked more like James Dean in Rebel Without A Cause than an out of place Rick Moranis from Ghostbusters. School had just wrapped up the week before and I had already decided this summer was going to change things for me.
I was going to somehow force myself to grow chest hair and a larger voice box. I was going to smoke and drink and rock out to the greatest hits of Queen, Aerosmith and Montley Crue as women swooned to make a real man out of me. On that first day of high school I would no longer be the Todd Freeman they stuffed into lockers and shanked in the middle of dodge ball. I’d be the Todd Freeman they respected.
I took long drag off of my cigarette just as two reasonably good looking girls passed by. Sensing my moment I smiled and attempted to drop a cool line while exhaling my smoke.
After I stopped coughing and wiped away the tears I decided that only stupid bimbos laughed the way they were and that I needed a new scene. “Yeah, yeah. Fucking laugh it up,” I said flicking my cigarette into a near by drain.
I started walking towards Main Street without any real destination in mind when I heard my name being called. Well, really I heard someone say, “Hey, Ass Wipe,” but after 11 years in public school systems as an aforementioned Rick Moranis look alike I was starting to answer to just about anything.
Turning I saw to my horror that it was in fact Bobby Sanders calling to me. I had never actually talked to the guy, but I had heard enough stories. A kid in my art class had once told me that Bobby liked to find stray kittens, burry them up to their tiny necks and then run the lawn mower over them. Another kid told me that he was really 25 and still in the 11th grade because no one had the guts to tell him to leave.
I looked all around myself, hoping he had called some one else close by and it was just a mistake that I thought he was talking to me. “Yes. You Come over here, Ass Wipe,” I felt my soul crush.
I slowly approached the safety pinned, green liberty spiked fellow -- cursing whatever higher power that was out there, insisting on constantly shitting on me. A meek, “What’s up,” was the only thing I mustered up to say.
“That’s a fucking God awful shirt you’ve got there,” he spat, indicating my freshly bought Boston K-Mart brand tour shirt I had saved all week for. I felt my cheeks burn with anger more so than embarrassment.
“Yeah, well… you look like a goddamn freak, faggot.” And with that I laid his punk ass out cold.
Okay, I didn’t. What can I say? Bravery was never my thing. What I did say was, “Oh, yeah… well, to each their own, I guess.”
“Fuck that, man. Come on, I want to show you something’.” With that he started walking the opposite direction.
“Wh -- where are we going,” I asked as I fell hesitantly into step beside him.
“My place.”
“Oh.” God….
-----------------------
As we made our way silently down Franklin Drive I had no idea why I was still tagging along. I guess it was the strange curiosity to get into the heart of the beast. You know, map the uncharted territory that was Bobby Sanders’ personal life.
Finally, we turned to walk down a long drive that lead back into the woods. I really wasn’t surprised to see Bobby’s house. It was a split level with wood paneling that need a lot of work. The grass in the front yard was at least ankle deep and it almost successfully covered up the occasional beer can here and there.
“My room’s around the back in the shed,” Bobby said as he idly kicked a Pabst can up the drive.
“Oh…kay.” I was sure that my demise was inevitable now. He was probably going to cut me up with an axe and then fry me up or some sick weirdo shit like that. I had almost made my mind up to make a break for it when he kicked open the shed door and I was left frozen to my spot. “Wooooow….”
The shed had been insolated and dry wall had been installed, dry wall that Bobby had painted beautifully with a kind of abstract cityscape. In the very back Bobby had set up his bed on stilts so that he could put his paint supplies underneath. To my left was a shabby old couch with shelving on the wall above it that was filled with movies… movies I had never even heard of. I don’t think there was a copy of any film made post-1980 in English to be found in the entire collection. The opposite wall held an old television with bunny ears and a missing volume dial. There was also about nine milk creates staked in three rows full of vinyl records and a small library of books stacked on the top creates around an old beat up turntable.
“Nice digs, man.” I felt like a bobble head trying to soak everything in.
“Yeah, s’not bad. Gets cold in the winter… but enough of this shit. Let’s get to business.”
I felt myself tense up again. Was he going to pull out a knife? He walked over to his vinyls and began looking through them. Bobby pulled one out mumbling something about “this will do.” the cover had a man apparently about to smash a guitar. He slipped the wafer-like black record out of its sleeve and placed it on the turn table.
As he set the needle down the bass and drums thudded abrasively out of the speakers, followed quickly by the guitar. It wasn’t like any of the other bands I listened to with wacky solos and dramatic arrangments -- it was easy, straight forward… sad and lonely. I started to feel slightly uncomfortable. By the lead singer’s second proclamation of being “all lost in the supermarket,” I felt tears burning in my eyes. I had no idea why and that fucking terrified me.
Trying to make out like I had something in my eye, I hastily told Bobby that this was “great and all, but really gotta go meet my mom for something. I’ll see you around, huh?” With that I just short of ran out of the shed before Bobby could protest.
I didn’t stop running until I reached Main again, but that feeling was still with me. That one what makes you feel like you’re perpetually wearing one of those skin tight shirts slightly skewed. It just wouldn’t let me go, not matter how much distance I put between me and that fucking Bobby Sanders.
I was going to somehow force myself to grow chest hair and a larger voice box. I was going to smoke and drink and rock out to the greatest hits of Queen, Aerosmith and Montley Crue as women swooned to make a real man out of me. On that first day of high school I would no longer be the Todd Freeman they stuffed into lockers and shanked in the middle of dodge ball. I’d be the Todd Freeman they respected.
I took long drag off of my cigarette just as two reasonably good looking girls passed by. Sensing my moment I smiled and attempted to drop a cool line while exhaling my smoke.
After I stopped coughing and wiped away the tears I decided that only stupid bimbos laughed the way they were and that I needed a new scene. “Yeah, yeah. Fucking laugh it up,” I said flicking my cigarette into a near by drain.
I started walking towards Main Street without any real destination in mind when I heard my name being called. Well, really I heard someone say, “Hey, Ass Wipe,” but after 11 years in public school systems as an aforementioned Rick Moranis look alike I was starting to answer to just about anything.
Turning I saw to my horror that it was in fact Bobby Sanders calling to me. I had never actually talked to the guy, but I had heard enough stories. A kid in my art class had once told me that Bobby liked to find stray kittens, burry them up to their tiny necks and then run the lawn mower over them. Another kid told me that he was really 25 and still in the 11th grade because no one had the guts to tell him to leave.
I looked all around myself, hoping he had called some one else close by and it was just a mistake that I thought he was talking to me. “Yes. You Come over here, Ass Wipe,” I felt my soul crush.
I slowly approached the safety pinned, green liberty spiked fellow -- cursing whatever higher power that was out there, insisting on constantly shitting on me. A meek, “What’s up,” was the only thing I mustered up to say.
“That’s a fucking God awful shirt you’ve got there,” he spat, indicating my freshly bought Boston K-Mart brand tour shirt I had saved all week for. I felt my cheeks burn with anger more so than embarrassment.
“Yeah, well… you look like a goddamn freak, faggot.” And with that I laid his punk ass out cold.
Okay, I didn’t. What can I say? Bravery was never my thing. What I did say was, “Oh, yeah… well, to each their own, I guess.”
“Fuck that, man. Come on, I want to show you something’.” With that he started walking the opposite direction.
“Wh -- where are we going,” I asked as I fell hesitantly into step beside him.
“My place.”
“Oh.” God….
-----------------------
As we made our way silently down Franklin Drive I had no idea why I was still tagging along. I guess it was the strange curiosity to get into the heart of the beast. You know, map the uncharted territory that was Bobby Sanders’ personal life.
Finally, we turned to walk down a long drive that lead back into the woods. I really wasn’t surprised to see Bobby’s house. It was a split level with wood paneling that need a lot of work. The grass in the front yard was at least ankle deep and it almost successfully covered up the occasional beer can here and there.
“My room’s around the back in the shed,” Bobby said as he idly kicked a Pabst can up the drive.
“Oh…kay.” I was sure that my demise was inevitable now. He was probably going to cut me up with an axe and then fry me up or some sick weirdo shit like that. I had almost made my mind up to make a break for it when he kicked open the shed door and I was left frozen to my spot. “Wooooow….”
The shed had been insolated and dry wall had been installed, dry wall that Bobby had painted beautifully with a kind of abstract cityscape. In the very back Bobby had set up his bed on stilts so that he could put his paint supplies underneath. To my left was a shabby old couch with shelving on the wall above it that was filled with movies… movies I had never even heard of. I don’t think there was a copy of any film made post-1980 in English to be found in the entire collection. The opposite wall held an old television with bunny ears and a missing volume dial. There was also about nine milk creates staked in three rows full of vinyl records and a small library of books stacked on the top creates around an old beat up turntable.
“Nice digs, man.” I felt like a bobble head trying to soak everything in.
“Yeah, s’not bad. Gets cold in the winter… but enough of this shit. Let’s get to business.”
I felt myself tense up again. Was he going to pull out a knife? He walked over to his vinyls and began looking through them. Bobby pulled one out mumbling something about “this will do.” the cover had a man apparently about to smash a guitar. He slipped the wafer-like black record out of its sleeve and placed it on the turn table.
As he set the needle down the bass and drums thudded abrasively out of the speakers, followed quickly by the guitar. It wasn’t like any of the other bands I listened to with wacky solos and dramatic arrangments -- it was easy, straight forward… sad and lonely. I started to feel slightly uncomfortable. By the lead singer’s second proclamation of being “all lost in the supermarket,” I felt tears burning in my eyes. I had no idea why and that fucking terrified me.
Trying to make out like I had something in my eye, I hastily told Bobby that this was “great and all, but really gotta go meet my mom for something. I’ll see you around, huh?” With that I just short of ran out of the shed before Bobby could protest.
I didn’t stop running until I reached Main again, but that feeling was still with me. That one what makes you feel like you’re perpetually wearing one of those skin tight shirts slightly skewed. It just wouldn’t let me go, not matter how much distance I put between me and that fucking Bobby Sanders.
♠ ♠ ♠
Thanks for reading.