The Suburban Sons

“Mom, I’m going out,” I said this quickly as I juggled my tennis shoes while zipping my pants. Rule one for Freeman house survival: get the fuck out before Mom figures out what to do with you.

“Okay, Sweetie. Call and keep me updated.” I relaxed at this. Crisis adverted.

It was already humid as hell outside and I could feel the heat of the cement thru my jeans as I sat on the front porch steps to put my shoes on, but none of this bothered me. I was on a mission from God.

The only record shop in High Point that I could afford was this little second hand joint on West Lexington across town. It was owned by this little ancient man that sat behind the counter all day, watching soaps and smoking. It took me awhile to notice, but the dude was actually missing an arm. Bobby theorized a Nazi cut it off for a memento. I dunno.

Anyways, most of the records were in awful shape, but every now and then you’d find a diamond in the rough like a Nirvana import or something. It was my only hope for a Clash record.

I had to take two buses to get there -- the second one I had to panhandle fair for to be sure I’d have enough for a CD. It was about 2:45 when I finally walked into Jim’s Media. Nodding an acknowledgment to the ancient little man who I assumed was Jim, I headed quickly over to the section marked “C.” With trembling hands I began to flip the Cds towards myself. Anyone who still refuses to give up the real thing for MP3s knows the feeling you get when start looking for that record. Your palms sweat, you hold your breath every time you put a finger on the next CD to be flipped and exhale dejectedly every time its reveal that the next one isn’t the one.

My heart started to pound as I neared the crossover point from “C” to “D.” Finally, I placed my finger on the second to last record in the section. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Slowly, I pulled the CD towards myself until I heard the “click” of it hitting the CD in front of it. Even more slowly, I began to allow my eye to open, a knot forming in my stomach.

“Fuck yeah,” I exclaimed snatching the album up. It wasn’t the same album Bobby had, but it was the Clash and that was enough for me. Combat Rock -- sounded cool enough. I flipped it over, hungrily reading every tidbit of information the track listing could give me.

A loud knock on the window snapped me back into reality. Looking up I saw Bobby right in front of me waving his finger side to side and mouthing “no.” I shrugged my shoulders skeptically mouthing “why not,” in response.

Bobby just rolled his eyes and made his way to the front entrance. “I’m just thinking you need to develop more of an appreciation for the Clash before you hear that particular album,” he said as he walked through the door. Standing next to me, he started flipping through the Cds. “Ah, see here’s one you need to hear.” Bobby held up an album with a girl standing in what seems like a graveyard. The cover read 1,039 Smoothed Out Slappy Hours by Green Day.

“Sounds stupid,” I said, scrunching up my nose.

“You’re like what? 13? 14?”

“I’m about to turn 15,” I allowed my chest to puff with indignance.

“Perfect, you’ll love it,” he said shoving the seven dollar album into my hand.

“I dunno, man….”

“Look, just shut the fuck up and trust me. Go pay for it, now.”

“Fine,” I pouted. The disappointment of not getting what I wanted caused tears to sting my eyes. I was a fine example for suburban brats everywhere.

“What are you doing now,” Bobby asked as I stepped out of the store a short time later ruefully carrying my new purchase.

“Nothin’ I guess. Panhandling bus fair to get home?”

“Fuck that. Let’s go grab a bite to eat. You wanna?”

“If I could grab a bite to eat I would be panhandling my ass home, Bob,” who’s a badass?

“Alright smartass, I’ll fucking buy and give you a ride home.

I have to admit I was taken aback by his generosity. “Uh… I mean… are you sure?”

Annoyed, Bobby flicked his cigarette to the ground and stamped it out with his heel. “Fuck kid, yes, I’m sure. Let’s go,” with that he turned and began to walk in the direction of a tiny Italian place across the street. I quickly followed in fear of what he might do if I didn’t.

“And don’t fucking call me Bob,” he said giving me a painful jab in the arm.

---------------------------------------------------

“Operation Ivy?”

“No.”

“The Damned?”

“Erm… no.”

“How about the Ramones?”

“I mean I’ve heard of them.”

“Sex Pistols?”

“The same.”

“Sham 69?”

“No.”

“Dead Kennedys?”

“No….”

I could with every negative response Bobby was becoming more exasperated with me. For the past ten minutes he had been quizzing me on punk bands over pizza and Coke.

“God… how about Sum 41?”

“Oh, yeah! Now them I’ve heard,” I was overly enthusiastic with my response; the excitement of knowing getting to me.

Sadly, instead of praise I receive a light slap across the head. “Of course you would have hear them! Can’t be bothered to go beyond Fuse can we? Christ, kid.”

“My name’s Todd,” I mumbled into my drink.

“Well, you’re going to have to deal with ‘kid’ until I feel your worthy to be considered human. Christ, you don’t even know who the Dead Kennedys are!”

“Well, fucking teach me,” I was fed up with the personal attacks.

“Fine. Come by my house tomorrow. I’ll make you a tape.”

“You mean a CD,” this earned another smack across the head.

“No, not a CD! Fuck this modern shit. You’re getting an old fashion tape -- that’s how rock should be heard anyways.”
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“Um, here’s cool, man,” I said before we had pulled into my neighborhood.

“What? Don’t want Mommy and Daddy to see me corrupting you,” Bobby threw his head back with a sharp “Ha.”

“Yeah, something like that…,” I unhooked my seat belt and stepped out of the car, shutting the door behind me.

Bobby rolled down the window and stuck his head out. “Tomorrow, 4 o’clock. Don’t be late, kid.”

“You realize you’re only 2 years older than me right?”

“Get in the goddamn house,” with that he peeled out and sped down the road. Watching him fly, hand hanging out the window and music blasting I couldn’t help but with I was that cool.