Bastards of Young

I was wearing holes into the concrete, but the ability to stop pacing was beyond me at that point. I had only been in San Fransisco for two hours, but already this whim of an adventure was turning into complete disaster. I was tired, grimey and sore after three days crammed in a bus and as I re-read the sign on the store's door I realised I could add homeless and unemployed to the list too.

We regret to inform you that Vintage Threads has been forced to close its doors.
Thank you for the times and sorry for any inconvenience.
- Jill Baker

"This one hell of a fuckin' inconvnience, Jill!" Again I tried to find any note on where to reach this elusive little creature. My search proved futile once again and suddenly I found myself with both hands yanking at the door knob as hard as I could. "For the love of GOD; let me the fuck in you fucking son of a bitch!" In my defense, finding yourself completely abandoned thousands of miles away from home is the perfect time to lose your cool.

"You wanna step away from the door, miss," came a stern voice behind me.

"Oh great," I muttered as the last of my spirit died in this shit storm of a day.

Turning I found myself face to face with a young cop.

"What are you doing there?" He folded his arms accusingly.

"Look, I'm sorry about the scene and all, but I just got here from North Carolina and I was supposed to meet a friend of my brother's to get a job and a place to stay, but as you can see that didn't work out. I'm just fucking exhausted, Officer and like no disrespect, but I don't need this right now. I'll leave no biggie; just don't give me a ticket or take me to jail. Its a door for God sakes and I didn't mean anything by it; I just wanna go home... or at least take a shower. I mean, you're not that much older than me. you have t--"

"Would you shut the hell up for a second?" His face was softer and slightly amused as he said this, but I clamed up anyway. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't going to burn the place down. There's a pay phone around the corner and a homeless shelter off of West Minster if you need it." The cop reached into his pocket and brought out a few coins that he placed in my hand. "Now, move along."

"Uh, thanks...." I slung my dad's old army ruck sack over my shoulder and took off in the direction of the pay phone. It was located in front of a seriously aged Victorian two story house and covered in band stickers and graffiti. I smiled my first real smile since leaving the bus station as I recognized a few Operation Ivy and Dead Kennedys stickers. The door hardly opened, but I was able to wedge myself into the booth, which smelled heavily of vomit. The cop had given me a dollar in quarters -- just enough for a semi-sizable conversation with my lovely brother. As the phone rang I prayed that I wouldn't contract some crazy ear disease from the filthy ear piece.

"City Morgue, we do barbecues!" My brother was a humorous one.

"Jimmy! You asshole! Jill's store closed -- what the fuck do I do now?!" There was moment of silence.

"Well, was the bus trip enjoyable at least?"

"No, it wasn't fucking enjoyable! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Okay, sorry. I had no idea! She didn't tell me, honestly! But, it'll be okay Jean. Just relax."

The hairs on my neck were sticking straight up with annoyance. "That's easy for you to say. Everyone you know is twenty minutes away."

"Look, Jean, I have another friend out that way. His name's Rodney, he owns a record store called 1408 Rec--" The rest of what my brother said was lost as a pale arm stuck itself into the booth and hit the hang up dial on the box. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. Turning my head slowly I came face to face with a green haired little runt in a Pansy Division t-shirt smirking dangerously at me. If I didn't want to rip his fucking fat head from his shoulders and shove it up his ass I might would've found him attractive.

"Oops," he said simply.

I blinked a few times in disbelief. "What... why...WHY...?"

"I need to make an important call. Get out for a second." The smirk still hadn't left his face.

"I was in the middle of a goddamn important call fucker," I slammed the phone down the receiver and with a new found ease flung open the booth door. A look of surprise momentarily flashed across his face, but the cocky smirk almost instantly replaced it.

"You from the South," he asked with a flirtatious edge to his voice.

I stood completely at a lost for words. He took this as an invite to continue or maybe he just really didn't care.

"I've never gone south on a real Southern girl; I'd love for you to be my first," he took a step closer, still smirking. I took an instinctive step back into the phone booth. He responded by leaning in with his hands on the booth's sides for support until he was only a few inches from my face. "What d'ya say, daaarrrrlin'?"

By this time I had gotten my wits back. Placing my hand firmly on his chest I pushed as hard as I could, sending him stumbling back -- the smirk seemed permanently erased.

"You know what I say, asshole? I say I hate this city. I hate the goddamn sunburn I got only on my left arm from the goddamn awful bus ride that took me around this stupid fucking country's ass to get to its elbow. I hate how this fucking bag is chaffing the shit out of my neck. I really fucking hate how my stomach seems to be eating itself from the inside out. But, you... oh, you! That, sir, is a whole new level of hate. I fucking loathe you and your cocky smirk and your dumb fucking punk get up. You think because you listen to one lousy Flipper record and own a goddamn pair of shitty Doc Martins that you can come over here and make me waste my last fucking dollar because you had an important phone call. Tell me, Punky McGee what was the fucking phone call?"

His eyes were wide as he shakily replied,"Um...."

"Um what? C'mon! What happened to the cocky fucker that wanted to go south on a good ole Southern girl?"

"I had to call my band's bassist to... uh..."

"Keep going!"

"To tell him practice was canceled...."

"Fucking beautiful! I get to sleep on a park bench somewhere because your shitty Sex Pistols wannabe band can't practice." I picked up my bag again and started in the direction that I hoped would take me as far from that shit head as possible.

"Hey, hang on," I heard the slap of his sneakers on concrete.

"Get bent."

"No, wait," he grabbed my shoulders and spun me around to face him. "You can stay in my house," he pointed to the old Victorian house.

"I think I'll take my chances on the bench," I replied flatly.

"Its a squat. You don't even have to see me for the whole time you're in there." I sighed and weighed my non-existent options.

"Fine." I stepped out of his grasp and trudged up to the house slowly.

"What's your name," came Shit Head's voice behind me.

"Jean." I didn't stop walking.

"I'm Tre!"

"Cool."

"Exactly!"

I had almost reached the door when Shithead shouted out again. "I still want to go south on you!"

"Fuck a duck, Tre."

His head was thrown back in laughter as I slammed the front door.