Please Take Me Home

My therapist says I am a talented writer, so she gave me this book. I was told to write in it whenever I feel the need to talk when no one is around. There usually aren’t people I can talk to though. I think I m going to need a bigger book.

So today I gave up on everything. Family. “Friends.” School. Running away was the smartest thing I’ve done in years. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner. My parents are out of town so they won’t notice I am going until they return home a week from Christmas.

I packed my clothes, guitar, some food and a few drinks and left without a trace. I took the money that I was left with for food and emergencies and bought a plane ticket to New York City. People there seem like the type of chicks and dudes I would want to hang out with.

The flight was about eight hours long including standing on lines and bag searches and stuff. I slept half of the flight there anyway so it felt shorter than it really was. I didn’t really have any initiative on where and why I was going. I m 17 and never been to New York before. From the looks of it, I got a lot to learn.

I traveled a lot for a young kid like me in one day. I skipped buses and walked a few blocks to sorta get the feel for this city. I ended up in some place called Williamsburg in Brooklyn. It seemed like a typical place in New York. Mostly everyone blasting hip hop in their “fancy cars” and bums sitting on the street asking for spare change.

I found a local fast food restaurant I decided I might eat at, but when I ordered my food and counted out the money, I was short. While the cashier turned around to call in the manager about this, I grabbed the tray of food and ran. Like you don’t even understand how fast I ran.

I got a few blocks without anyone chasing me, so I stopped and sat down to eat. Looking around, everything seemed to changed. People actually looked like me. I didn’t stick out like a sore thumb anymore. Guys and girls wearing their hair in dreadlocks and spikes, people with facial piercings, baggy jeans and converse. More than half of everyone was carrying an instrument with them. This was the greatest day of my life. I swear.

After eating and relaxing for a few minutes, I decided to look around for a few help wanted signs in windows of stores. I searched for what seemed like years without finding anything. So I bummed it. That’s right. Went down to the subway and took out my guitar, laying the case at my feet and played and sang loudly. I figured I’d make a few bucks this way. And I was right.

It’s like when people in the subway see a guy in the subway playing the guitar, it’s their sudden job to pay them. I sang and played for about 2 hours, making a grand total of a surprising 50 bucks. Who knew playing this stupid thing under ground could get you so much money?

As I packed up my stuff, a teenage guy, about my age came up to me, a guitar case in his hand. “Hey. Are you done with this spot? Mind if I use it?” he asked me.

“Uhm yeah. I am done. Just packing up. You can set up if you want. I’ll be out of your way in no time.” I answered, stuffing my acoustic back into it’s case.

The kid smiled, and thanked me, pulling out an acoustic bass. I stood up straight, looking at it, a weird smile appeared on my face. He sat down, twisting the silver tuning keys at the head of the guitar and fixed the strap around his neck.

“You play bass?” I asked stupidly. My cheeks turned a light shade of pink and I looked down quickly.

“Yeah. I see you play guitar.” He said, examining my guitar case. “Can I ask you a question?” he laughed. “Why do you have the word ‘fart’ written on your guitar case?” A smile spread across my face.

“HA. Oh. I don’t know. I just find that word funny. I find a lot of words funny. I m a pretty random guy I guess.” he shook his head, then put it down on his bass before laughing again.

“Dude.” He laughed, turning around his bass revealing the back where the word ‘DICK’ was carved into it. I joined in laughing with him. “Man we got to chill sometime. Where do you live?” He asked.

My face became very serious after that. I looked down at my feet, kicking around a rock that was at my feet. “I… Uhh technically don’t live anywhere. I ran away from home today. But my parents live in California. They are on vacation in Italy until Christmas Eve I think. Took the money they left for emergencies and booked.” I explained.

A sincere look grew upon the boys face. He played with the open top string of his bass and asked. “Where are you going to stay? I mean, don’t you need to live somewhere? It’s illegal to live on the street.”

I looked at him and smirked a little. “Yeah. I know. I might just go to a hotel for a night or two and keep working down here. Playing music and getting hunks of money thrown at me.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Well. My parents are pretty cool. They gave up on me after I stole their car and almost ran over a few people on the street while I was intoxicated. You can stay with us if you want.” He suggested.

“Man that’s nice of you, but I don’t want to be a burden. I just met you and all, you know?”

“Dude. Don’t worry about it. I do this all the time. Come on. Sit down and well jam together, put your case back out, make some more money and stay with us. You know you waaaant toooo!” he teased.

Laughing like the dork I am, I sat down, taking out my guitar and strummed a few chords. “Fine. But only because you find the word ‘dick’ hilarious. And also because I need to know at least SOMEONE out here.”

“WOO! I WIN! Let’s jam! Do you like punk music by any chance?” he questioned.

“Of course. It’s only my favorite genre of music EVER!” he laughed and stuck his hand out. I gripped it and shook it firmly.

“We can turn out to be good friends. My name is Mark by the way. Mark Hoppus. You?” he asked.

“Tom.” I replied back. “Tom Delonge.”

“We are gonna get along juuuust fine Tom. Juuuust fine.”