Generation Why Bother

Web comics are great. You don’t have to pay for them and you get to see the crisp, clean art depicting your favorite characters battling enemies, being generally awesome – and this usually doesn’t cost a dime. But I’m kind of weird about my favorite comic, Johnny Cool and the Dudes. The artist who makes it – he just goes by the name “Anchor,” beats me why – releases his comics free online and then in a weekly issue format, which the local bookstore always has on hand.

I don’t mind paying a couple extra bucks if it means seeing the showmanship on glossy magazine paper. In fact, it’s worth it, in my opinion. It’s also worth it in the opinion of my best friend Tegan, who has lived directly next to me since we were in diapers and has grown up watching homemade cartoons on CoolTube, reading web comics right by my side. We were in fifth grade when we first discovered Johnny Cool, and even though he’s skyrocketed in popularity and has spawned a following that’s almost unnatural for a web series, we’re still able to talk about it like it’s just one of those special things we share.

See, Johnny Cool is a superhero. He doesn’t have a cape and he needs a little help from his friends to be the rock n’ roll butt-kicker everybody knows, but he always manages to save the day. I’ve always thought that was awesome. And after what happened to me in the summer of 2011, I still can’t help but make stupid comparisons between my life and his life, even if they have no bearing in reality.

I didn’t know how to be a genuine good person when my life flipped upside down, let alone how to be a real hero. I guess my friends ended up feeling the same way, and that was alright in my book. It was the last thing I ever thought would happen to me. Then again, I never thought my mom would die when I was four and barely old enough to think, either, so maybe it wasn’t all just a crapshoot. Lightning sometimes strikes twice, even if normalcy is a cornerstone.

It can strike twice for multiple people, too. Tegan and I were in the same boat, since her dad left a long time ago, which was her first strike. It may all have been a coincidence. Who knows? All I know at this point is that it happened, I’m here, I’m alive, and that’s more than enough.

The day it started to go down was a Saturday in June, a really nice and breezy day where the sun was shining behind clouds, giving our Chicago suburbs a taste of light without soaking us in it. That morning I drove down to the bookstore to get my copy of the latest issue of Johnny Cool and the Dudes for three bucks, already eager to read it with Tegan later despite the fact that we could read all of it the following week on his website. We were just excited every Saturday for that precise reason.

When I got back home at about noon, my dad was sitting in the living room with his nose in a book as usual. He looked above the hard cover to nod at me and smile just a bit.

“’Morning, Papá,” I greeted, closing the front door behind me.

He spotted the comic book in my hand and laughed a little bit. “Oshie, mijo, when are you gonna stop buying comics and start making your own?”

“When I can draw worth a crap,” I replied, tossing the car keys to my inherited sedan onto the counter.

“You’re good enough to make cartoons, Oshie,” Dad reassured. He always did that. I’m just thankful he wasn’t like those stupid parents you always see in movies where they never let their kid do anything remotely artistic. “You going over to Tegan’s now?”

I adjusted the hat on my head and started walking towards the front door again. “Yeah, but I’ll be back before the concert tonight to say goodbye.”

He groaned a little. “Ay, that’s right. That concert is tonight…how late is it supposed to go?”

“Papá, it’s a rock band, they’re gonna go late,” I told him, feeling like I was pointing out the obvious – but parents, especially my dad, aren’t really in-tune with that kind of stuff. “I’ll call you though, at least when we leave the venue.”

“Alright, that sounds fine,” he sighed, going back to his book. “Tell Tracey – er, Ms. Thompson I said hi when you go over there.”

“Don’t worry, Dad.”

There’s practically a path worn into the grass between me and Tegan’s house from us walking to each other’s houses so often. It’s just a ritual. Being best friends and all, it’s actually kind of cliché. However, we both know that we’re always welcome no matter what time of day, and even if that’s been abused sometimes, our parents don’t care.

I stood at the doorstep and rang the doorbell with a fresh comic in my hands, and it took everything to not crack it open and start looking at it right then and there – but then I remembered that I’d be violating an unspoken rule between Tegan and I if I looked ahead of time.

Ms. Thompson – well, Tracey, as she told me to call her – opened the door, her dyed deep red hair hanging around her aging face. She smiled at me and said, “Hi Oshie, you’re early.”

“Well, we gotta go to that concert pretty early if we wanna get close to the front,” I explained.

She held a hand up to her forehead and sighed, “Oh, that concert’s tonight, isn’t it?”

“You basically just said what my dad said,” I snickered, walking through the door into their house, the house that had become practically my second home over the years. “I promise I’ll punch anyone who touches Tegan, Ms. Tracey.”

She folded her arms but kept that friendly demeanor I knew her for. “You’re a good boy, Oshie. Well…man. Well…uh, young man.”

“Thanks. Also, my dad says hi,” I laughed, heading to Tegan’s room down the corridor to the right of the front door. I tried my best not to sweat on the crisp pages, but it would only be a few minutes until I could finally read it. As much as I loved sharing the moment with Tegan, it was always painstaking to stop myself from opening it and prematurely basking in the comic’s glory.

I knocked at her door, staring at the ceiling in resistance.

“Hold on, I’m not wearing pants!”

I groaned loud enough so that I knew she’d hear it, and within seconds, the door opened and her bright green eyes met mine. Red hair swept over one side of her face, she grinned and said, “Ready for today?”

“You bet your butt I am,” I smiled back, holding the comic book over my face.

She gasped and snatched it out of my hands faster than I could blink, and before I knew it, we were sitting on her bed with the comic sprawled open, revealing colorful action-packed scenes regarding the turbulent life of our mutual favorite hero, Johnny Cool. When we read it, we didn’t exchange a word – you could only hear our gasps and laughs as reactions to whatever was going on in his world (which, of course, was New York City).

When we turned the last page, after the dreadful text box that said, “Tune in next week!,” we normally just glanced at each other and then started a discussion about whatever we thought about it.

She just kept grinning at me that time, though, and I couldn’t look at her for too long without breaking down into laughter. She ripped off my hat and threw it across the room before shouting, “What’s so funny?!” like she didn’t even realize what kind of face she was making.

“You just kept staring at me, it was weird!” I snorted, rolling over and trying to reach for my hat before realizing that my arm was a few feet too short to accomplish that.

“I’m just happy, that’s all,” she explained. “I’ve been looking forward to this concert for weeks. It’s gonna kick so much ass.”

We managed to score some tickets to see this local band that was getting more and more famous by the day, and since it was happening at the beginning of summer, somehow it just felt like the perfect way to kick it off. We could stay out late and not have to worry about homework, and combined with the fact that we almost never went to concerts, it felt like a new chapter of my life was beginning, if I could say that in the corniest possible way.

“I hear they’re so much better live than on the record. Apparently the lead singer makes all these goofy faces and really gets the crowd going,” I mused. The more I thought about it, the more excited I was getting.

“I just wanna know what kind of name Put’emup, Put’emup is for a band,” Tegan said a little harshly. “Like, I can’t even spell it right on the first try.”

I shrugged while twirling a piece of my shaggy hair between my fingers (I also made a mental note to get a haircut). “You know those pop-punk bands. They always gotta make things difficult, what with their weird names and long song titles…”

She ran her fingers through her short hair. “The only downside is that it’s gonna be a total sausage fest. Not a single other girl is gonna come to that, I bet.”

“Don’t worry, I already promised your mom I would punch any guy who touches you,” I told her, patting her shoulder.

“It’s not that. I just wanna meet babes,” she said in such a flat matter-of-fact tone that I couldn’t help a little smile. “There are never any chicks who like chicks at any of the concerts we’ve been at. Not even when we went to see Owen! I was expecting at least a few artsy lesbians or something…”

Tegan had never really had much luck in that area, but we didn’t really talk about it that often. When she came out as a lesbian when we were twelve, I didn’t think much of it, and I still don’t. Luckily, neither did our parents.

“I’ll keep an eye out for you,” I winked. I sat up on the bed and started to walk over to get my hat, and once it was back on my head, I sat back down next to a comfortably laid-out Tegan. “Just let me know and I’ll be your wingman.”

“And if any creepy guys hit on me, you’ll be my boyfriend.”

“Right. So, the usual.”

“You got it, Oshie,” she smiled, holding her hand out for a fist-bump. I didn’t leave her hanging.