American Idiot

Jimmy.
That's my name. Always has been. Always belonged to me. I also have an lot of nicknames. One being the Jesus of Suburbia. But if you had even the slightest glimpse into my life, you'd realize that that is far more than any nickname. It's an way of life.

I am the Jesus of an underground land. Beneath an seldom used bridge. It's where the cult, The children of war and peace reside. We all have homes or had homes somewhere. But most of us stay here. Beneath the cold concrete staring at the open flames of the fires at night. Thinking about our lives and what could have been. It's an world of hurt an depression here. But somehow I found myself in the thick of it all. The leader of these lost children. When they are actually far older than children. But still.

I sat in my living room. Looking at the black and white screen. Political figures flashing across the screen. My mom sat on the opposite couch ignoring me. That's not unusual. it's just the way it's always been. We rarely talk and when we do, an war breaks out and I just leave. I can't stay here anymore. Not now. Her eyes narrow when they flash over at me. As if judging me, as if I don't already have enough people doing that. Most of the people in the underground respect me and don't disagree with my decisions. It's my life and I'll do as I please.

I can't stand it now. Everyday the TV is on, on some news channel to listen to people bicker about the qualities of America. If it were as clear to them as it is to me, they would see that there was nothing left worth fighting for and just let it go. But people in that business are specially trained to not let it go. It's their jobs I guess.

I rose from the dirty couch silently. Didn't spare my mother another glance as I walked toward the door and slammed it shut behind me. Putting up the barrier between us, like she'd always done to me. Maybe we were both just comfortably numb to the hatred we had for each other.

I'm going to the Underground. I do have an car. An beat up piece of shit. Nothing great about driving that around. Driving a fire hazard around town doesn't exactly buy you any popularity points with the rich people who point and laugh. The ones who call the punks of Suburbia drug dealers, sluts, man-whores, slum lords and hopeless losers. Maybe that was true, maybe they all just didn't want to accept it, I wouldn't be too sure either way. You only get looked down upon. Like your doing everything wrong and throwing your life away. I don't believe that I am, in fact I'm very happy with where my life is headed. I have the love of my life, Mary-Jane. I have my best friend Tunny. I'm the Jesus of suburbia. What else could I need to make me happy? I'm fine. I really am. But I'll be even better the farther away I get from the TV with all the political mess being broadcasted through it. It's like a portal for bad news, and when something does happen, my mom gets all pissed about it and tries to take it out on me.

I started west. Up the sidewalk which would eventually lead me to my desired location within the next mile and an half. It's an decent distance to be from home. But I really don't call that place home. I call it an house.

An home is full of warmth an love. Surrounded by people who miss you when you're gone. Not surrounded by your mother and step father. Who look down at you and are quick to tell you when you're doing something wrong. Maybe it's help them a bit to take an look at their own life's.

I've got better things to be doing than taking lectures from my stepdad of which I cringe to even include the word 'Dad'. I don't consider him anything near that mark. He's really more of an stuck up acquaintance than anything I'd call family. I don't even like to put myself in the pool of being in a family with him involved. I'd do just fine without any father figure. I've made it this far.

My dad. My real dad. Died when I was young. So I didn't have an real idol to look up too and follow in his footsteps. He was an successful business man. Had an lot of money before marrying my mom. He died of cancer when I was five. Left behind all his wealth for my 'new' parents to squander. Even though my mom has always been my mother, I don't really feel like being connected to her in any way anymore. Especially not by blood.

I was almost there. It's the hide out for all the refugees of Suburbia. Its an big bridge that runs onward to the bigger towns of California. But it's rarely used and sort of abandoned.

I followed the cracked concrete sidewalk until it faded into an trail of scattered gravel and weeds. The cement pillars are covered in graffiti. Being repainted almost daily. The people who live here, are beyond any sort of normal. Like the gothic version of punk. Girls had brightly dyed hair, Mohawks and shaved heads. Some of the weirdest hair styles you could ever imagine live in the Underground. But that's all apart of being in the Underground. You can be the most tattooed, pierced thing you could possibly be. So tatted' up that no skin is visible any more and so many piercings in your lip that you can't eat soup or drink water without looking like a showerhead, but no matter what version of punk you are, you'll be accepted here. Because we all connect over the love for one thing (With some side action of cocaine, booze and pills.) We connect over the love for punk music.

These people are still more my cup of tea than those snobby people I have to surround myself with when I'm back home roaming the neighborhood.

I passed a few people, who looked up at me but said nothing. I knew where to find her, where to find Mary-Jane. She hides away at the far side of the bridge. Behind an section of cement where the sun actually shines down in an decent ray rather than the bone chilling shadows of the other sections under the bridge. The ground is littered with garbage and this place is starting to look more like an landfill than any sort of cool hide out to do illegal substances. Something else my parents don't really know about. My mom knows that I drink and I smoke. But not about all the cocaine. Maybe if she paid closer attention to me when I come home she'd catch gist of it. She's no saint herself. She goes out to parties on the weekend. Typically the ones I'm hosting. And gets herself embarrassingly drunk. She's not the pure saint she thinks everyone sees her as.

I made my way closer and found Mary-Jane. Sitting un an old recliner that rested on the dirt. Her big blue eyes flashed up at me as I approached. An big smile spread across her face, but it almost seemed forced. I tried to ignore it as she leapt up and hugged me.

"Jimmy!" She squealed. I hugged back. The thoughts I just had vanished when I hugged her.
she pulled back. "We had better get going."
I nodded and followed her out into the sunlight up toward her car. The nagging feeling wasn't completely gone but still hovered. Faintly.
I hope I'm not being an idiot to ignore my instinct.