When The World Fails You

When The World Fails You Part 4

“Nope.” She handed me some shirts and socks to put away. “Do you have homework?”

“Nope, I’m going to my room.” I kissed her cheek. I looked at Dad. “I’m ready to work Dad. Just tell me when.”

“You can work after college when you get a career.” He said to me when I walked away.

I went up to my room and threw the clothes on my bed. I opened my cd case and took out Social Distortion’s, Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell’s record.

Music is pretty much what I have. I play guitar and write a lot of songs for my band. Its an awesome feeling to know that I’m good at something even though the scene I love isn’t all that great in this small town. Shows up here, punk shows, were at a minimum. My friends and I usually had to go out of town to see an awesome punk show. When Narcoleptic Youth played in the next town we literally had to walk miles and take the occasional bus to see them. The way back was pretty bad, with most of us being drunk. Some cops arrested us and I ended up having to work to pay off the ticket. I didn’t mind working, it was just what I was working for.

I hate anything with some kind of authority tag on it. Cops made me sick, the teachers hated me anyways, adults in this town were so obsessed with having everything perfect that they categorized the Mexicans out because we werent rich enough.

Racism to its finest. Segregation at its best.

That’s why I think my dad wants to me succeed. To be honest, I just want to make music for the rest of my life. I want to make people understand that Punk isn’t a fuckin show. It’s a lifestyle. It’s a right.

And the music is about the freedom to say fuck you. It talks about the things no one wants to hear on the radio. It doesn’t have a cute pop beat with a hot fake chick dancing on tables. It has the guts to call out those who refuse to be themselves and tell the truth about our government, our America.

Plus, it shares the real pain. Its like poetry but the simple shit. Your feeling depressed, feeling angry, feeling sad, feeling happy, feeling drunk, feeling used…THEY get that. Minor Threat gets it. Dead Kennedys gets it. Black Flag gets it. Antidote gets it. The Virus gets it. They don’t question your feelings to call you out they question it to understand.

Its just something I live by.

“Hey Ray!” Miranda ran into my room and jumped on my bed.

She’s only thirteen but the little girl was the smartest out of everyone we knew. She loved to learn and talk about what she learned. She looked just like Mom. Brown long hair, dark brown eyes, and the same stubborn attitude…but I think we all had that by now.

“How was school?” I grab her arm and swung her off the bed.

“Interesting.” She said.

“Interesting?” I ask as I sit down. I take out my box from under my bed open it. Inside, it had a bunch of thread and needles and studs. I was working in a new leather my dad had found at a thrift store. I grabbed the jacket from my dresser and start pattering the studs on it.

“Need help?” Miranda asked.

“Nah,” I shrugged. “Why was school interesting?”

“Well, I met a girl who told me she knew Madison Henderson.”

Hearing her name so soon after I was free from school and that whole situation already annoyed me. I put the leather down. “Why do you care about Madison?”

Miranda rolled her eyes. “I don’t care. You do though.”

“I could give two shits about Madison.” I muttered, returning to my leather.

“Don’t swear! Anyways…she said Madison was gorgeous and the most coolest girl in school…I guess her sister is a cheerleader and they go to practice together.”

“I don’t care Miranda.”

“Hey can you make me a purse?” Miranda asked. “You’re a good sewer.”

“Have that one chick you hang with make you one.” I forced the stud through the leather and closed in the ends.

“She doesn’t even know who Circle Jerks are…” Miranda yawned. “Most of the kids at my school pretend to be punk…but I tell them you’re a real punk.”

“Its not about how much music you know or how you dress Miranda, I already told you that. Its about being yourself and not giving a fuck what everyone else thinks-”

“Ok! I don’t want to hear you rant about it!” Miranda covered her ears. “Anyways, I want to see what Madison looks like…Facebook her.”

“You Facebook her.”

As if she was waiting for me to say that, she turns to my computer and turns it on. I’m concentrating on my leather while she goes on Facebook and looks up the one girl I cannot stand. Miranda doesn’t hate people. She can’t force herself to if she tried. When I told her about Madison and her family firing Dad she told me that it didn’t have anything to do with Madison. As true as that might have been, it didn’t make her family any fuckin different.

Sometimes I wish I had what Miranda has…compassion.

“I found her!”

I lifted up my leather to look at it. It was filled with studs and paint. It took me all summer to complete this jacket. I was pretty busy trying to find odd jobs to do to raise up some money. Mowing lawns, washing cars, and painting houses seriously add up. Plus during the summer, no one really cared what you looked like as long as they didn’t have to do the work outside in the heat.

“Its about time you finished that.” I looked up and Danny is standing there with a grin on his face.

He’s the one who got me into the music.

We looked just alike beside our height and built. I’m taller with more muscle and he’s a bit more chub.

“You like it man?” I grin and hold it up to see.

“Hell yeah it came out cool.” He takes it and examines the paintings. “I haven’t seen a Dirtbag sign in a long time.”

“She’s so gorgeous!!” Miranda sings.

Danny turned to her. “Who?”

“Madison Henderson.”

Danny looks over her shoulder and whistles. “Who is that chica?”

“Captain of the cheerleading squad…” Miranda starts to read her Facebook. “She likes tanning, bike riding, her car-”

“Ha! Not anymore.” I laughed.

Miranda looked at me. “I don’t get it.”