The Jesus of Suburbia

The Grouch

As he'd said, Billie came up a few minutes later.

I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. It was so clear, not the popcorn stuff I was used to.

Back home in Brooklyn I got so bored once that I started to could every little flake of plaster on the ceiling. It was entertaining in a stupid way.

Billie walked in and I didn't move. He didn't earn my recognition of his presence at the moment.

I closed my eyes and shifted my fingers so they were closer to my sides instead of the comfortably splayed position they had been in.

"Sit up, Red."

I didn't move.

Soft footsteps patted against the carpet and the bed dipped to my right where he sat down.

Silence ensued between us.

His eyes seemed to be piercing holes through me and I was gradually getting more and more tense.

"How were you when you were my age?" I ask after the silence became much too long.

A breath cut through the air as if he'd been holding it. "A lot like you."

"Yeah, I heard." I say bitterly, turning my head away from him but not opening my eyes.

"My dad died when I was ten, I started playing guitar at 11." He said quietly.

"How'd he die?" Maybe it was too intrusive but I wanted to know.

"Cancer in his esophagus."

A pang of pity goes through me, but then I realize that we both don't have fathers. It's not just him.

"My dad's in jail. He got drunk, killed someone."

It was hard to talk about so I stopped before I got into detail. I just wanted to forget.

I feel a warm hand on my shoulder after a few seconds and I instantly shrug it off. My eyes open but I don't meet his. Instead, I sit up and scoot away a little.

"So, you came up to yell at me or something. Get it over with."

Billie shook his head. His shaggy black hair covered his eyes enough so I couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"Well, I know if I tell you to stop, you won't. Just don't do it around the house and make sure you don't smell like shit when you come home. How long have you been smoking?"

He looked over at me, but I looked down. "Since eighth grade. So, two or three years."

"What made you start?"

"Why does it matter?" I snap, looking at him with an expression I know is cold. He meets it evenly and shrugs.

"It's an honest question. I'm just curious."

"Curiousity killed the cat." I'd never quite understood the statement. If you ask me, the cat was just born stupid.

"I don't even like cats," Billie says. "but I get the message." He seems like he's about to reach out to touch me again, but decides not to. Smart decision. He stands up and I notice his socks.

They are black with a little Nirvana face on each foot. A tiny smile crosses my lips but it fades when I look up again.

"Goodnight." Billie says with a tiny salute.

"Night." I nod and watch as he closes the door. His footsteps retreat down the hallway and I sit on the edge of the bed again.

I think about his advice.

Basically, he's alright with it as long as I don't his wife. I can respect that.

With a small sigh I pull off my shirt and toss it across the room.

Not a good night, but it is indeed a night.