Not In This Lifetime

you gotta fight for your right ~ beastie boys

"Mom!" I shout. "What happened to my CD?"

"Which one?"

"Both of the ones that are missing!"

"I got rid of them. You don't need to be listening to that."

"MOM!"

"Hudson, come downstairs so I don't have to yell."

"Sonofabitch." I mutter, making sure I slam my boots down as hard as possible with each step.

"Watch your mouth."

"How'd you even hear that?!" I swear, my mom had me wondering sometimes.

"Mom ears." She smiles. "What's the matter? You seem angry."

"You took my CDs!" I point an accusing finger at her. "Not fair!"

"Huds, we already had this conversation. Those bands are bad influences, and I'm not going to have them playing in my house."

"Please?" I say quietly. "It means a lot to me. Mom, sometimes, it feels like they're the only ones who understand me."

"They don't understand you."

"How do you know? You've never met them."

"I just know. They're all millionaires, they're not trying to understand you."

"They weren't millionaires when they wrote the songs! They were living on the streets, just trying to survive!"

"One of their guitarists was a drug dealer."

"I know. Wait, why do you know that?"

"I'm not telling you you can't listen to them for no reason. They're a bad influence."

"Fine." I glare at her and stand up. "I'm leaving."

"Where are you going to go?" Amusement glitters in her eyes. It just makes me more angry than I already was.

"I don't know, but away from here!" I grab my keys and slam the door behind me, probably knocking a picture or two off the wall. I get in my car, an 80s model Ford Bronco. It's black, with a bunch of stickers all over the back. My cousin passed it down to me when he got a new car.

"Fuck this!" I shout, slamming my hand down on the dashboard. "Fucking hell!" I have some definite anger issues, along with a panic disorder that causes me to have panic attacks at random times. It SUCKS.

I pop a tape into the player, Nevermind The Bollocks by the Sex Pistols. It was in the car when I got it and Mom hasn't found it and confiscated it yet.

"I am an antichrist, I am an anarchist!" I sing along with Johnny, working on perfecting my sneer. I'm a good singer, a good guitarist, a good bassist, a good drummer. Why? I have no idea. Whatever instrument I pick up, I seem to be good at it. Natural talent, I guess. I can't take lessons cuz I'm broke and Mom would never let me, so I'm self taught. I play along with Guns N' Roses songs in my friend Ace's garage and hope to God my mom doesn't find out. She'd kill me. Of all the rock bands she hates, she hates Guns N' Roses and Skid Row the most. I don't know why, but she harbors an extreme hatred for them both. To be honest, those are two of my favorites. If I had to choose, I'd go with GNR, but I love the Skids too. Rachel's pretty cool.

I find myself parked in front of the local record store, Papa Jazz. How I got here, I don't know, but I guess I drove here on autopilot. I grab my phone and shoot Ace a text, letting him know I'm gonna be late for practice. Then, I slam the car door and walk inside. The comforting smell of vinyl greets me, along with cluttered shelves and uneven floorboards. I decide on picking up some tapes to keep in the car, since mom doesn't usually venture in there. It's too big of a mess for her, and she never finds whatever I hide in the center console and under the seats. I browse around for a while, and end up choosing Alice In Chains' Facelift and The Stone Temple Pilots' Thank You. I've been in a grungy mood lately.

I'm about to check out and leave when a girl standing by the corner catches my eye. She's wearing an AC/DC t-shirt with ripped jeans and Vans, and a long brown braid hangs out from underneath her NRA baseball cap.

NRA? Isn't that the gun thing? I don't necessarily agree with guns, but for self defense I guess it's fine. But a girl who shoots? Cool. I debate on whether or not to walk over, but I decide not to. Chickenshit, I know.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." She says, raising her eyebrow. "I'm Willow, you?"

"Uh. Hudson." I smile, hoping there isn't food in my teeth.

"Whatcha got?" She asks, nodding at the tapes I'm holding.

"Um. Uh. Alice In Chains and Stone Temple Pilots."

"Sweet. Alice In Chains, solid choice."

"What do you have?"

"Aerosmith." She holds up a CD. "You have a tape player in your car or something?"

"Yeah. I have an old black Bronco."

"Sweet. I have an old red Honda Civic. One of the doors is white cuz the old door got fucked up in a wreck. I didn't wreck it, but my uncle works at a junkyard in LA. He fixed it and gave it to me for my birthday."

"Oh. Cool."

"It has some questionable stains on the backseat." She laughs. "I don't even wanna know what went down in that car."

"Eww!" I snort. "Dirty mind!"

"You'd think that too if you saw it!"

"Sure."

"Come look if you don't believe me!"

"Okay. Lemme pay first." We walk up to the register together and pay for our music, then she takes me out to see her car.

"The door doesn't open unless you kick it." She slams her foot into the door, wrenching it open with an awful squeaking noise. I poke my head in, looking around.

"Smells like weed." I chuckle.

"It was like that when I got it!"

"I don't care if you smoke weed, it's all good here."

"Nah, no weed. Just cigarettes."

"Oh. I have some, you want one?" I ask, pulling a pack of Marlboro reds out of my pocket.

"Sure. Thanks." I hand her a cigarette and light it for her. I light my own and watch the smoke curl lazily up into the sky.

"Wanna come to my band practice?" I ask suddenly.

"Sure!"

"Just follow me, it's a ratty blue house, ya can't miss it. There's a pair of shoes thrown over the power line in front of it."

"Okay. Thanks, Hudson. You're real spontaneous. I like that."

"You're cool. Hard to find people with good music taste these days."

"Oh god, I know. I literally have no friends."

"I got the band, but that's about it."

"Yeah." She's quiet for a minute. "Can I have your number?"

"Sure!" I put my phone number into her phone and she puts hers into mine.

"Thanks. I'll follow you, okay?"

"Yep." I get in my car and pop my new AIC tape in the player. Man In The Box fills the car and I once again marvel over Layne Stanley's voice, and then have a mental breakdown because he's dead.

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