Catcher in the Rye meets The Silver Linings Playbook in this coming of age tale.
Life is complicated for nineteen-year-old Miles Henderson. He was supposed to go to community college, graduate, and leave his crime polluted community for good.
But...
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After finishing my ramen, I take a warm shower, changed into my pajamas, and wished my older brother goodnight.
My feet slowly carried me upstairs where my bedroom opens its bleach-white door for me.
Inside the room were various punk rock band posters—The Misfits, Bad Brains, The Clash, and Minor Threat—all hang across the pasty gray walls.
Old paintings, art supplies, and a personal computer sat patiently on my desk caked in white dust.
As Dad's leather brown chair stood in front of the desk, I caught a glimpse of my favorite comic books and old photographs scattered across my black bedsheets.
Family and friends appear on the cool surface as memories of Coney Island, Disney World, and Santa Barbara flooded my head.
Every shirt, pants, and shoes hid behind the closeted doors alienating themselves from me.
Yawning, I picked up the black Zenith camera from underneath the small bed, shift my feet towards the window, and turn on the camera.
My trembling fingertips brushed against the steady surface as I peer through the lenses and snapped a photo of the events occurring outside.
According to my old college professors, they say that I am a talented photographer and encouraged me to take pictures for TheNew York Times Magazine.
And like many aspiring photographers, I head over to the company, composed my job application, and spent my life taking photos.
Every week, I would get paid fifty-five dollars an hour to take photos of the incidents arising in St. Ellis.
Some were about cocaine addiction and homelessness while others talked about Ronald Reagan and his wife Nancy.
But sometimes, whenever I couldn't sleep at night, I would pick up my camera and take pictures of St. Ellis at nighttime.
Sounds of wailing police sirens and broken glass shards paralyzed my heart, but the adrenaline in my veins kept me going.
I snapped pictures of two men exchanging small bags of cocaine, a young prostitute greeting her shady client with open arms, and nine-year-old juveniles cruising down the sidewalk on their weary bicycles.
In the background were flashing cars, bags of polluted debris, and faded graffiti smudging the grimy walls.
Putrid smells of burnt trash and cigarettes wafted through the opened window, forcing me to cough.
"Jesus Christ," I cussed.
The foul gas tastes like burnt hot dogs on the fourth of July. Fastening the window shut, I caressed my insomniac eyes with my right knuckle.
