If My Memory Serves Me Right, chapter 3
Jesus and I left the Center Of The Earth a little while later, both of us ten minutes older and very much in love. He and I really clicked, and he reminded me that I was not the only one in the world who had seen hard times, and I knew I could lean on him. I still had a few questions for him though.
"Why do they call you Jesus?" I asked. It was the second time I had asked him this question, but he hadn't given me a very good answer before. I wanted to know why he was the leader around Jingletown.
"I'm known as Jesus because I'm the stereotype of a street punk. I grew up pretty much unwanted, and I ran to the streets as a last resort. My parents were polar opposites, you see. Like rage and love. That's all it was with them. So I left, and the others began to look up to me because I knew how to live on the streets. They're sort of my disciples. And I'm their Jesus. The Jesus Of Suburbia. That's all this place is," he said.
I thought about this, and as we walked along hand and hand I realized what he meant. His story was my story. It was the same story all of us would tell if we talked about our pasts. The only difference is that he was the one who told the story while the rest of us tried to avoid it. I looked up at him, and he was grinning at me.
"My real name's Jimmy though!" he said with a laugh.
I smiled back at him. "I think Jesus suits you, Jimmy," I replied.
"Yeah, most of the other guys don't know my real name. It's always just been Jesus."
"Are you okay with that?"
He looked at me curiously. "You know sometimes I don't mind. But then again sometimes I do get tired of it. Sometimes I want to look up to someone else. I don't want to play the other brother to everyone all the time. But it's okay, really."
I nodded, but didn't say anything. Jesus was exactly the same as all the other punks I had ever met, but there was something different about him. He was stronger and independent from what he'd been through, and I respected him for that.
We kept walking and he suggested that I stay in the squat that he lived in with him. I accepted; glad to have found a place to stay.
A few day later he and I were walking through town when an older woman saw us and stopped right in front of us I glanced at her, and then glanced at Jesus, not sure what to do. He looked confused as well.
"Who do you two think you are?" she said with a sad shake of her head. "The day is going to come soon when you dirty kids are going to realize that looking like you do and living off stealing is not going to get you anywhere."
She walked away before we had a chance to reply, but Jesus laughed it off.
"She's the wife of the preacher. She's always trying to get us to conform to what she believes youth should be like. It's quite funny, really."
I realized what just happened was nothing more than a normal encounter, and I shrugged it off. We continued walking until we reached the Center Of The Earth. Jesus took out a bottle of spray paint and began to do some graffiti on the wall in front of him.
"You know what I think though?" He said all of a sudden
"No, what's that?"
"Well, people like that lady try to make out that we're the fucked up ones. But I mean she's just as fucked up as we are. She's just different than us. We're all fucked up, just not the same. But she doesn't have the courage to acknowledge it. We're seen as the ones who are all messed up, but I think we're the only ones who have gotten it right. I think the rest of the world is what's messed up, not us. We're the ones who have gotten it right. We're doing the right thing. I think we're the saints of this world, not people like that woman."
I thought about what he said. We were born and raised by hypocrites, but it was the people like us who had moved away from that hypocrisy who were right about things, not that lady who tried to draw people back into it. Jesus was right. We were the saints. We were the ones who had gotten it all right.
"Well, Saint Jimmy, seeing as we're all fucked up, I think we should take it upon ourselves to tell the rest how it's done."
He looked around at me. "Saint Jimmy? I like that." He took a bottle of spray paint and put his new alias up on the wall.
"Yeah I like it," he said happily.
"Why do they call you Jesus?" I asked. It was the second time I had asked him this question, but he hadn't given me a very good answer before. I wanted to know why he was the leader around Jingletown.
"I'm known as Jesus because I'm the stereotype of a street punk. I grew up pretty much unwanted, and I ran to the streets as a last resort. My parents were polar opposites, you see. Like rage and love. That's all it was with them. So I left, and the others began to look up to me because I knew how to live on the streets. They're sort of my disciples. And I'm their Jesus. The Jesus Of Suburbia. That's all this place is," he said.
I thought about this, and as we walked along hand and hand I realized what he meant. His story was my story. It was the same story all of us would tell if we talked about our pasts. The only difference is that he was the one who told the story while the rest of us tried to avoid it. I looked up at him, and he was grinning at me.
"My real name's Jimmy though!" he said with a laugh.
I smiled back at him. "I think Jesus suits you, Jimmy," I replied.
"Yeah, most of the other guys don't know my real name. It's always just been Jesus."
"Are you okay with that?"
He looked at me curiously. "You know sometimes I don't mind. But then again sometimes I do get tired of it. Sometimes I want to look up to someone else. I don't want to play the other brother to everyone all the time. But it's okay, really."
I nodded, but didn't say anything. Jesus was exactly the same as all the other punks I had ever met, but there was something different about him. He was stronger and independent from what he'd been through, and I respected him for that.
We kept walking and he suggested that I stay in the squat that he lived in with him. I accepted; glad to have found a place to stay.
A few day later he and I were walking through town when an older woman saw us and stopped right in front of us I glanced at her, and then glanced at Jesus, not sure what to do. He looked confused as well.
"Who do you two think you are?" she said with a sad shake of her head. "The day is going to come soon when you dirty kids are going to realize that looking like you do and living off stealing is not going to get you anywhere."
She walked away before we had a chance to reply, but Jesus laughed it off.
"She's the wife of the preacher. She's always trying to get us to conform to what she believes youth should be like. It's quite funny, really."
I realized what just happened was nothing more than a normal encounter, and I shrugged it off. We continued walking until we reached the Center Of The Earth. Jesus took out a bottle of spray paint and began to do some graffiti on the wall in front of him.
"You know what I think though?" He said all of a sudden
"No, what's that?"
"Well, people like that lady try to make out that we're the fucked up ones. But I mean she's just as fucked up as we are. She's just different than us. We're all fucked up, just not the same. But she doesn't have the courage to acknowledge it. We're seen as the ones who are all messed up, but I think we're the only ones who have gotten it right. I think the rest of the world is what's messed up, not us. We're the ones who have gotten it right. We're doing the right thing. I think we're the saints of this world, not people like that woman."
I thought about what he said. We were born and raised by hypocrites, but it was the people like us who had moved away from that hypocrisy who were right about things, not that lady who tried to draw people back into it. Jesus was right. We were the saints. We were the ones who had gotten it all right.
"Well, Saint Jimmy, seeing as we're all fucked up, I think we should take it upon ourselves to tell the rest how it's done."
He looked around at me. "Saint Jimmy? I like that." He took a bottle of spray paint and put his new alias up on the wall.
"Yeah I like it," he said happily.
