Read Online Freaks and Revelations by Davida Wills Hurwin - Free Book Online

chair; he whirls me easily onto the couch, sits down beside me, takes my hand, and puts it on the front of his pants. I can’t raise my arms to stop him. He leans in close; I gag at the smell. He moves my hand back and forth. Reaches for my zipper.
    Adrenaline kicks in and suddenly I’m up. I knock the bastard on his ass. I book it out the door, stumble through the parking lot. I moving but I’m not sure how; I can’t feel my legs or lower back. I crawl behind the dumpster to hide there until I come down enough to walk home. My head is splitting. What the hell am I doing here? I could have been raped. Not a white face in sight and I can’t run. I’m on NEB. PCP.
    ANIMAL TRANQUILIZER.
    Stupid doesn’t begin to describe it.
    “Hey, baby,” says a black chick, leaning around the edge of the dumpster. Her eyes are glassy. “You want a date?”
    “Fuck off.” I manage to stand up, but that doesn’t last. Some ugly black dude grabs my shirt and sends me flying into the gravel on the edge of the parking lot.
    “Apologize to the lady,” he says, his eyes boring into me. His buddies come up behind him. I’m so scared I pee my pants.
    “Sorry,” I mumble.
    “Couldn’t hear ya,” he says.
    “I’m very sorry,” I say.
    “Yeah you are,” the guy says and they all start laughing. “You are one sorry mother—”
    A cop car drives down the alley and slows, shining a light toward us. The group breaks up quick. I don’t wait around.
    When I meet up with Roy a couple days later, I tell him what the Mexican tried to do. I don’t mention the other. He laughs.
    “Shit, he tries that with everybody. You ain’t special.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me?”
    “Why didn’t you ask?”
    I deck him. He laughs again.
    {2}
    Here’s what I figure out.
    If I want to play music, I got to go out and hear people playing it, see how they perform, get into the scene. Punk Rock’s taking off, moving like wildfire. It’s a revolution. I can’t sit around with Roy all the time. I can maybe drink and smoke some pot, but that NEB shit? Taking those stupid chances? No more. I won’t spend my life being unconscious. I got too much to say. Music is the way I’m gonna say it. Not hanging out with trash, being stoned.
    I need to take charge of my life.
    “You are so right,” Glenn says, when I talk it over with him. “Roy ain’t shit, man. He can’t even play. We got to move forward, yeah? Check this out.” He holds up a flyer for Black Flag, the one that’s like the Manson girls. “Want to go?”
    We don’t tell our parents; we just go. Me and Glenn ride the bus more than an hour to get to Hollywood. We sit in the very back, him in his ripped-up shirt and jeans, me wearing my Ramones T-shirt. We put on our mean faces and like it a lot when this woman chooses to stand up rather than sit near us. We get off up by Highland and stroll down Sunset. Hollywood at night is way better than I ever imagined. The energy’s like a drug. At the Whiskey, we stand in line with all those people I’ve been wanting to meet—the ones with dog collars and spiked hair. Glenn almost chickens out.
    “Just shut up and look pissed,” I whisper. We’re both over six feet tall. We do not look fifteen. When the bouncer gives us the once over and nods toward the door, I want to scream out loud.
    We’re in!
    Music blasts, lights strobe, people press close around us. The MC glares out at the crowd.
    “Who let all you long hairs in here?” he rants into the microphone.
    I know he can’t be talking to me—my hair’s like Johnny Ramone’s. That’s Punk.
    “Don’t you people know short hair is All-American?” he screams.
    Somebody yanks my hair from behind, hard. I whirl to see a little round Punk girl smirking. Her head’s shaved. She’s got a safety pin stuck through her eyebrow.
    “Hippie,” she taunts.
    “Bitch,” I say. My hair is definitely not hippie.
    A second later, I smell something burning. Glenn smacks the back of my