It was during the sweltering Summer of 1982 that Jimmy's life changed. This change was precipitated by the conditions he found himself living in and by hearing a song that exploded onto his favorite college radio station one evening. The song, “I'm So Bored With The USA” was from one of the first British punk bands to gain notoriety: The Clash. He'd been a devout new waver for a couple of years, paying attention to the rise of post-punk artists who had begun receiving airplay and selling records across the country. He immediately identified with the raw edge and sarcastic lyrics many of these releases contained. These songs seemed to champion the outsider, the rebel, and that is exactly what he'd inadvertently become.
Growing up in rural Pennsylvania, one was expected to conform and above all, not to question the teachers, preachers and parents who held sway over every aspect of life. Jim found this impossible to maintain as he shifted into an awkward adolescent. He questioned everything and was either ignored or met with answers that only begged further questions. His parents were alarmed but hoped it was simply a part of the troubling teenage years most kids seem to pass through. Mostly, he was bored. The people around him seemed half alive, holding onto outdated mores and tedious concerns that had never interested him. This new punk rock offered excitement, perhaps even a bit of welcomed danger.
Jimmy knew he craved an identity all his own. He prized the authentic and shunned the consumer culture that was hellbent on destroying itself, taking everyone else along for the dreary ride. Every weekend, he would make his way into what passed for “the city” and hang out at the one record store that catered to new wave and imported the latest acts making a splash in England. His sole mission was to be as punk as he could possibly be, even if it alienated him even further from his surroundings. He began dressing punk, sporting torn clothing, a beaten leather jacket covered with buttons of his favorite groups and for extra effect, he wore a safety pin through one ear. Of course, he began to attract attention, the negative kind. The verbal altercations and occasional fisticuffs only fueled his determination to be what he wanted to be, fuck all!
His appearance cost him his job and finally got him thrown out of school. There was no turning back and he packed a bag and caught the train to Philadelphia. There was a nascent punk scene happening there with bars and clubs devoted to punk and there were also girls who were immersed in this precarious lifestyle. Jimmy didn't do drugs and wasn't a hard drinker. He lived for the rush of the music and the somewhat naive hope for a revolution. Soon after arriving, he hooked up with Trixie. She let him stay at her place, a rundown house in a bad part of town where many of the recently converted punks, anarchists and fledgling artists hung out morning, noon and night. It was safer to travel in groups as confrontations were spurious and frequent. He didn't want to admit he was in love with Trixie but he secretly was. She was wild, lawless and a bit kinky. She enjoyed being tied up during their frantic sexual encounters and she loved when Jimmy came in her ass. She gave him another first in the form of a tattoo. She was an aspiring tattooist and after completing two years of art school, she had been providing friends with cheap but colorful body art. Jimmy's read: “RESIST CONDITIONING,” and he was more than a little proud of it, cutting the sleeves off many t- shirts so everyone could see it scrawled on his left forearm.
Since most of his gaggle of friends were unemployed, they got up to typical punk antics. They spent a lot of time skateboarding around the city, grasping onto cabs, buses and trucks. They sprayed graffiti on subway walls late at night and went to the small, sweaty clubs to see the bands they now knew on a first-name basis. They also spent time on South Street, heckling and being heckled by tourists who would sometimes want their picture taken with these freaky lifeforms who sported multi-colored mohawks and profane t-shirts along with the required spikes and chains. The punks often discussed their ever-evolving fashion sense while cruising the Army Navy store for camouflage fatigues and combat boots. Jimmy began making stickers and buttons of his own to help spread the word that punk was here to stay, like it or not.
As the 80s progressed, the punks were met with more curiosity and less antagonism. Jimmy was featured in several newspapers and magazines that hoped to cash in on the public's fear of the new marauders. He gave his opinions to the zines that were popping up and soon was viewed as an elder statesman of the scene. He thought about trying to write a book about his life but that would have to come later. He was too caught up living in the moment, attempting to ride the rollercoaster for all he was worth. Some of his friends were beginning to move on into respectable jobs. They were getting married, talking about starting families and becoming tied to the very culture they had once so vehemently rallied against. Jimmy knew there was no way he'd ever succumb to the life his parents led.
He eventually lost Trixie to a bad drug habit. She fled back home to her parents in Maryland where she would hopefully get and stay clean. After a few weeks of scrounging for food and not being able to pay rent on the house he took over when Trixie departed, he got hired as a bouncer at a downtown rock club. He formed his own band, Circle Of Shit, and shaved his hair into a double mohawk, dyed blue and green. The band attracted neophyte punk rockers half his age who came to the shows to spit at him and slam dance the night away. It was an adrenaline-soaked fever dream that obviously couldn't last.
Jimmy had made his mark on the city. He was now regaled as a true renegade and punk pioneer.
As punk morphed into hardcore and thrash metal, he helped book the up-and-coming bands at the club where he'd gone through a few promotions to become the sole talent manager. He lived in a new apartment close to his job and grew his hair long. Everything had somehow fallen into place. His life was running more smoothly than it ever had until that one fateful night when it would end senselessly.
He had left the club around two in the morning. He'd hosted a hardcore marathon and even jumped into the mosh pit briefly, sensing how things had come full circle. He hung out with the bands for a while and then headed out to a diner that was open twenty-four hours for some breakfast. Passing an alley tucked behind the street, he heard a voice hoarsely whisper: “Spare some change, brother?”
Jimmy always gave whatever he could, remembering the rough days when he had to rely on the kindness of strangers for a cup of coffee or a cigarette.
“Sure, man. Here you go.”
As he bent to fish the coins from his pocket, the man suddenly stood and thrust a homemade shiv through Jimmy's jacket and into his chest.
Startled, Jimmy backed away as the stranger went through Jimmy's pockets, removing his wallet, a watch and an old chain Jimmy carried for luck. The stranger ran off immediately as Jimmy struggled to breathe. He tried to slow the blood flow with his hand but the wound was too deep and his blood gushed onto the asphalt. He collapsed and could feel his life bleeding out of him.
His last thought was of the bet he'd made long ago with Trixie as to who would die first. She'd been convinced it would be her. With his final, dying breath, he managed to say out loud to the garbage-strewn alley: “Ha-ha, I won!”
Jimmy knew he craved an identity all his own. He prized the authentic and shunned the consumer culture that was hellbent on destroying itself, taking everyone else along for the dreary ride. Every weekend, he would make his way into what passed for “the city” and hang out at the one record store that catered to new wave and imported the latest acts making a splash in England. His sole mission was to be as punk as he could possibly be, even if it alienated him even further from his surroundings. He began dressing punk, sporting torn clothing, a beaten leather jacket covered with buttons of his favorite groups and for extra effect, he wore a safety pin through one ear. Of course, he began to attract attention, the negative kind. The verbal altercations and occasional fisticuffs only fueled his determination to be what he wanted to be, fuck all!
His appearance cost him his job and finally got him thrown out of school. There was no turning back and he packed a bag and caught the train to Philadelphia. There was a nascent punk scene happening there with bars and clubs devoted to punk and there were also girls who were immersed in this precarious lifestyle. Jimmy didn't do drugs and wasn't a hard drinker. He lived for the rush of the music and the somewhat naive hope for a revolution. Soon after arriving, he hooked up with Trixie. She let him stay at her place, a rundown house in a bad part of town where many of the recently converted punks, anarchists and fledgling artists hung out morning, noon and night. It was safer to travel in groups as confrontations were spurious and frequent. He didn't want to admit he was in love with Trixie but he secretly was. She was wild, lawless and a bit kinky. She enjoyed being tied up during their frantic sexual encounters and she loved when Jimmy came in her ass. She gave him another first in the form of a tattoo. She was an aspiring tattooist and after completing two years of art school, she had been providing friends with cheap but colorful body art. Jimmy's read: “RESIST CONDITIONING,” and he was more than a little proud of it, cutting the sleeves off many t- shirts so everyone could see it scrawled on his left forearm.
Since most of his gaggle of friends were unemployed, they got up to typical punk antics. They spent a lot of time skateboarding around the city, grasping onto cabs, buses and trucks. They sprayed graffiti on subway walls late at night and went to the small, sweaty clubs to see the bands they now knew on a first-name basis. They also spent time on South Street, heckling and being heckled by tourists who would sometimes want their picture taken with these freaky lifeforms who sported multi-colored mohawks and profane t-shirts along with the required spikes and chains. The punks often discussed their ever-evolving fashion sense while cruising the Army Navy store for camouflage fatigues and combat boots. Jimmy began making stickers and buttons of his own to help spread the word that punk was here to stay, like it or not.
As the 80s progressed, the punks were met with more curiosity and less antagonism. Jimmy was featured in several newspapers and magazines that hoped to cash in on the public's fear of the new marauders. He gave his opinions to the zines that were popping up and soon was viewed as an elder statesman of the scene. He thought about trying to write a book about his life but that would have to come later. He was too caught up living in the moment, attempting to ride the rollercoaster for all he was worth. Some of his friends were beginning to move on into respectable jobs. They were getting married, talking about starting families and becoming tied to the very culture they had once so vehemently rallied against. Jimmy knew there was no way he'd ever succumb to the life his parents led.
He eventually lost Trixie to a bad drug habit. She fled back home to her parents in Maryland where she would hopefully get and stay clean. After a few weeks of scrounging for food and not being able to pay rent on the house he took over when Trixie departed, he got hired as a bouncer at a downtown rock club. He formed his own band, Circle Of Shit, and shaved his hair into a double mohawk, dyed blue and green. The band attracted neophyte punk rockers half his age who came to the shows to spit at him and slam dance the night away. It was an adrenaline-soaked fever dream that obviously couldn't last.
Jimmy had made his mark on the city. He was now regaled as a true renegade and punk pioneer.
As punk morphed into hardcore and thrash metal, he helped book the up-and-coming bands at the club where he'd gone through a few promotions to become the sole talent manager. He lived in a new apartment close to his job and grew his hair long. Everything had somehow fallen into place. His life was running more smoothly than it ever had until that one fateful night when it would end senselessly.
He had left the club around two in the morning. He'd hosted a hardcore marathon and even jumped into the mosh pit briefly, sensing how things had come full circle. He hung out with the bands for a while and then headed out to a diner that was open twenty-four hours for some breakfast. Passing an alley tucked behind the street, he heard a voice hoarsely whisper: “Spare some change, brother?”
Jimmy always gave whatever he could, remembering the rough days when he had to rely on the kindness of strangers for a cup of coffee or a cigarette.
“Sure, man. Here you go.”
As he bent to fish the coins from his pocket, the man suddenly stood and thrust a homemade shiv through Jimmy's jacket and into his chest.
Startled, Jimmy backed away as the stranger went through Jimmy's pockets, removing his wallet, a watch and an old chain Jimmy carried for luck. The stranger ran off immediately as Jimmy struggled to breathe. He tried to slow the blood flow with his hand but the wound was too deep and his blood gushed onto the asphalt. He collapsed and could feel his life bleeding out of him.
His last thought was of the bet he'd made long ago with Trixie as to who would die first. She'd been convinced it would be her. With his final, dying breath, he managed to say out loud to the garbage-strewn alley: “Ha-ha, I won!”
Kevin M. Hibshman has had his poetry, prose, reviews and
collages published around the world, most recently in Punk Noir Magazine,
Rye Whiskey Review, Piker Press, The Crossroads, Drinkers Only, 1870,
Synchronized Chaos, Yellow Mama, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Literary Yard,
Lothlorien Poetry Journal and Medusa's Kitchen.
Check out Just Another Small Town Story @ https://www.amazon.com/Just-Another-Small-Town-Story/dp/B098FSD96W/ref=sr_1_3?qid=1662841258&refinements=p_27%3AKevin+M.+Hibshman&s=books&sr=1-3&text=Kevin+M.+Hibshman
Check out The Mirror Masks Nothing @ https://www.amazon.com/Mirror-Masks-Nothing-Patrick-Robbins/dp/B0B1DXS2FL/ref=sr_1_1?qid=1662841142&refinements=p_27%3AKevin+M.+Hibshman&s=books&sr=1-1&text=Kevin+M.+Hibshman
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