Teen Angst? Naaah ... by Ned Vizzini

“I could have gotten it all for ten.”
    * By this time, I’d earned a little money from my writing, but I put it all in the bank and never touched it. So I was still cheap.
    * Daniel and I never bought presents for each other. We shared our video games, magazines, and clothes, so it was pointless to give each other stuff. Basically, anything I bought for myself was a present for him.

BACK CAR
    I t’s 10:30 P.M ., just before Christmas, and I’m exactly where I should be—sitting in a nearly empty subway car. My bass guitar is nestled between my legs, and my Magic cards are spread out on my lap. I’m sorting the cards; it keeps my hands and mind occupied. I’m in the back car. Unless I’m going to school, I ride in the back car—because I’m guaranteed a seat and because that’s where the weirdos are.
    Tonight there are two. One is a husky man, sitting across from me, drinking from a bottle in a bag. He has a bald head, huge sideburns, and big square sunglasses. Standing next to him, wobbling as he clings to a strap, is a lankier guy. He’s wearing a yellow headband with a big red jewel pinned to it. They’re talking about Jimi Hendrix. *
    â€œMan, you have to understand,” Husky says reverently, pointing, “when Jimi was around, the electric guitar was just invented! Nobody knew what it was; nobody knew how to play it—”
    â€œYeah, yeah, I know,” Lanky cuts in.
    Husky continues, “But Jimi was a natural, see?No schooling, nothin’. He was a natural. The sounds he made—nobody can make them anymore.”
    â€œThat’s the one thing I wish—that I coulda seen Jimi play,” Lanky says, swinging sideways as the train takes a curve.
    â€œYou know how Jimi played?” Husky takes a swig from his bag to accentuate the question.
    â€œHow?”
    Husky leans forward, almost whispering, “He played his guitar like he was doin’ his mama.”
    I laugh. Oedipus on the number two train. I laugh so hard, my Magic cards fall from my lap and I have to pick them one by one off the brown patterned floor. The two men glare at me.
    â€œYou’ve got a guitar right there,” Husky says, gesturing at my bass. “How are you gonna laugh? You ever heard Jimi play?”
    â€œNo.” My voice cracks.
    â€œWell, if you were doin’ your mama, how would you play?”
    â€œI’m not sure,” I mumble.
    â€œWell, there,” Lanky reasons, “you’re not Jimi.”
    I can’t argue with that. The train pulls into Fourteenth Street; Husky rises and shuffles through the doors.
    â€œMerry Christmas,” he tells Lanky. He turns to me. “Yeah, and you, too.”
    â€œThanks,” I say, looking up from my cards.
    Lanky seems lost without his Husky. He sits down, mumbles some more about Jimi, and hawks loogies as the tunnel lights flash by. We both have a real phlegm problem, and there’s no one else in the car to stop us, so for a few stops there’s this dialogue of
“Haaauck—ptooey.”
    Lanky gets off at Wall Street, and stereotypical passengers get on: a college-age double date, a bearded guy trying to look smart, a frog-eyed woman eyeing him lustily. This is the back car, though—something has to happen.
    At Clark Street, a foul stench enters the train, followed by a homeless man. His rotted black jacket lies in tatters on his chest. Dark stains dot his brown corduroys. He’s wearing decent-looking New Balance shoes but no socks, which gives me a dead-on view of his hairy ankles. But his most striking feature is his scent. The college girls pull the tops of their shirts over their noses and giggle.
    â€œGo back to sleep, nosy!” he yells at them. They burst out laughing.
    â€œHey, man,” says one of the college guys, standing up. “You’re stinking up this car. How about you go to another one?” The girls think he’s so