Chapter 1

A Chapter by SydneyPseudonym

Taken from my Tumblr losing-the-generation

Losing the Generation Chapter 2

It was a warm and sunny day in the busy city of New York; the flowers blooming and the cabs speeding up and down the ways to the parks ready to pick up and drop off eager people excited by the weather, in a vicious and indoor cycle. It was the wonderful time of year when the wind was brisk but the temperature was warm and welcoming; too cold for shorts but too warm for a jacket. That is, unless you were my friend, Buch.

My eyes burned as I exited from the picture I had come into town for with my two friends Abe and Buch. It was a James Dean film, can’t really remember the name or the plot now, but it was good old James Dean playing the main man in his signature jacket and white shirt. I hadn’t really wanted to come see it, but Buch had insisted. He loved James Dean, he probably even wanted to be him. Buch constantly worked exceedingly hard to resemble him, slicking his hair back, always having a cigarette in his mouth no matter how much his mother hated it, and never wearing anything but blue jeans and a plain white shirt. I think he spent more time in the bathroom than my baby sister, Mary, did when he stayed over. My mother would have beat me over the head with a belt if I left the house looking like him, but Buch’s mother didn’t give a s**t. About anything.

His real name obviously wasn’t Buch, it was Tommy Buchanan, which, because we had Tommy Hamilton as well in our group, became Buch. “It’s like ‘nuke’ but with a ‘B,’” he would say nonchalantly as Abe and I belted out “MORE LIKE ‘PUKE!’” as the others collapsed in a fit of gut-wrenching laughter. He was shorter than me, but he was a good deal broader, and seemed to tower over me regardless of height. Perhaps that’s what let him appear as menacing as he wanted to. Buch had a hard life at home, and he learned very quickly that growing a coarse calloused skin was the best thing you could do to get through the world. Never let them see how soft you are. He wasn’t like us, and he knew it, but his god-damned aloofness made sure we didn’t give a rat’s a*s about that. He surrounded himself with the miscreants of the city, the people who despised his type, but they knew his type didn’t matter in the scheme of things. See, Buch came from money, which had disappeared when his father “grew a heart,” as his mother would whine from the kitchen if the subject came up. Maybe that was why she didn’t care. But one thing was for sure; Tommy Buchanan did. His money was old, went way back with the name, but he worked as hard as he could to hide that. ”One day, I’ll run away, and open a shop somewhere that name can’t find me,” he swore to us. And we crossed our hearts that no one ever would after that because that’s something a guy has to do when it opens the weaker sides of their silent leader.

“So, there’s a party tonight at the lake, I think Lennie’s hosting it,” Buch began, “Are we in?”

Abe looked to me nervously. Lennie, though known for the great parties, was a little crazy and off-putting. Like one minute he’d be all calm and mellow, and the next he’d be socking you in the jaw screaming the first curses that came to mind. I always thought that there was a screw loose in him but he had a house by the lake, a seemingly unlimited supply of booze, and Buch liked him. Ignoring the silent plea for a wimp-out I nodded, regardless of the distaste I had for the guy.

His face lit up. ”Cool,” he quickly switched back to his aloof countenance, “There’ll be a few birds there. Call Tommy and Adam. We all meet by the baseball fields at 10.” With that he saluted and walked off to the tobacco shop.

“You didn’t have to say ‘YES!’ Jeez help a guy out a little! Lennie scares the s**t out of me!” Abe groaned. I rolled my eyes and smirked.

“Oh come on,” I reassured him, “Everything will be great. You heard Buch, some chicks are bound to be there. Man up a bit.” I took out a toothpick and stuck it casually in my mouth, twirling it back and forth as I waited for Abe to stop whining at me.

Abe, or Abel, was easily the baby of the group, despite the fact that he was two years older than everyone we hung around with. He was tall and gangling with a mangy mop of mousy hair he swore would be cool one day. He, like Buch, wasn’t really one of the poor boys of our neighborhood either. Originally from London, he was evacuated here during the Blitz, probably coming from money too, but he was far too little to remember. Sadly, while he was learning to walk and talk here, his parents died in one of the raids, and his foster family kept him ‘out of the goodness of their hearts,’ or better yet, the positive chit-chat that surrounded their white picket fence. In the social aspect and charitable aspect it was wonderful, but the Triskens soon found that adding another mouth to the bill led them to living pay check to pay check. They couldn’t love Abel as their own, though they tried, and he soon became the forgotten baby, the one hidden under the shadow of poverty. I think when that shadow momentarily raised, and he was remembered, he was too scared of the light to make a lasting impression, which only added to his timid nature. We were friends, but I had never really cared for him to the extent that Buch did, and because of their inseparability, I grew a bit jealous. I think we both realised that, but never did anything about it, just lived as if we were the best of pals. Maybe he knew our friendship better than I did because now the jealousy seems so childish and I’d do anything to be able to sit down at the bar and have a drink with him, but time is a b***h.

We said our goodbyes, and I walked to my job at the bookstore. The guys didn’t know I had it, but I wasn’t in any position to buy anything for myself with Grandma’s pocket change. Especially the dirty magazines and cigarettes I often treated myself with. Besides, I kind of liked the whole vibe the book store gave off. It was quiet, but not as silent as a library, and it was filled with all walks of life and had all genres of books. It kind of reminded me of my parents, before they went away. I kept a brisk pace, putting on my glasses hoping to God no one would recognize me. It wasn’t the type of thing the neighborhood would be proud of.

When I got there, as usual, it was practically empty. Just a few older people casually paging through novels in the leather chairs around the dusty book cases occasionally adjusting their glasses, or dozing off, but not doing a whole lot else. The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Coolinge, an aging couple who wanted nothing more than to create a peaceful environment in a busy and crowded city, were in the back, going over the new shipment straight off the press. I went and sat at the register, and opened my favourite book, the one for which my mom and dad named me, and imagined life after I escaped the slums. It would be Great, just like my namesake’s, but I wouldn’t get so attached and I wouldn’t give it up or lose it all. No, the lights outside my window would not pervade my mind and heart until there was no more in my goals than achieving what lay beyond the headlights from cabs whizzing by, or by the faint glow of dreams that lay beyond my house. I wistfully pondered my bright future, filled with money, and promise, gradually letting my eyelids droop until I saw the black and green dots behind them.

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