“It was terrible. I drank tears.” Monica told me in broken English. “How did you like living where you were?”
“Well, I grew up in Northern New Jersey. Growing up in the shadow of New York City, you sort of feel a bit intimidated. Like, no matter what you do, you’ll never be as great as it.” I explained the thrill of living in New Jersey, but she seemed not to understand what I was saying, so I turned on the radio.
Monica began banging her head into the car window.
“What band is this?” she asked between the hits.
“They’re called the Doobie Brothers. Do you like them?”
“Yes, they have an interesting beat.” Monica said hesitantly, proceeding to hit her head even harder into the window. I could tell that she was nervous.
“Don’t worry; the first time is always difficult. You’ll learn to enjoy yourself.” I said, putting my hand on her knee.
“I’ll try. But I just lied to you. This Doobie Brothers stuff sounds like, how do you say it, shit? Didn’t you used to be in a band? Can I hear it?”
Reluctantly I put on my old band’s CD, called Postmodern Garbage. Slowly the joys of growing up in New Jersey floated around the car, and I could tell the mellow, relaxed vibes of my old band put her at ease. Little wisps of America came out of the speakers and helped us get us in the right mood.
“Are you ready?” I asked
“I’m ready. I’d like to hear the rest of it, after we’re done. Listening to it makes me feel happy and full of hope.” she said with a quiet smile.
Together we walked up the flight of stairs hand-in-hand to the large building. As we entered the building, we shot our bullet dispensers at the ceiling and screamed.
“Everybody get down! We’re the People in Charge!”