...

... A 4 a.m breeze crept through the open door of his garage where he sat hovered over a composition book. He didn't write anything though. He had to be angry first, he had to not sleep and pretend he had insomnia because he was 19 and in community college. Earlier this day or yesterday, he bought an army jacket from the surplus store. He wore it in his garage at 4 a.m and tweaked his face as he remembered why he had bought the army jacket. It was 3 days prior when Micheal Pronilover had asked for a ride home. Proni was wearing an army jacket and while he was 3 years younger than I, he held great influence over me at this time in my life. I was looking for myself, hard. I saw people with their passions and I too wanted to feel so passionate about something I could speak on it to whomever would listen. I wanted to feel so passionate about something that I could commit myself to its practices on a daily basis. I wanted to feel so passionate about something that I would wear it, draped over my shoulders at 4 a.m in the garage of my parents house.

You see, Proni was a Marxist. His parents were Russian immigrants who unfortunately fell through the cracks of the Americanizing system. Before immigrating his mother and father were both great scholars. Now however, his mother stayed at home unemployed while his father was a delivery driver for a pharmaceutical company. Bitter as hell about this system that didn't recognize the talent of outsiders, they bred their son to be one of the most intelligent, well spoken, impressively versed, single track minded people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. At 16 Proni was a full fledged Marxist and you couldn't do shit to change his mind. This was the passion I so desired.

I enjoyed playing the devils advocate with Proni. Our Thursday night car ride became a weekly thing and each drive a new conversation, with a similar premise, would ensue. He would take the stance of the proletariat, not the sissy petty bourgeois either, I'm talking hardcore sleeping on the floor proletariat bad-ass. So bad-ass he'd share his last crumb of food with you, but kill you if you got in the way of his vision. He was a proletariat super villain. Me on the other hand, I would argue the words of my father. I would take the stance of a working conservative who believed everyone had equal opportunity to succeed and if you couldn't make it, well you must have done something wrong. We would talk taxation, and Engels, and even Manson. Our relationship was cut short though because Proni got in the way of my vision. On one of the last nights I saw him, he left his jacket in my car. When I got home I tried it on and thought it made me look interesting. I had always been caught up on how ordinary I looked. I had always felt disadvantaged in that others spewed intertestingness from the tips of their jet black hair and forced nervous twitches, while I was doomed to live a life of dirty blond blandness. Something was inside of me, but only I knew this. I wanted to be deep, skin deep. After leaving the jacket on Proni's door step the next day, I went out and bought one for myself.

The stupid jacket didn't even keep me warm. It was more like a loose shirt and I needed to wear a real jacket underneath it in order to keep the heat in. The buttons on the cuff had either fallen off or were preparing for departure and it smelled like that mix of dust, mildew and trash bags that wafts through the aisles of thrift shops in Sylmar. I felt embarrassed because I had purchased this jacket to feel like someone else. This was the first time I had contextualized imitation in this sense and I hated how it made me feel. Although this was far from the last time I would feel the burn of self realization, it remains a reminder of how much I hate the cold. If it wasn't for the fucking cold I'd be warm, happy, and absent minded.