"Hey, Hermit Man!"
I turned around just in time to see another one of my windows get smashed. It was the third one this week, and I was beginning to think of seriously reporting those damn kids. Then again, who the hell was I kidding? I'd never do that.
It wasn't so much the rocks as the name that bothered me, Hermit Man. I was twenty-eight. Twenty-fucking-eight, I didn't have any grey hair, nor a raspy voice that screamed out "You kids!" whenever my windows got broken. I should have been getting married, or having a kid, but instead I was living in a dump in the country side watching my windows get broken by prepubescent know-it-alls.
The glorious days of a swing kid, right?
Listening to Benny Goodman, ratting on the HJ and smoking cigarettes, the glamour we'd always hoped for, well that went down the toilet.
Instead, Arvid was dead, Thomas was a Nazi bastard and I was a fucking hermit. But concentration camps will do that to you, turn you into a fucking hermit.
I moved for a dust pan to clean up the glass, finding it just out of my reach. Heaven forbid I should have to move off my lazy ass, I decided to leave that till later. Making a mental note not to step on the glass.
I turned on the record player (which I kept just next to my chair for lazy days like today) and let Beethoven wash over me like a sack of bricks, I'd sold, lost, broken or hid my swing records long ago. I can't imagine they're any left, but I've still got Beethoven. And Dad.