How to Cope 1st chapter

JOHNNY WOKE UP IN A HAZE. IT WAS SUNDAY MORNING HIS MAMA WAS PROBABLY AT MASS. HE WAS LYING DOWN ON ONE OF THOSE CHEAP BLOW UP RUBBER RAFTS IN SOME LOFT DOWNTOWN. HE THOUGHT ABOUT HOW HIS MOM WAS ONLY A OF MILE AWAY BUT IT MAY HAVE BEEN MARS. HIS EYES BURNED.
The sun was shining through a cracked window. The L.A. sky a mixture of beautiful blue and dooming smog, depending upon which direction you’d look.
His best friend Jimmy was lying 5 meters to the south, scrunched up with his head near the door.
“Jimmy, wake up.” He shook him. “Someones gonna hit you if they come through there.” Johnny rolled over a few feet to safety and went back to sleep.
Jimmy Westnee was a white boy from the suburbs, Johnny Jiminez was brown and from boyle heights. Guatemala was where his mother was from. That’s why everything was so colorful in their house. She had a sister with a bit more money who could manage to get there more often then she and would bring her back bric brac and trinkets from Antigua, where some of their family still lived.
An hour later they got up and rode their bikes toward L.A. City college. Johnny wanted some espresso from his favorite coffee shop. Jimmy got a drink too, A mocha and they both went up stairs where a bunch of people were hanging out and doing homework on laptops, etc. They got a seat by the window.
“I’m so....fucking.....tired.”
“Well it was a crazy night last night, Gringo. Don’t party so hard next time if you can’t handle it.”
“Nah, I can handle it, it’s just.”
“We’re young men, we ain’t allowed to cry yet about these things.”
“True.”
Ernesto the punkrocker came upstairs.
“What up locos?” He greeted them loudly. “You like my new haircut?” He pulled off his bandana to reveal a mohawk spiked up half a foot tall, bleached and black.
“Wow man, looks good,”Jimmy said.
“I don’t know, pretty crazy,” said Johnny.
“So when you joining the band cabrone? We giggin’ two times a week, you still have your bass?”
“Nah man. I sold it so I could buy that thing.” He pointed out the window downstairs to his fixie bike that was locked to a newsstand. They had stategically sat where they could keep an eye on their prized possessions.”
“Dude, riding that thing around like a pansie ain’t gonna get laid, Esai. Playing in the band will. Maybe your friend wants to be in my band? He can play drums, we have a whole rhythm section. I have the baddest motherfuckin’ name you ever heard too.”
“Not the bloody cunts, I hope,” said Johnny, pulling a last sip of his espresso.
“Nah that’s old news. Get a load of my new name. You sittin’ down?”
They just look at him stupidly. He leans in conspiratorily as if he’s going to tell them it was his grandfather who killed Kennedy.
“The Twitchers.... You like it?”
“Hey man, I like it,” said Jimmy, always eager to please.
“What the fucks it mean?” Asked Johnny.
“Well you know how my one friend Sullivan has tourettes? And he shakes and twitches when he gets nervous? I just started calling him Twitcher as a nickname. Then I thought it would make a great band name.”
“It’s kinda cool.” Johnny was warming up to it.
“We played the Smell a couple days ago.”
“No Shit?”
The Smell had started out as a place all the cool underground bands had been playing. Some of those bands had become successful so now it was more of a big deal to play there.
“The owner likes us too. He might even give us a residency.”
“What’s that?” Asked Jimmy.
“Like, when you play every week the same night, same time, so people know you’re gonna be there. It’s a great way to build a scene!” Ernesto’s enthusiasm was definitely contagious.