Who knew what they could accomplish? Nobody, really, not then, not when things were simpler, when it was just the two of them. They were working off loans, staving off boredom, a couple of recent graduates stuck in retail paying off their monthly rent and student loans, clinging to their sanity in the face of Middle America's bleak and cruel tedium. Then, with the winter sales melting as the snow piled up, they stumbled upon that lucky clearance, a pair of guitar controllers plus a copy of Rock Band, price steep for one bank account, manageable when split between two. They could've saved the money, could've bought something else, could've learned to play real instruments; instead, Stan and Kyle went half-and-half on the bundle, strapped those controllers to their chests, and played.
Hours upon hours—spanning across days and days and weeks—they wore their fingers brittle, mashing coloured fret buttons, plucking plastic strum bars, their movements matching the rhythms' dictates. Systematically, they mastered each genre, everything from metal and punk to alternative and indie to R&B and classic rock. They kept adding to their repertoire, their couch cash spent on downloadable content, honing their skills and climbing the ranks. The difficulty spiked, but they got better, better, better until they exclusively played on pro, aiming for zero fails, racking up the highest scores. They were unstoppable, untouchable, motherfucking invincible, because they were just two friends having fun. They had no idea what they would accomplish, or what that would do to them.
They were so wrapped up in perfecting their play that they ignored their steady rise, rise, rise towards the top. How silly they were, too busy grinding, never thinking of those glued to the online leader-boards. Once their gamer tags appeared amongst the global rankings, it was only a matter of time, until an agent came knocking on their door, begging for their signatures on a one-year contract, promising them money, prestige, superstardom. It was too good to be true, but they didn't see it that way, only saw it as far, far better than anything they had. They pledged their names so eagerly, so foolishly, because they wanted superstardom, because they didn't know its cost.
Stan and Kyle walked into the competitive scene as the two plucky fucks from pissant Colorado, green Rocky boys thrown to the game's most seasoned veterans. An easy win, the other duos thought, until they faced off on the rival stage, until Stan stacked his multipliers, until Kyle went into overdrive. They had a novelty and edge that hyped the crowd up, virtual and actual fans cheering on the screen and in the stands. Voices resounded through the air, rocked the ground beneath them, but the two of them were floating, flying, soaring. Everything happened in blinks, months compacted into minutes, their ascent rapid and steep. Contests. Tours. Guest appearances. Magazine covers. Brand deals. VIP treatment. Exclusive celebrity interviews. Flocking fawning groupies. Sex and coke parties. Only fame the fever, not the dream, and it fries the goddamn brain.
Maybe it was Kyle's fault, for not seeing it sooner. He told himself it was just his imagination, because they were billed as a pair, so their managers wouldn't put Stan over him. Maybe Stan didn't notice either, the vetting process subtle, the ousting process discreet. They started out as suggestions, like having Stan stick to lead and Kyle stay bass, claiming consistency would ease their training regime. They spun blatant lies as helpful aids, like saying they'd pre-select the tracks for competitions, shrugging their shoulders when all the complicated solos went to Stan. They found ways to keep them docile, like sending them to drug-fuelled orgies, hoping addictions would distract from their schemes. And both of them fell for it, let their momentum sweep them up, let it tear them apart.
Kyle told himself it was all in his head, over and over, even when Stan received glowing praise while he suffered biting critiques, when Stan modelled exclusive controllers while he used the boring standard, when Stan served as the entree while he sat as the side. Before long, Stan and Kyle had individual practices interspacing their joints, with separate coaches drilling different ideas in their heads. They asked nothing of Stan, but demanded Kyle alter his image entirely. They said Broflovski was such a mouthful, he ought to adopt a stage name; everyone knows Bob Dylan and Gene Simmons, not Robert Zimmerman or Chaim Witz. When Kyle mentioned Simon & Garfunkel, they rolled their eyes, told him it was just a thought. They considered his fro too distracting, he ought to trim the curls down their stalks; all that red bouncing about draws eyes away from the performance. When Kyle listed a slew of rockers with unruly hair, they shook their heads, told him it was a possible alternative. They inquired about his choice in companions, he ought to keep those details out of the press; some sponsors might consider his preferences too political. When Kyle reminded them of the year, they bit their lips, told him it wasn't like that. He knew things were bad, but didn't realise the depth, not until it was too late.
They must have told Stan their own versions beforehand, convincing him that popularity corrupted him, that Kyle was no longer the person he knew. They poured him glass after glass of hundred-dollar Hennessey, hopped him up on designer pharmaceuticals, and whispered in his ear how Kyle starved for attention, how Kyle thirsted for glory, yet Kyle squandered his skill, Kyle exhausted his talent. Perhaps they told Stan that, as he diligently practiced the latest techniques, Kyle stubbornly clung to his faulty approaches, refusing any kind of guiding instruction, mistakes made more than corrected. Or perhaps they told Stan that, as he strove to break records, Kyle slept with any guy who would have him, spending more hours in bed than in the studio, fingers working cock more than frets. Or, perhaps, they never told Stan anything, but every time Kyle spoke of the stark contrasts in management's methods, Stan believed him less and less, distrusting him the slightest bit more with each strained confession. Was he already shooting up smack when Kyle told him that crap?
He doesn't know when the rift became a wedge, not precisely anyway. All he knows is, for the first time in his life, there was distance between them, bizarre estrangement born from blood going bad, bad because everyone pairs rock 'n roll with sex and drugs. The off season got to them, both seeking out pleasures and thrills, because the managers made them think that's what made a real rock-n-rolla. Stan got high and then drunk, Kyle got drunk and then high. Stan fucked stupid spoiled whores, Kyle screwed the Broncos' starting quarterback. Stan veered towards needles, and Kyle breathed in dust. They stopped thinking all together, because they had people for that, because status and privilege robbed them of free will and common sense. He might've figured it then, if he wasn't so blissed. What happened to them was his fault, too.
Kyle really was sick, that first week of prep, got a stupid, awful cold. Two days he coughed up thick globs of phlegm, throat stripped raw from hacking, chest hollowed out from spewing. He hated every mucosal cluster and clawing itch, how germs rendered his mind clouded, his body listless. He knew he needed to practice, to defend his and Stan's title, to achieve their gilded aspirations. On the third or fourth day, when the bleariness and delirium dulled just enough, he huffed a little something to perk himself up, and dragged his ass down to the studio. The last thing he expected was to see Stan playing with somebody else.
"I was gonna tell you later…"
Their managers signed them because they saw real potential to break a million points; but only in Stan. They just knew he wouldn't sign without Kyle, so they tacked him on as an accessory. From the start—the very start—Stan was destined for greatness, but Kyle was expendable. And, with the duo divided, they finally won, persuaded him that he needed a new partner, someone who could max his score, someone who could play "Buckethead" on Expert acoustically, someone who wasn't Kyle. His whole body trembled and shook, as Stan drivelled out hollow excuses and empty apologies. Ocean blue eyes bore into him, pupils constricted and small, and Stan swore he would be fair about this, buy Kyle out.
"You're high, aren't you?"
The words left Kyle's lips, hung stagnant between them. The weight of the world rested upon them, crushing and cruel, harsh and unforgiving. Then, for the first time in a while, he saw in slow motion, or maybe it just seemed that way, because he hadn't seen in seconds since this shit began. He witnessed Stan's contrite expression ebb and fade, gradually morphing into cold, unfeeling apathy. Kyle watched his eyes flicker, down and then back, stare directly into the green. If only he could blame it all on drugs, on alcohol, on corporate mind games, credit those nasty corruptions, absolve Stan of his wrongs. But Kyle couldn't—still can't—because Stan held his gaze, raised a hand to his face, pointed to his nose. They stared at one another, for a good long while, before Kyle finally heard him snuff for effect, utter his bitter reply.
"And you're not?"
It was over in an instant, a breath, a single heartbeat. Attorneys drew up a settlement, Kyle compensated monetarily, but nothing reimbursed him for his time, for his effort, for his tireless devotion. Loyalty, apparently, isn't worth a dime, isn't worth a damn. Stan's dirty dollars flooded his account, and every other contractor dumped Kyle from their clientele. Nobody wanted him, a broken-down has-been with a pity severance and a tainted name. Management gladly cut their ties, groupies swiftly rushed to new hosts, even seemingly stable David sought out a truly better half. Those waxen wings that carried him so high burnt up, incinerated, crumbled away. He learned the hard way that people only care for rising stars; the falling are best left to streak the night for a burst, then disappear in darkness' void.
Like that, Kyle was out, out of the game, out of the fame.
There's a whole two weeks Kyle can't remember. They weren't a fuzz, weren't a blur, simply a blank, devoid of even the vaguest recollections. He dove into a torrent, current swallowing him whole, likely hoping he'd drown in the throes. Instead he washed up on a pastel couch in Golden, taken in by his middle school ex, the only girl he ever actually dated, the only person who still talked to him. Bebe wouldn't explain how he got to her doorstep, the state he was in or the things he said to her, however she did say he could stay as long as he needed, stay so long as he got his shit together. That meant withdrawal with all its nasty and nauseating aftermath, moderation with all its arbitrary and annoying constraints, recovery with all its tedious and gradual improvements. He got better bitterly, because the sobriety's heavy weight felt worse than the daze's purging oblivion. Do true rock-n-rollas feel regret or remorse?
Eventually, Kyle unlearned his awful habits, cut most of them out, managed the few that remained. He accepted his life's circumstance, understood they were manipulated, although they weren't without fault. He realised it didn't really matter, none of it at all, because fame is fleeting and fickle, but there is life beyond its fade. There's more to living than fans, than money, than points. With what he had left from the buyout, Kyle bought his parents a luxury condo in Miami, funded his little brother's research project somewhere in Shaanxi, paid for Bebe's doctoral studies at the Mines. He made them take his offers, because he refused to keep a cent for himself, not in good conscience. Besides, he only gave away the shares Stan forced him to take, not his personal savings. That put them at ease, although he omitted the meagre sum attached to his balance. He knew he didn't have a lot, but he knew how much he needed, how much was enough.
Once he cleaned up, he didn't want to be a burden, leech off the people whose souls he sucked dry with his stream of entitled idiocy and momentous disappointments. So, in the middle of a busy day, Kyle packed up his things, scrawled an explanation down on a college-ruled legal pad, and left to wander from town to town, sleep in cheap hotels and ride public buses, live his like a John Denver song. While drifting might not have been his smartest choice, it certainly wasn't the dumbest thing he's done; but it was still an idealistic, romantic, and remarkably stupid idea. He doesn't know what he thinks of it, either, whether he regrets it or not. He hopes he doesn't, because he already has too many of those. Kyle honestly can't tell.
The state of Colorado is over one hundred thousand square miles, famous for its natural wonders and alpine splendours. However, spread across those hundred thousand square miles are the remnants of quaint and kitschy Americana, embodied in the small towns no one visits, in the backwoods dumps no one cares about. South Park is little more than a piss-stop, nuzzled amongst the peaks, spurning off the tracks of a railroad defunct since the late nineteenth century. Growing up, Kyle heard of it in passing, a nexus of weird and fucked-up shit disguised as a sleepy mountain town. He never thought he'd end up there, amongst the friendly faces and the humble folk, or that he'd be standing in front of a dingy bowling alley at a quarter to ten on a Thursday night; Kyle never thought a lot of things.
Mick's Bowling Lanes is one of those places that simply exists, neither thriving nor writhing, merely sustaining throughout the decades, long past the prime it never knew. It's dusty, like something left under a bed for years, like something lost behind a couch since childhood, like something that was always old and never new. Perhaps that perpetual antiquity makes it timeless, because nobody notices ageing when something is already aged. Kyle peers up at the marquee, squints to mitigate the chasing lights' stark flashes. Green eyes scan over the bold black letters, read the same four words that caught his eye in the newspaper, the same single phrase that got his brain really thinking again: We Have Rock Band.
Kyle can't explain it, but when he saw that advertisement, something awoke in him, fierce and ferocious, a motherfucking fire. Embers he assumed burnt out long ago reignited, exploded, burst into an erupting and glorious blaze. Months, after months, he stumbled upon a chance to hold that controller, to hit those buttons, to finally play again. It must be an addiction, worse than booze or blow, than sex or smack. Part of him wonders what he's doing, what he's trying to prove. Maybe this is mistake. A sigh leaves his lips as a glacial cloud, as he stows a few creeping curls beneath his green ushanka, hoping the hat preserves anonymity, and starts across the chilly parking lot, heavy boots thudding against hard asphalt. He reaches the frosted glass, then pauses, stares into the tinted fog.
A mistake, Kyle concludes, walking through this door is definitely a mistake.
But what's another to him, anyway?
He opens the door to a boisterous crash, the sweet and smooth collision of a polyester ball and plastic-coated pins, resounding and echoing, a clap of rhythmic thunder. Kyle never got into bowling, save for a few dabbles in Wii Sports, but he always liked that noise, that profoundly satisfying clatter. That initial contact has a percussive quality, oddly soothing in its split-second production, musical whether the ball eliminates all foes or leaves a choice pin or two defiantly standing. Alleys are designed like orchestra chambers, acoustics capturing the strangely dulcet notes, then letting them linger in the air moments after. And it does, for a blink, until the cacophonous chorus of redneck bowlers rises over the echo, beauteous resonance drowned out by slurred cheers. Kyle's eyes dart to the sunken lanes, most of them vacant, then spies the group of sloshed hicks engrossed in their game. As he spectates their swaying rally, the smells hit him hard, nostrils filling with the oppressive stenches of greasy finger-food and musty old socks. Places like this always smell homey, which is a polite way of saying absolutely disgusting.
Kyle shakes his head, looks over to the shoe rental desk. A woman sits slouched behind the bulky register, bottle blonde streaks highlighting limp brown hair, eyes glued to the latest issue of People magazine. A gay fish dominates the cover page, but one of the side-story bubbles holds a picture of Stan and Thad, captioned Great Minds Play Alike. A fluff piece, he figures, promoting Stan's new partnership, addressing Kyle's sudden absence. They probably use words like transition and creative differences, avoiding the real tale of replacement and coerced termination. That ugliness goes right to the tabloids, ones that print about solving JonBenét's murder or discovering Elvis alive, dirty secrets displayed where no one will believe them, truth protected by its sources' lacking credentials. Weekly magazines aren't much better, but they at least keep their publicity mostly positive. Hell, they photoshopped the red from Stan's eyes. Most of it, anyway.
Approaching the counter, Kyle wonders how effective his shoddy camouflage is. After all he's been through, he wants people to see him as nobody—not a nobody. The woman doesn't look up from her article, too absorbed in the drama of Canadian royal life, as Kyle anxiously tugs down on his hat's long flaps. His eyes flicker to her name tag, TAMMY etched into eggshell plastic, then to the floor. He stares at the carpet's loud geometric pattern, funky mustard triangles and streaky ketchup dashes splayed across a dill relish background, then takes a slow, measured breath.
"Where's the arcade?" The question pours as a syllabic rush, quick yet clear, a brisk rivulet. Soon as the words leave his lips, hesitation seizes his throat, sawdust coating his tongue, lead filling his lungs. He fixates on his shoes, only the shapes get sharper, their colours more vibrant, more distracting, more appalling. The design is one big optical illusion, one of those pictures that move the longer someone looks at it. Except, whenever Kyle looks at them, he just feels nauseous and dizzy. Yup, this was definitely a mistake.
When he lifts his head, he sees the woman—Tammy—staring at him. Smoked out liner rims deep oak eyes, wide with surprise. In a town this size, everyone knows everyone, rarely meeting an unfamiliar face. Or a formerly famous one at that. Kyle doesn't notice recognition flash in the brown, but he easily could've missed it. Heavy lashes flutter as she blinks, once-twice, and she raises her hand. Shiny red glazes her manicured nail, as she points down the way, "Over by the snack bar."
Kyle flashes a small smile, "Thanks."
"Did you wanna…" She starts, but leaves her mid-sentence, armed with all he needs. She probably thinks he's a rude asshole, but he doesn't care about shit like appearances or politeness right now.
No, he only cares about that urge overtaking him, the one that tickles his palms and itches his fingers, the one that resonates in his bones and permeates his blood, the one that he can't shake, only slake, slake, slake. His heart skips in his chest, beating out of rhyme as he guns for the back. The arcade, he discovers, is a sorry collection of bulky machines lining part one wall, most of them dinosaur titles like E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial and Custer's Revenge. A pair of elementary schoolers—the unfortunate sons dragged to their fathers' bowling night—sink their attentions and allowances into Fortnite for mobile, leaning on Shaq Fu and ignoring the console with a single game installed.
Whoever set this up did so with loving care, assembling a complete band: two guitars, one microphone, a drum-set, even the damn keyboard. The flat-screen television affixed to the wall proudly displays the song selections, menu dimmed by idleness' power-saving veil. As he steps closer, a smile curves his lips, the kind of toothy and wild grin little kids wear on their first trip to Disney World. Kyle's dreams came true, then came untrue; staring at that logo, it feels like they might come true again, if only for a moment. Reaching for a guitar, his body feels light, buoyant, a helium balloon climbing towards the stratosphere. Like that first concert, when Kyle and Stan hovered before the audience, used their cheers to fly. They might've clipped his wings, but it takes a lot more than that to keep Kyle on the ground. A hell of a lot more.
Pressing a few buttons restores the screen's brightness, Kyle squinting at its glare, the unbalanced contrast and oversaturated vibrance annoying but negligible. He can still read the song list with ease, recognise the melodies from titles alone. So many of them are memories—The Who, Duran Duran, Pixies—artists they practiced with from the beginning—Mötley Crüe, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Nirvana—hits they perfected on stage. Foreigner, Green Day, Blink-182—Kyle wants to play so fucking badly—Franz Ferdinand, Gorillaz, REO Speedwagon—but the options overwhelm him. Ozzy Osbourne, KISS, the Offspring—he decides to mash down the list—AFI, the White Stripes, Megadeath—so fast he can't see. He inhales through his nose—the Jimi Hendrix Experience, Fleetwood Mac, Bon Jovi—leaves choice to chance—Billy Joel, Rush, Joan Jett & the Blackhearts—waits for the most arbitrary moment—Queen, Grateful Dead, Creedence Clearwater Revival—and stops.
Elton John: there's a real rock-n-rolla. Perfect combination of style, soul, and bona-fide talent. He wrote awesome music, however his mastery of sheets stopped at the notes, composing emotive but wordless melodies. Luckily, he had Bernie Taupin, the poetic mind behind Elton's lyrics, one articulating feelings, the other imbuing them in beats. Fads of the decades came and went, but their collaborative efforts endured the industry's fickle moods, an omnipresent force of glam and pop and blues. Kyle assumed he and Stan would be the same way, their bond too strong. And it was, just not immune to erosion, not exempt from abuse, not so unbreakable. Sure, Kyle still hurts, the wounds of betrayal slow to scar and heal, but he isn't broken, isn't beaten, isn't lying down in defeat.
Kyle's still standing—yeah, yeah, yeah.
Alright, he might've initially landed on "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me," then saw a "I'm Still Standing," and deliberately scrolled to it. He's allowed to pick whatever the fuck he wants again, and he sure as shit won't pass up such glaring and blatant symbolism. He automatically sets up for bass, but, before he cranks up the difficulty, he pauses. Playing bass was fun once, when it was his choice, when it wasn't forced on him, when it was his role in Stan's development. Now Stan has a new bassist, and no one is stopping Kyle from taking back lead guitar. He corrects the input—One Player, Guitar, Pro Mode, Expert—and presses Play Song.
A band of poorly rendered stock models appears, but Kyle only pays attention to the extending guitar neck. His eyes concentrate on the five markers—green, red, yellow, blue, orange—each corresponding to a fret on his controller. Rhythm games all operate under the same simple principle: hit the right button at the right time, hold down as directed. The competitive circuit nurtured Kyle's senses, teaching him how to optimise his points. He meticulously times his presses, waiting for the moment the gem enters the slim perfect threshold, then responding with rapid and exacting precision. Impressive, that's what people used to say; too bad the right people didn't feel the same.
The markers flash, and Kyle feels that rush flow through him, the one sharper than nicotine and fiercer than amphetamines. His pulse races, blood boiling under his skin, searing his veins. His mind clears, nebulous worries shoved aside, all attention focused on the stretch of black. He bites his lips, flexes his fingers. An unseen hand clap, clap, clap-clap-clap-claps.
The first two notes are orange and blue, a synchronised hold Kyle presses a half-second late. Teeth burrow deeper, seeing the rust on his skill showing, tapping the red a hair too early, releasing the yellow a little bit late. The icon beside the score bar sinks, lowering in shame. He holds his breath, trying harder, only for the opening rifts to undermine him, mock him, repeat his darkest thoughts. Maybe he was holding Stan back, he was simply too proud to admit it. Maybe he never had actual skill, he merely faked his way through. Maybe he is where he is for a reason, he never belonged on stage in the first place. Doubt creep in, closer and closer—until a velvet voice cuts through the clouds, and imparts on Kyle ancient wisdom of the early eighties.
"You could never know what it's like! Your blood like winter freezes just like ice!"
Kyle used to be surrounded by people, all plastic and superficial, devoid of emotional intelligence and complex thought. None of them will ever know the type of hell he's been through—they couldn't understand it if they tried! To them, he was a handkerchief, useable for a time, ultimately disposable. They blew their noses with him, drenched and mired him with snotty negativity, then tossed him when the stains they engrained in him wouldn't wash out with bleach.
"And there's a cold lonely light that shines from you!"
They pretended they cared, because they had to, and Kyle believed them, because he wanted to. But they never, ever did, not genuinely, not at all. They probably don't care about Stan, either, but they like him more, think he's more fun. They warped him into thinking he could be one of them; that had to be it, right?
"You'll wind up like the wreck you hide behind that mask you use!"
They must've been elated when Stan finally squeezed him out. Shit, some probably took bets on what would happen to him after, hoping he'd OD on a bad batch or commit somewhere public. Must've disappointed them when he fell off the map, obscurity less sexy than manufactured tragedy.
"And did you think this fool could never win? Well look at me, I'm a-coming back again!"
Fuck them. Fuck the managers. Fuck the groupies. Fuck the sponsors and the agents. Fuck all the high-end dope slingers and uptown pricy prostitutes. They all forced the crash, wanted him to burn—fuck them! Kyle doesn't need them! He never needed them! They needed him!
"I got a taste of love in a simple way, and if you need to know while I'm still standing you just fade away!"
Right from day one, needed him to get to views, to get traction, to get Stan. They won't admit it, but they still need him. They won't say it until it's too late—well, tough shit. Kyle's better without them, without all of them. He doesn't need 'coaches' eroding his confidence, doesn't need 'handlers' dictating his movements, doesn't need a 'leader' overshadowing his accomplishments.
"And don't you know I'm still standing, better than I ever did!"
Muscle memory returns, maybe because he's warmed up, maybe because he's fired up. His brain tilts into overdrive, transcending mere concentration, entering a wholly different state. The note highway flows directly into his head, registering gems as soon as they reach him. Kyle stops hitting notes, and starts nailing them.
Because Kyle is a survivor, of exploitation and addiction, debasement and fraud, heartbreak and betrayal. He lived through all that crazy shit, lost everything, everything except his fighting spirit. He'll always be that scrappy kid with a little too much chutzpah, that bruised boy with raised and bloodied fists, that pain in the ass with a score to settle. He won't stay down unless he's dead, and, as of now, he's breathing and beating just fine. Sure, he's on his own, he's got some issues, he's still figuring shit out; doesn't change that he's still standing.
Yeah.
Yeah.
YEAH.
As the shorter second verse rolls in, Kyle tap-tap-taps his foot, shake-shake-shakes his knee. Despite his musical prowess, his upper and lower halves run on two separate metronomes, one that syncs with the song, the other that ticks awkwardly out of rhythm. His motions naturally contradict, a quirk Kyle long since accepted, a perplexity management sorely despised. To fix the problem, they assigned him a choreographer, restricted him to a small set of moves, and disallowed him from dancing with any shred of emotion. So he never mastered matching his footwork with his fingers; at least he knows how to feel.
Gems oscillate between rainbow and white, sneaking bursts of double points throughout the chorus. A little compensation for his flubs at the intro, however he refuses to blow his bonus too soon. No, through the proud declarations and airy affirmations, he conserves his energy, saves it for the solo. Kyle can't recall the last time he had one, so many opportunities stolen from him, bestowed upon Stan. He'll take them back, one by one, starting here, starting now. Another round of yeah-yeah-yeahs, then a box appears on the horizon. Kyle leans into his tilt, fingers gliding along the neck, every punch bumping up the percentage, going from zero to twenty, forty-five to sixty, seventy-five to one hundred: Perfect Solo.
A staccato laugh escapes his lips, Kyle noticing a dull ache in his cheeks. A smile, he hasn't smiled like this in ages, hasn't had fun like this in forever. Golden lace accents a royal blue road, every gem a blazing meteorite. The hold lines quiver, shudder like plucked strings, Kyle playing like a real rock-n-rolla. Elton's vocals persist, repeating his titular rally, and Kyle, under his breath, replies with his own "Yeah, yeah, yeah."
Red, red-yellow, yellow, yellow-blue, blue, blue-orange HOLD—the last note hangs, hovers somewhere between him and the television. Gradually, it ebbs, scattering as the virtual crowd raises its collective voice, showering Kyle with pre-programmed cheers. He knows they aren't real, knows they're only lines of code executing an embedded audio track, yet they feel real, realer than the past few months, than the wavering trust and the suspended belief and the too painful fall. When he looks, though, he knows which is real and which isn't, because the crowd is only background noise, because the screen displays only one score, because Stan isn't standing beside him.
There goes picking up the pieces without him on his mind.
Kyle slowly comes down from his rhapsodies, grudgingly returns to Mick's Bowling Lanes. His heart pounds, bang-bang-bangs in his chest, while his lungs heave in and out, in and out. Sweat coats his palms, the controller slick from his hands. In his peripheral, he glimpses the two kids, both ignoring their phones, both staring at him. He turns head, a new lightness filling him, this dizziness closer to sickness than stupor.
The boys look at Kyle, then one another. They briefly converse through raised brows and shrugged shoulders, communications encrypted to keep sucky adults out. One of them nods, and the two straighten up. Children are brutally honest, callous and obnoxious in their youthful insensitivity. Neither hides the apathy glazing their eyes, nor does one conceal their shared disdain, stating bluntly, "Rhythm games are for fags."
Kyle bites back a sneer, reminding himself not to pick fights with stupid snot-nosed grade schoolers. They have parents, who're probably more annoying than they are, and, considering the rustic locale, probably cling to their Second Amendment rights. Kyle can think of few lamer ways to die than getting gunned down for badmouthing a pair of brats. Instead, he narrows his eyes, glower following the two as they walk away. After a few steps, they forget his existence, instead launch into a heated debate: which emote is better, the infinite dab or the floss? Putting back the controller, Kyle rolls his eyes—kids these days.
Wooziness casts its haze, his legs wobbling, his head whooshing. His blinks mimic an optometrist's test, first clear, then fuzzy, maybe clearer, maybe fuzzier, the same as the last one, is there really a difference between four and five? He groans, rubbing his forehead, rethinking his recent diet of one dollar-menu meal per day. Kyle isn't rich and drifting isn't cheap. Frugality is a necessity, albeit living off McChicken sandwiches isn't exactly ideal. And it's catching up to him, judging by the haze seeping in. All he needs is a place to sit down, take a few minutes to compose himself, to wait out the spell. Didn't Tammy mention a snack bar?
Kyle glances around, hating the fluorescents and their stark, awful glare. His gaze skids over the floor, avoiding the vomit-inducing carpet, instead stumbling on backless barstools lining scratched panelling, on ceramic ashtrays adorning peeling laminate, on shelves stocked with local league trophies and trashy s'mores schnapps. The ample liquor stock emphasises the bar, though the chalkboard menu overhead advertises a meagre selection of pre-packaged snacks. He doesn't care for the refreshment range, though, too focused on the acrylic orange cushions set on stainless steel beams. He forces himself steady, each step carefully calculated to minimise stumbles, avoid any slips. Kyle lost count of the appearances he went to smashed, loaded on martinis or tripping on acid, lost count of how many times he got away it, passing off severe inebriation as simple clumsiness. For some reason, feigning coordination is a lot easier when blasted than when sober; perhaps he should get a drink.
The metal frame creaks as Kyle takes his seat, whining with every slight shift of his weight. The cushion is stiff, firm and uncompromising, its stuffing concrete. He leans over the counter, sees a myriad of scrapes and marks, the remnants of spilt alcohol and cigarette embers. How long have they been there, he wonders, since about a week ago or the beginning of time? Since he was pleasing convention halls of people or working two jobs to pay rent? Since he was somebody worthwhile or somebody worth shit?
His ears perk at a crisp pop, the fizzy crack of a bottle losing its top. Most parties he went to served drinks pre-poured, platters stocked with slender flutes or curved snifters, the classy stemware's presentational value outweighing the imported liquor's foul flavour. Kyle prefers sipping straight from the source, something more intimate about chilled tinted glass than ornately sculpted crystal. Or maybe he just likes the noise, that mix of CCC and RRR and PPP and SSS. Cans don't sound that nice.
He blinks, looking at imitation wood one moment, at vitreous green the next. A carbonated wisp rises from the bottle's rim, carrying hints of citrus, sour yet sweet, and yet bitter too. Glass perspires, acclimating to the lanes' temperate warmth, dribbles rolling down the smooth contours, to the soggy paper pressed around the body, to the rough fingers curved around the label. Kyle connects hand to arm, covered with metallic plating and cybernetic circuits, cold robotics inked onto warm skin. He follows illustrated wires run along muscle, until they plug into something hidden under a rolled orange sleeve. He skims over the shoulder, notes the shirt's fit too loose, its top button missing and its collar folded all wrong, eyes only stopping when he finds a face.
Most country boys are coal, plentiful clusters found in mountain mines, all dirty, common, and unremarkable. Every now and then, though, there's a glimmer that cuts through the dust, one who scintillates and shines, a fabled diamond in the rough. Those types are only found in nature, never meant for a jeweller's cut or treatment, far more appealing rugged and coarse. His hair is spun gold ore, sharing its softness and shade, a tousled mess dishevelled just right. The eyes what sell him, clear blue skies taken from midsummer afternoons, captured and preserved in his sunny gaze. Kyle might be too out of it, but he swears that look heats him up.
"Fresca?" His voice is a breeze, light and relaxing, infused with a menthol chill. Locks glint and bounce as he tilts his head, mouth curving into a grin, lopsided and goofy. Part of the charm, Kyle figures, the one grown in backyards like off-market marijuana, cultivated by small town simplicity and brisk mountain air. But, unlike the flashes people wore for camera shutters, this feels genuine, honest.
"Sorry…" Green flits to the menu, double checking the price. One soft drink is a steep tree-fiddy, well out of his self-mandated budget. Kyle isn't a fool, or he's trying not to be. All those backstabs conditioned him, made him vigilant and sceptical, turned him guarded and wary. Distrust, he learned, saves the heart some ache. Isolation might be frigid, but at least it's safe. He looks back at him, then offers a shrug, "I can't pay for that."
"Hmm…" A pinkie tap-taps on glass, blue drifting to the side. His eyes fall on a mason jar, containing a few single bills and a collection of coins, label plastered on its side reading TIPS. He sticks his free hand in, fishes out a few crinkled bills, picks out some cents. He puts down one, two, three faded Washingtons, along with a motley of nickels, pennies, and a dime. Sliding the money over, a smirk teases at his lips, "How 'bout now?"
Great—he thinks Kyle's a charity case, how fan-fucking-tastic. A part of him wants to say no just on principle, tell him to screw off for good measure. Except he can't, because he doesn't have a reason, his sole justification his own stale bitterness. Sometimes being closed off is an act of self-defence; other times it's a bad excuse for being a dick. Besides, why be go full asshole on a guy giving him something for free? He bites his lip, reluctantly reaches out. Their fingers brush against each other, only for a second, before Kyle brings the bottle closer. He lifts it to his mouth, presses the rim to his bottom lip, then remembers to say, "Thanks."
"No problem," He blinks, maybe winks, and leans back. Kyle doesn't think into it, distracts himself with a fresh sip of grapefruit and lime. The carbonation tickles his tongue, tangy and tingly, bubbles pop-pop-popping. Fresca is so much better than motor-oil coffee and unfiltered water. Then, mid-swallow, Kyle hears, "What brings ya here?"
Soda hardens in his throat, Kyle gulping down hard. He hasn't been wandering long, but he has heard that question a good hundred times. The major downside of frequenting kitschy shitholes is that anyone not from around here becomes a spectacle. Kyle once depended on fans favour, thrived on attention; without success protecting him, exposure is a risk. He hates when people find him fascinating, consider his presence intriguing, treat like a walking-talking circus. However, like all forms of small talk, Kyle doesn't have to like it, only deal with it, "Just passing through."
He lets out a short laugh, chuckle mixing with exhale. He must've heard that answer a good hundred times, because what other one is there? It doesn't clarify anything, but that's often the point; people say that in hopes others take the hint and leave them alone. He ought to know that—respect that, too—yet he stays where he is, holds his ground, "Really?"
Oh, for fuck's sake—Sour acid saturates his mouth, eliminates all traces of saccharine sweeteners. He finishes his sip, and slams down the bottle. He narrows his eyes, knits his brows. His voice is a whetted bladed, tone sharp, timbre piercing, "Yeah, really."
"Y'know…" Either Kyle let his tongue dull or he takes slices like a champ. Undaunted and unshaken, he leans closer, one of those dumbass daredevil kids who takes a dog's snarling as a petting invitation. Blue locks with green, then brims with something vivid, something soft—compassion? "Not a lotta people just passin' through stop by a bowling alley to play Rock Band."
"Yeah, well…" Although Kyle wants to argue, he sure as shit isn't wrong. Kyle can't blame the town for his actions, especially when they're weird even in context. Frustration squeezes his head, and he murmurs, "I'm not a lotta people."
"Didn't think ya would be…" He nods, slow and bobbing, an even tempo. His gaze retains its tenderness as his expression turns pensive, a soothing blend of kindness and thought. Kyle never bought into all the crap about eyes, however this guy gives those romanticisms some credence.
Kyle spots the hand in his peripheral too late. Before he can react and pull away, fingers clutch one flapping fabric ear, then yank the ushanka from his head. Crimson fluffs out, curls thankful to breathe again, Kyle not thankful at all, "Hey!"
"Kyle Broflovski," He says the name triumphantly, enunciates each syllable in tempered marvel. Kyle lunges forward, stretching out an arm, only to be thwarted by the pesky countertop. His fingers brush the lime fringe before the most annoying douchebag ever steps back, exploiting the barrier between them.
"Give it back—" He glances at the name tag, "—Dennis."
"Kenny, actually," Kyle likes his nickname better, "Mick's owed me a tag since I started."
"I don't care," Screw not looking like an asshole. This is personal, now, "Give that back!"
"I will, I will, promise," Kenny assures him, though Kyle isn't convinced, swiping again at the hat. Kenny sighs, raises it high above his head. Kyle stares up, realising how stupidly tall he is, his brilliant disguise well out of his reach, "If ya answer one question."
No, this isn't the first time Kyle's been outed whilst going incognito. No matter where he goes, he bumps into someone he doesn't know, but seems to know him. And, whoever it is, they always have just one question. Except it's never one about him. No, they never care about him. Coming here was definitely a mistake.
Hesitant, Kyle sits down, gaze dropping to the laminate. He tightens his grip on the bottle, strangling the glass, wishing his anger could make it crack, crack, burst. He sighs, then presses his lips into a firm line. No point prolonging it, might as well make it quick, "What?"
"How long's it been since you played?"
Stan, he expects a question about Stan—What's he like? or What's his favourite track? or Does he sleep and shit and eat Frosted Flakes like the rest of us lowly peasants?—they only ever ask Kyle worthless, stupid questions about Stan, Stan, Stan. They ask him basic things easily found in a Google search or obscure details embedded on some superfan's website. They don't ask about Kyle unless they ask why he broke them up, because of course they assume the whole thing was his fault.
A deafening strike booms through the alley, but it's Kenny's question that echoes, repeats. You, he said, not Stan Marsh. The bowlers holler from their lanes, and Kyle lifts his head. Kenny waits patiently, his body relaxed, but his stare intent, burning with curiosity. Shit, he really wants to know something about Kyle Broflovski, about him and him alone. Since he's so considerate, Kyle shouldn't disappoint, "Few months. Four or five, maybe."
"Fuck," Baffled, Kenny raises his brows, "That long?"
"You said one question," Kyle hates how he sounds, dry and wry. Emotions may flare like tides, but venom dilutes like radiation. He waters it down with more Fresca, wonders how much Kenny saw of Kyle's performance. Did he see from the solo? Did he witness the mangled opening? Was he watching the whole time?
"I'm keepin' my promise," True to his word, Kenny lowers his hand, extends it over the counter. Kyle keeps drinking, chugging down citrus, and snatches the hat. Once he finishes, he sets down the bottle, holds the ushanka by the flaps, and flips it on his head. Curls sweep across his forehead, sticking out in disarray. Kyle takes them in clusters, tucking bunch after bunch beneath the woollen brim. Halfway through, Kenny looks off to the side, mumbling to himself, "You look better without it."
People say all sorts of things when they don't think anyone's listening, or when they think whoever they're talking about can't hear them. Kyle quickly learned that celebrity parties are half cordial schmoozing and half spiteful whispering. He also learned that a honed sense of hearing is more useful than a willed daze of ignorance. Kyle's heard a whole lot of things people haven't wanted him to hear, most of them ranging from grossly rude to downright cruel. In mutters they showed their true emotions, so he never heard hidden compliments. Come to think of it, he rarely heard compliments in general. Of course, Kenny probably didn't want Kyle to hear that, but he did. And it's the nicest thing a stranger's said about him in a long, long while.
Warmth pools under his cheeks, a pink tinge colouring his skin. Kyle damns his complexion, pale tone making the slightest blush pronounced. He slides off the stool, landing with a muffled thunk, angles for the exit. He yanks on the flaps, safely hiding his face, then says in a huff, "I didn't ask."
One, two steps, then—
"Wait!"
Kyle stops, turns around.
Kenny's mouth hangs open, words teetering on the tip of his tongue. He didn't expect to get this far, Kyle surmises, assumed Kyle would walk off and out of his life, "How long 're you here for?"
"Do I have to answer?" Who knows?
"No…" Maybe he will leave Mick's Bowling Lanes and never come back.
"A little while…" Or maybe he won't, "Why?"
"Case ya can't tell, not a lot goes on around here," Kenny scans over the lanes, their loneliness weighing down his shoulders, "Like, ever."
"Uh-huh."
"But if you wanted to, y'know, do something," Kenny gestures towards the console. He simpers, corners of his mouth twitching, anxiety chipping at his cool composure, "I could always ask Mick 'bout hiring some real entertainment."
A gig. At a bowling alley. In South Park. He can see the tabloids now—How, oh how, could a promising artist sink so low? Where is Stan, his gallant knight, to save him from the bowels of mediocrity? They'd have a fucking field day—if they managed to find him. Are they really going to look for him? And, even if they do, are they going to look here?
"I'll think about it," Kyle keeps his tone ambiguous, but a smile gives him away. Right now, though, he doesn't really care.
His nerves melt away, goofy grin returning in full force, "My shift starts at eight."
Facing forward, Kyle lets out a laugh. Yeah, that was definitely a wink.