Cal rolled over, her arm hitting the wooden headboard. The distinct thunk shook her awake, and she sat up quickly, the immense pain of her head reminding her that whatever happened last night involved a lot of booze. Blinking several times, her eyes adjusted to her surroundings, though she was confused. This wasn't her room. Looking down her front, she was still in her hoodie, could feel the discomfort of having slept in her jean shorts. The only things that had been stripped off her were her shoes, which she found placed neatly at the base of the nightstand next to the bed. A glass of water sat there as well, two pills which she assumed were aspirin and a plate of hotel pastries from the continental breakfast selection. Under the plate was a folded-up note. Taking a final glance around the room, she noticed an opened suitcase overflowing with jeans, assorted shirts and jackets, most of it in black. A bass guitar sat along the chair near the window, its case leaned up against the wall. Noticing a stray beer can near the trash, she realized whose room this was – Murdoc Niccals'.
She checked her clothing one more time to make sure that he hadn't been too crafty about redressing her if they'd had sex, but she couldn't find anything out of place. It was hard to believe that someone like him wouldn't jump on the opportunity – she hated to think that but she also knew how she could be drunk, and he seemed like the kind of guy who enjoyed the company of women from the way he spoke to her with such assurance. Thinking back on the evening as she popped the pills and downed the glass of water, she recalled that he hadn't told her much about himself but seemed eager to share a cab with her. Maybe he was trying to be nice … maybe.
Her eyes fell to the plate of food and while she wanted something to eat, she grabbed the note tucked under it.
Cal -
Should you feel so inclined, me and my bandmate are literally next door and wouldn't mind your company. However, we will be leaving just past noon for a meeting, and won't be back until this evening. Feel free to stay as long as you like, though I understand if you wish to leave. Either way, it was nice to meet you.
If I don't see you before you go, I wish you the best in your fight against The Man. He's a right cunt. Hope to catch your novel someday.
– M. Niccals, Aloof Bassist
Cal chuckled, rereading the note. His cursive was messy but readable. She turned the paper over and realized he hadn't left a number or anything to contact him, and while a part of her wanted to wait around for him, mostly for the company, she didn't want to intrude, especially because he wasn't alone. Sighing, she folded the note back up and stuffed it into her jacket pocket. Noon. Cal glanced at her watch: 3:36pm. Fuck.
"Well, Rivera, you missed the boat." Cal swung her legs over the bed and bent over to grab her shoes, noticing some shredded-up paper laying partly under the bed. Disregarding it, she tied her shoes and grabbed a pastry, giving the room a final look before shakily making her way to the door. Outside, the corridor was quiet. She glanced at room 308, noting the Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the handle. Looking back, she realized Murdoc left one on his door. Two other doors across the hall had the same ornament. With another bite of pastry, she pulled out her phone and summoned a cab.
The drive was thirty minutes of quiet in which she leaned her forehead against the window, the cool glass helpful with her headache. She spent the time recounting what she could of the night, remembering what he looked like under the shitty lighting of the bar, the way he drank whiskey like it was water, the distinct conflict of manners and fuck-all gusto that played out in his posture and the way he held his glass. When she recalled his voice, she told herself to get a grip, that thinking about him was useless. She was never going to see him again and even if she did, it didn't matter. She'd be flying back to the States to figure out her life. The last thing she needed was something else to concern her, to distract her, especially if that something was a man.
What she needed to worry about was where she was going to live in a month and where she'd find work. Worst case scenario, she'd have to shack up with a friend, but there was still the employment process. She had a couple of ideas about where to apply, though the idea of joining the workforce again depressed her. Real life felt so mundane. Really, she wanted to lock herself in a room and write, bust out an entire novel again, and feel that immense satisfaction of exorcising the emotions she kept locked up in her being. Writing was like being in a relationship, starting with the excitement of flirting with an overall idea, the pleasure of finishing specific scenes, and then the downward spiral of finding contentment in the words and fighting with oneself about staying focused, pushing through the wall, and eventually finding that happily ever after in crafting the perfect ending – whether happy or tragic. She preferred tragic endings. They were more real, and despite her love of fiction, she always wrote realistically. If there was anything Cal was not an expert in, it was those fantasy worlds were people met, fell in love, conquered some bad force together and rode off into the sunset. Cal wrote about what she knew, and riding off into some sunset had yet to occur, and she knew it probably never would.
What she did know about was disappointment and the constant battle of climbing up a never-ending avalanche. She knew about being alone and about being told what she couldn't do, as well as what she should do. Her parents and sister were quick to diagnose her at holidays and other occasions in which she was coerced into spending time with them. They all hated the fact that she dropped out of community college to write, considering she came from a family rooted in the medical field, except her mother's sister Lily. Lily had been an artist, her house more of an art studio than anything else. She painted and made ceramic pieces, and whenever a younger Cal would visit, she would craft stories about her aunt's artwork. Her mother was never impressed by Lily's techniques, quick to state how sloppy the acrylic hardened on the canvas, but Cal couldn't understand why her mother didn't feel the way she did whenever she sat with a piece. It was more than aesthetics; it was the underlying emotion and silent display of Lily's mood in each piece that captivated Cal, like a secret language that only a few could understand.
Lily didn't live in a large house in Malibu like Cal's family. She lived in a small space in Venice Beach, the "slum of the West Coast" as her parents deemed it in quiet jest when they assumed Cal couldn't hear. That was where Cal had wanted to end up one day, in a small but loved space in Venice, surrounded by art and her writing and the books of her favorite authors. Lily wasn't there anymore, Cal only able to visit her muse at Rose Hills in Whittier. She was the only one who did, realizing this when her long decayed flowers were a wilted mess on her aunt's gravestone. It didn't surprise her. Lily left this life behind by means of an intentional overdose, and Cal's parents were extremely religious, convinced that the devotion to her art did her in. Of course, this enraged Cal. She knew Lily had a plethora of mental issues she used art to attempt to transcend. And while her passion couldn't cure the illness she never sought medical treatment for, Cal knew that most of the time her aunt was happy with her life. She was surrounded by what she loved, and that's all that mattered.
There's always going to be ugliness in this world, Cal, but you use that ugliness to paint a better picture. Without the pain we wouldn't know pleasure, and without the ugliness, we wouldn't know beauty. Accept the balance and carry on.
Her mother didn't want Cal to read those words left in the letter that was found addressed to her when they came to collect the last of Lily's belongings but Cal managed to find it and read it anyway. She intended to tattoo those words in her aunt's beautiful cursive when she had the money, but for now the letter was stored safely in a journal she had at the hotel. She carried the letter and journal everywhere with her. Lily would have supported her trip to the UK. She would have supported her decision not to sign the rights for her book over to the Hollywood executives, and she sure as hell would have helped her through this depression on her plight to write something truthful.
Her head pounded heavily as her hand slipped over her face, the tears falling freely now. Her heart hurt from the idea of having to endure reality without the wonder of being inspired. Nothing caused her mental anguish the way creative impotency did, and the feeling of failure seized her as she cried into her hands, unaffected by the stares of the cabbie at her through the rearview mirror. He asked once if she was okay, but her silence made him aware that he needn't ask again. He did open the cab door for her, though, when they got to her hotel. She tipped him a couple of bucks she knew she could spend on booze, but she felt bad that he had to endure her crying.
Heading up to the room, she decided she needed to shower and change her clothing. She smelled like vomit and cigarette smoke. She figured she'd take a nap, grab something to eat at one of the little shops nearby, hail a cab and then head back to The Pig. The booze was cheap there and the place was always empty, and something about Stoke-on-Trent called to her.
In the shower, she broke down again and sat against the wall, crying into her arms as reality reared its ugly head at her.
"Get a goddamn grip," she chided herself, eventually standing herself up.
She retreated to the bed naked, throwing herself under the blankets, and fell asleep.
On the other side of town, Murdoc pulled out his cell phone and glanced down at the time. 18:36. Behind him was the incessant chatter of crew personnel as they started to break down the stage, Noodle and Russel still on the couch talking to the hosts, more than likely about things other than music the way they all stared at each other with such intent. The last time Murdoc had seen 2D he was talking up one of the makeup artists over a jelly donut, bragging about his extensive geode collection at Spirit House. Murdoc cocked an eyebrow at this thought. He couldn't understand how 2D was thick enough to believe anyone would be interested in hearing about geode rocks, let alone actually collecting the damn things.
This irritation was cut short as Murdoc caught a flash of blue entering his peripheral vision. Snapping his head up, 2D stopped in front of him, with a donut in each hand, staring down at Murdoc's phone. His black eyes widened.
"Did she ring?"
"What?" Murdoc snapped, shoving the phone into his back pocket.
"Cal. Did she ring ya?"
"No, no, why would you think that?"
"Well, I left your number …"
"So?" Murdoc growled at him, 2D flinching at the sudden elevation of his voice. "We're not all stalkers like you, calling strangers we've just met."
"It's not stalking, it's polite!"
Murdoc narrowed his eyes at him, trying to figure out how to respond without it sounding like it was a big deal – because it wasn't. Murdoc had no intention of hearing from her again. Still, he knew 2D wouldn't drop the subject until his curiosity had been satiated, and so he relaxed, telling himself to calm down to avoid any further altercation that might pique the interest of Noodle or Russel. That last thing he needed was a larger audience about something that really meant nothing, no matter how it appeared.
"I ripped up that note you left."
2D's expression softened. Quieter, he asked, "Why'd you do that?"
"Why the fuck shouldn't I? She's leaving for the States. It's not like we're gonna be here forever either."
"We coulda had a little fun, though. Met a new friend."
"She wouldn't have liked you. She's intelligent."
2D crinkled his nose. "Don't be a prick, Murdoc."
"Well, you stop being such a knob."
"You both cut it out." Noodle stepped between them, her back to 2D, securing the hem of Murdoc's jacket collar between two brightly polished fingers. "Are you behaving?"
"Don't waste your time," chimed Russel, approaching the group.
Murdoc gently removed Noodle's hand, lingering around it to give it a gentle squeeze. "Come off it, love."
"You promised." Her words were hushed but firm. "You've been better lately, but only because you've been withdrawn. I don't like it."
"I don't like the fact that you act like his human shield."
"I wouldn't have to if you stopped behaving like a child, Rōjin."
As much as Murdoc wanted to tell 2D to fuck off, he couldn't fight with Noodle, and he knew Noodle would take 2D's side. While Russel had been the father figure in Noodle's life, and he the twisted uncle (maybe it was more like grandpa, but uncle sounded so much younger), 2D had been the older brother who shared in that special sibling-type language he and Russel weren't in on. He knew Russel didn't care much; he just wanted peace. Murdoc didn't care either, except when it got in the way of his aggression towards 2D's idiotic ideas. When Noodle was younger, it wasn't much of a barrier because Murdoc and 2D could label their fighting as 'grown up time,' which she didn't understand. But now that she was twenty-six, she knew exactly what 'grown up time' meant, and she was the first to jump in to defend 2D with the strangest methods. In her younger twenties, she had no qualms with yelling at them both, though more so at Murdoc. Then, it was easy for Murdoc to dismiss her intrusion and retreat to his room to get drunk(er). Now, her methods had changed. He wasn't sure how or why but Noodle's approach was softer and confusing, with her frequent use of Japanese terms of endearment towards him (he wanted to be offended by being called "old man" but the gentleness with which she spoke the word made that impossible). Plus, with the food and the paper cranes, Murdoc was completely thrown off by her approach. He hated that. He didn't know how to respond, and he hated being off his game. He'd never yelled at Noodle, unless it was an elevated defense over the group's bantering at him, and he didn't have any intention of doing so. He didn't even like to be around her, not because of her but because of him. Of course, he loved her for her talent and for the place she helped elevate the band to, but at the same time he couldn't understand why someone with so much potential beyond music would stick around. She had 2D to confide in. She had Russel as a perfect mentor. Murdoc brought nothing to her life except turbulence – alcohol-induced turbulence and pain. She had to be crazy to want to stay … he'd made her crazy. This notion always forced him to back off.
Grumbling, Murdoc turned away from the group, catching the distinct disappointment on 2D's face.
"Stop being a bitch, Muds. We were gonna go eat," Russel called after him.
Murdoc threw up his hand, dismissing the offer.
"Do you want company?" 2D added.
"Does it look like it?" Murdoc spat over his shoulder.
"Will you ever?"
Murdoc cringed at her voice. "I'm behaving. Keep an eye on the boys."
The group watched him pass through one of the exits, slamming the door shut behind him. Noodle turned to Russel and 2D, placing her hands on her hips.
"Don't sweat it, Noodle-Bowl, you know what it is," Russel told her, placing a massive hand on her shoulder. "I thought the aging would calm his ass down, but it seems he's going that feisty-convalescent route."
"I wish I knew how to help him," she sighed, glancing back at the door. "It's frustrating."
"The only way that's gonna happen is if he wants the help. He don't want shit right now, except to be a little bitch about everything."
2D wrapped an arm around Noodle's shoulders. "I understand the frustration, I do. It's like wanting to eat an entire box of donuts cos you crave 'em all, every flavor, but you know you shouldn't cos that's bad for you, but you really can't decide on which one." He sighed. "But Rus is right. He needs to want the help. However," he perked up, giving her a playful squeeze, "there may yet be hope for 'im if he goes to a bar tonight … a particular bar."
Now it was Russel's turn to sigh. "D, we already talked about this. Wishes you make at 11:11 don't actually come true."
"I didn't do that this time."
"And that lamp you rubbed in Egypt, it wasn't really from the Cave of Wonders."
2D released Noodle and glared at Russel. "Come now, you can't tell me it was coincidence I rubbed that lamp and ten minutes later found twenty quid in the sand."
Russel chuckled. "You're some kinda special, D."
"What is the point, Stu?" asked Noodle.
"The point is, Murdoc met someone last night at a bar in Stoke."
"Oh, so you're saying he's cranky today because he's coming off a romp with a crackhead."
"No, Rus, I'm saying she's actually quite normal."
Noodle stared up at 2D. "You saw her?"
"I helped carry her to the room." 2D's smile lined the entirety of his face.
Noodle and Russel shot each other worried looks.
"You know that's … illegal, right?" replied Russel, adjusting the hat on his head. "I never considered you to be an accomplice to Murdoc's shenanigans."
"Oy, fuck." 2D shook his head. "Murdoc slept in my room. He gave up his bed last night to let this drunken American sleep off the booze. Real pretty girl, not very Murdoc-ish at'll."
"You think they hit it off?" Noodle asked, sensing where 2D was going with this.
2D nodded. "But see, I left his number for her this morning and he told me he ripped it up. That's what we were going on about just before you lot showed up. I asked him why and he said cos she's leaving but … I don't know, the way he answered didn't seem truthful. Still," he held up his finger with serious intent, "there's a chance she'll be at the bar in Stoke tonight. I'm hoping that's where Muds ends up. Maybe then they can hang out."
"And what, get shitfaced together?" Russel muttered. "Fuck behind a dumpster? 2D, I applaud your optimism but's ill-placed, man. Any chick Muds meets in Stoke is only going to amplify his problem."
"No offense, Stu, but, women have never managed to make Murdoc see the truth about anything. He always chooses poorly."
"The chances of Murdoc Niccals scoring a dime piece is wishful thinking, D. No time or magic lamp'll help."
"He listens to you, Noodle."
Noodle pursed her lips, eying 2D. "I hope you aren't suggesting I vouch for her. I don't even know her."
"But if you did …" 2D gave her a wink, to which Noodle shook her head.
"We can't interfere. It's only going to piss him off, Stu. I can only be your human shield for so long."
"Fuck Murdoc, man. If he wants to act like a bitch, that's fine, so long as he shows up to practices and concerts able to work. All that other shit, I don't wanna know."
2D turned to Russel, pleading, "But we're supposed to be a family, Rus."
"We're supposed to be a band. This," he gestured between the three of them, "became a family without him because he's always out there being stupid. Murdoc don't care about anyone except Murdoc, and if that's how he wants it, that's how he's gonna get it. I don't want anything to do with it."
2D considered this for a moment. Perhaps Rus was right to some degree but despite his willingness to give up on the old man, 2D knew better. He hadn't seen Murdoc smile in ages, even his sadistic ones he gave 2D anytime he plotted something against him. Murdoc was usually at a drunk to sober ratio of 75:25, but lately it was more like 98:2 – that's how ratios work, yeah? He couldn't be sure but it sounded right. Anyway, Murdoc was starting to lock himself away to play records in his room, sometimes strummed his bass instead, only dressed when they had to leave the house, and they saw less and less of him at meals or other activities they planned together. In the past, Murdoc hung around with them, even if it was in the background, even sulked about it to some degree, though 2D was sure he wasn't honestly upset about it. There were plenty of times in which he'd seen Murdoc laugh or smile, even get in on the jokes, especially if they were at the expense of 2D, but it seemed like those times were ages ago.
Despite his unruly exterior, 2D knew Murdoc had something good within him still. He had the capacity to love and be loved to some degree, even if it was a mere flicker. 2D knew this because he cared for the bastard, through it all. He was an important corner in their obscure parental trifecta, a necessary one – even stale powdered sugar on a donut was worth chewing through to get to the jelly center, he knew. Murdoc had to have a jelly center. He wasn't hollow no matter how much he let on that he was. 2D had to remind Russel and Noodle about this before everything they'd all built together – through good times and bad – crumbled.
"Rus," said 2D, "I know it seems as though we've lost Murdoc –"
"Did we ever even have him?" Russel countered. "The bastard hit you with his car. Kidnapped me to get me into this band, man. Took Noodle in knowing damn well he could never be a father to her; he wanted her for her skills."
"Of course those're all valid points, but there's a decent tasting jelly in there somewhere."
Again, Russel and Noodle side-glanced each other, unsure where this 2D-tangent was headed.
"Who taught Noodle how to tie her shoes?"
"Those Velcro high-tops I bought her were cute, man! He also taught her every cuss word in the English language."
"And he gave you the biggest space at Kong so you could do your taxidermy."
"Yeah – and charged me a space fee."
"He gave me pointers on how to pick up women. And he plays video games with me. And he gave me my favorite pair of boots."
"He threw his boots at you for touching them, and then said you could keep them because you fucked them up."
2D smiled weakly. "I still wanted them though."
"Alright, I see both sides of this," Noodle interjected. "Rus, I know your frustrations and can understand your position of hopelessness towards Murdoc. And 2D," she turned to him, offering him a small smile, "I know you see the light – er, jelly in all beings, as hard as that may be to find. You're a warrior with that gift. But here's my position on the matter." She paused, both Russel and 2D watching her with expectant stares. Of course they wanted her to take their sides, but they also knew her views hardly every fully aligned with theirs.
For Russel, even when Noodle didn't agree with him on certain things, it was a proud moment because Noodle's decisions were never from an ignorant place. If he'd taught her anything in their time together, it was that forming an opinion was work and had to come from a place of intelligent citation, research, and a moral stance. 2D helped with that in a way, too, at least with the moral part. 2D always saw the good in people, sometimes to a fault, and while it got on Russel's nerves at times, especially regarding Murdoc, he appreciated the balance 2D's character brought to them all. Russel would never deny 2D and Noodle as his family, but Murdoc … Murdoc was that enigmatic factor that constantly threatened their happiness, and that's what pissed Russel off the most. Of all of them, 2D and Noodle deserved to be happy, and too often Murdoc made that hard. Russel didn't want to see the old man slip into obscurity, nor did he wish him any harm but fighting for 2D and Noodle's happiness took precedence over Murdoc and his selfishness. Russel stood strong in his position. If Murdoc couldn't fight to better his situation, Russel wouldn't. Too many other things were more important to him, and he couldn't lose those things. So when Noodle's lips started moving in response to her position, Russel was ready to accept it no matter what she said because she was the wisest of them all, having been brought up in a household like hers. She accumulated all of their wisdoms and experiences, and created from that an arsenal she personalized for herself – the most important and greatest ability he could have ever been a part of bestowing on her.
Noodle continued, "We let him be. Murdoc is not stupid, but he's blind, mute, resistant to truth. Maybe we consider 2D's approach and make a little more effort at opportune moments, moments Murdoc extends – and only if he does so. But we also consider Rus's side not to coddle him. At some point he'll meet that intersection and will have to decide … and we can't be a part of it. We set boundaries. Murdoc will always be the foundation of this family, whether or not we like it. Because of him, we all know each other. That's the greatest thing he's given us. And I hope one day he'll allow himself to feel how we feel about that, but, he will need to figure that out on his own." She paused again, having a personal thought as she looked away from them both.
Both men noticed the conflict in her eyes, well aware of what she could be thinking about the situation, but wouldn't say aloud. Yes, Murdoc was blind and mute and resistant but … at times, so were they, though Russel would never admit this.
"I can't say I'll put my faith in Murdoc but I'll put my faith in fate. I hope it works out, mostly because I don't want to watch the consequences unfold."
Russel wrapped his arms around her. "This stuff with Muds has nothing to do with you. With any of us."
2D wrapped his arms around them both and buried his head into Russel's shoulder. He knew it looked dumb, and the chuckling from his bandmates brought out the color in his cheeks, but it felt nice. If only Muds liked to hug this way … Maybe one day they'd surprise him with a group hug … he considered this as they all released each other, and he caught a smirk from Russel. Russel wouldn't want to be in on a surprise like that, and Murdoc would drown 2D before allowing that "prank" to come to pass. Still, even though they all weren't blood related, he yearned for times like these, like how it used to be back home with his parents. He loved hugs, and he was sure Murdoc would love them too if he was hugged the right way by the right person … That's it!
"Let's go eat," said Russel, motioning them on. "I'm starving."
"Me too," agreed 2D with pep in his step. Perhaps it was the idea of having dinner or realizing that he couldn't leave Murdoc's fate to … Murdoc, per say. Maybe wishes at 11:11 didn't come true, and maybe that lamp he rubbed in Egypt was a fake (as convincing as it appeared), but that didn't mean he couldn't help fate move into the correct direction for his friend. He appreciated the strength of his friends but he couldn't sit idly by wishing. He had to act, and if that meant igniting the flames of love to help Murdoc figure out what he needed, he was ready to accept such a quest. He could be strong, he had it in him. He'd show them – all of them – and maybe one day Murdoc would give him a hug of appreciation, a real hug, one without the intent to strangle or knee in the ribs. "I could eat twenty pasties right now."
Noodle gave him a playful shove. "When can't you?"
2D shrugged, giving her a toothy grin. They exited the same door Murdoc went through, carefully shutting it behind them.
He heard them go but he didn't show his face. Instead, Murdoc moved around the corner, leaning against the side of the building, and lit a cigarette as he heard 2D and Russel laughing at some unheard joke they all shared in. Murdoc's upper lip twitched and he took a long drag of the cigarette, allowing the poison to fill his lungs, holding it there for a pleasurable moment, before finally blowing out the smoke in a long exhale. They were going to dinner, not only because they'd mentioned it in the studio but because he could hear 2D listing his favorite pasty fillings of all time – a list he'd heard time and time again, one which he could list back to him if 2D ever requested it. Not that he would. It was useless information that had been imprinted on his brain and wouldn't leave.
When he could no longer hear their voices, Murdoc turned the corner again and hailed a cab. He intended to ask the driver to take him to the closest pub when a thought crossed his mind … no, it's an hour away … He battled with himself until the cab arrived, scooting into the back seat and closing the door with a snap.
"Where to?" asked the driver, giving him a quick glance in the rear-view mirror.
Murdoc hesitated. The easiest option would be to ask for the nearest pub, but more than likely it was close enough to just walk. Maybe he could ask for a specific pub? He recalled a decent spot in Warrington, which could justify the cab. But … he was very familiar with The Pig, and it was already just past seven … by the time he got down there, she might have already left. Maybe she didn't go at all. Maybe she realized blowing the last of her money during the final part of her trip was a foolish idea, or maybe she was still utterly hungover and asleep in his room … or back at her hotel. Fuck, this is bullshit.
"Oy, you there?"
Murdoc narrowed his eyes at the rear-view mirror. "The Potteries."
The driver lifted an eyebrow and pulled away from the curb.
Again, the drive was a quiet one, though Murdoc toyed with his phone instead of staring out at the city. He read an article about the upcoming shows the band had committed to in the States, which he was happy about. He wanted to get out of this area and back in the grind. He hated free time as of late. Free time allowed him to think, which frightened him into drinking, which made it hard for him to remember anything anymore. Life had become a series of inconsistent blinks in which he couldn't keep up with the entire picture. He was awake for a moment, asleep for a while, until he couldn't process the time of day or dates or anything unless someone reminded him about where he was. This was usually Russel yelling at him about band practice or going to interviews. 2D reminded him to get up at least once a day, peering his head into Murdoc's room with careful concern, light tapping and a "care to eat?" Murdoc always threw something at the door because of the sudden brightness of light or he roared obscenities at 2D for disturbing his sleep, which was a lie because he was never really asleep. It was more of a trance, allowing his body some kind of recharge, though his mind was on overload twenty-four/seven. Still, he silently appreciated 2D's daily rousing. It reminded him that through all of the bullshit he was still alive for whatever reason. It also reminded him that someone remembered he existed even though most of the time he didn't feel like he did.
Their laughter and talk of Cornish pasties rang in Murdoc's head. It was so stupid, conversations about food. Eating was a good idea but drinking was fun. He didn't know why but part of him felt bad for walking out so abruptly. He'd traveled so much with them but hadn't really done anything with them except sleep across the hotel hall or show up to meetings and interviews. They'd played a couple of shows in which they all went out with the roadies afterwards for food and drinks. Murdoc accompanied only for the drinks and then skipped out to find less crowded bars with quieter music and spaces to hide away in to drink without distraction. 2D accompanied him sometimes, but he could never keep up. He knew how to drink, yes, but eventually he became too clumsy and giggly, and ended up his head on the table, Murdoc having to drag him back to wherever it was they were staying for the night in his own altered state. He usually left 2D by himself in his room, but sometimes Murdoc would stay with him, just to make sure the wanker didn't drown in his own vomit. He'd listen to the sound of 2D's breathing, hear him mumble, until he began to stir and Murdoc would fumble his way back to his room. He meant nothing by it except to make sure the singer was alive through the night. Maybe he envied the sleep the singer seemed to find. Maybe he was afraid 2D would find a way to OD on painkillers in his inebriated state. Whatever those impulses forced Murdoc to do, he was certain 2D wasn't aware of his presence.
Only one person ever saw Murdoc leave 2D's room once, and that was Noodle. She was coming out of her hotel room at the same time as Murdoc nearly fell out of 2D's. They'd both caught each other's stare, their hands lingering on the door knobs, until Noodle gave him a smile and went on about her day, Murdoc stalking to his room in the opposite direction. They never spoke about it. She was a polite kid; he knew she wouldn't say anything.
It was an odd thing to feel obligated to someone, to feel wanted by them. He had no idea how he was supposed to react to it, having never known the feeling growing up, but when the notion surprised him every now and again from his band, it caused him great anxiety. He hated that about himself. Why shouldn't he laugh down the street, talking about the weather and Cornish pasties? Why couldn't he sit around the living room with Russel, Noodle and 2D, watching TV and having snacks? Why couldn't he make himself feel what they felt?
Because you're mental. A mental, bitter old man.
Murdoc ran a hand over his face. He didn't want to think anymore. He wanted to drink. When they made it to Stoke, he led the driver to the neighborhood, paid him and stepped out into the night. There wasn't any rain this time, thankfully, but he kept his jacket on, lit up a cigarette and walked down the street towards The Pig. His heart pounded in his chest. It annoyed him.
"This was a shit idea," he muttered, the cigarette clinging to his lower lip.
Involuntarily, he slowed his pace as he turned the corner, the dim sign of The Pig blinking at him. A couple of cars were parked in front along the street. Someone stood outside against the wall, Murdoc only realizing this as he saw the glow from the person's cigarette burn a bright orange as they inhaled. Murdoc reached for the pub door, side-glancing at the shadowed figure. It was an older man, eyes hidden by the brim of his hat. He turned his head towards Murdoc but said nothing. Murdoc kept his eyes on the man as he pulled the door open, suddenly regretting his decision to come. But why? Just bloody drink, you fool, whether she's here or not. Grimacing, Murdoc stepped into the pub.
A few more patrons were seated this time, talking louder and more animated. The leathery couple were at their booth in back. Finally, Murdoc's dark eyes came to the bar. A man and a woman sat together with a pint each, smoking. Albert was behind the counter serving another pint of beer to … Cal.
He couldn't help it. It was completely stupid but his heart did something weird – a punch to the back of his sternum, and he smirked at the back of her head, then caught himself, shook his head and casually made his way towards the bar. She was going on again with Albert, who seemed bored by her speech about how inconsiderate The Pig was to not have Southern Comfort still. She only paused when Murdoc leaned on the bar top next to her, holding the cigarette between his fingers.
Feeling a presence suddenly at her side, Cal stiffened, whirled around with an accusatory finger and cried, "Not this time, asshole!"
Murdoc narrowed his eyes and gave her a grin, baring his teeth at her. "If not now, when?"
Cal's features softened and she started to laugh. "My, my, my – if it isn't good old Prince Greenleaf!" She turned to Albert. "Albert, get this man a whiskey."
"Yes, your majesty," Albert huffed, snapping the bar towel over his shoulder.
At her side, Murdoc chuckled. "I see you've managed to get his name down."
"I'm not as wasted tonight," she replied and then gave him a wink. "But the night's still young."
"Yes it is." Murdoc took the drink from Albert and he clanked his glass against Cal's. Taking a long swallow, he set the glass down and took another drag off his cigarette. "How was your night?"
"I don't know, you tell me," she said, swirling the golden liquid around in her glass. She didn't look at him. "I was … under your care." She took a drink.
"Only until we left you in the bed."
Cal put her glass down. She turned to him, alarmed. "'We?'"
"I employed the services of my bandmate to assist taking you up to the room," explained Murdoc. "It was hardly a gangbang, trust me."
"It would've been a threesome," she corrected. "Jesus, that's embarrassing." She paused. "Why didn't you just take me to my hotel?"
"You never told me where you were staying, and you passed out. You were like a corpse."
"Fine, Niccals. I accept your help, and your aspirin and your comfy bed." She gave him a smile and then finished off the rest of the pint.
Murdoc chuckled. "How much catching up do I 'ave ahead of me?"
She set the glass down and waved to Albert. "I'm two in." She waited for Albert to return while Murdoc sipped on his whiskey. When she had another beer in her hands, Cal drew shapes in the condensation on the glass with her finger. Finally, she asked, "You left me that note but no number – why?"
"Oh." Murdoc finished the whiskey. "Thought I 'ad."
"Meh, no worries," she waved the comment away. "I left late in the afternoon. Had to get the lovely stench of vomit and cigarettes out of my clothes. Enjoy your sheets tonight, man." She nudged him with her elbow, and Murdoc couldn't help but notice that she was in a fresh pair of jean shorts, a black blazer and a white Deftones tee shirt. Despite the chill of the evening, Murdoc noted the flip-flops she wore, metallic silver polish on her toes.
"You really are an American," he cracked, and Cal followed his gaze down to her feet.
"Screw you, Niccals." She shoved him again, and he caught her before she slipped off the stool, steadying her. She laughed. "You're really an Englishman with your … your accent and … those boots."
"They're Cuban."
"And that mop top."
Murdoc rolled his eyes. "Is that the best you can do, Cal?"
"With the current brain cells intact, yes." She turned to him on the stool. She noticed he was standing between her and the stool behind him. "Sit down, Niccals, stay a while. Unless you're aiming to be an aloof bassist tonight, in which case I'll wave to you from the bar. I can't leave my bff Albert-o-rino – he keeps me happy with his shitty booze." She raised her glass to Albert, who shook his head and continued wiping down the counter.
"You see," Murdoc sat back onto the stool, a foot on the floor and the other resting on the bottom rung, "while I'd love to slip into obscurity by my lonesome, watching you make a fool of yourself sounds much more entertaining." He took a final drag off his cigarette and smashed the end of it into a dirty ashtray on his other side.
Cal smacked her lips, her face growing serious. "'The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.'" She caught his stare from the corner of her eye. "Am I foolish, or am I wise?"
"You're a paradox, Shakespeare."
"Lucky guess."
"I am English. Fun fact, the old bastard's birthplace is not too long a drive from here."
"Oo, are you trying to seduce me with literary facts, because that would be a first."
Murdoc rolled his eyes. "You said you're a writer …"
"Hardly. After all that nonsense I told you about I haven't been able to write shit. Well, except the shitty draft, but I'm about to toss it. Not a poem … not even a doodle. I'm like an old, impotent man, standing on the other side of a brightly decorated window display of Viagra, only I can't get in." Cal rested her forehead on her palm, closing her eyes. She could feel the welling of emotion threatening to rear its ugly head. Don't. Even. Think. About. Crying. She moved her tongue over her lips and popped her eyes open, forcing a smile, which became an awkward laugh, and she looked at the pint in her hand. "Goddamn, what does he put in these drinks?"
Murdoc knew what she was doing. As much as he wanted to move away from a situation in which Cal started crying – because at that point he was certain he'd be lost as to how to deal with that – he was genuinely rueful for her. Feeling like a failure, especially when it was about one's passion and craft, was a horrible place to be in; he knew from experience.
"Cal …" he sighed, gritted his teeth, and then continued, "Hey, you can't let it get you down. So you've hit a wall. Big fucking deal. You don't get your writer's card revoked over rubbish like that. You can't just call on creativity … it's born from something, and perhaps you just haven't realized that something yet."
"I have an arsenal to pull from. A fucking list of significant scenarios."
"Whatever it is hasn't come to pass."
Cal took a sip. "Thanks Galadriel. I'll head back to the Shire with that ring of truth."
"As you should – arse."
She gave him a wink and laughed into her glass. "But seriously, tonight can't be about me. I've said everything there is to say. What about you? You said you're from here?"
Not this again. Murdoc glanced down at the bar top but knew he'd eventually have to respond. "Eh, born, yes. I got out as soon as I could though. Told you, this place is shit."
"Does your family still live here?"
Fuck. "Well … yes. But … honestly, I don't speak to them."
"Sounds like an epidemic."
"Not curable, I'm afraid."
"I getcha."
"Moved out of Stoke after I started the band. Been on the road ever since, though we currently stay in Detroit."
"Yikes," Cal's eyes widened. "From one dump to another."
Murdoc smirked. "I know how to handle the locals. We actually do have privacy, the lot is fairly decent size, very … animated. Not too many venture close. It's quite nice, really."
Cal nodded. "You guys live together?"
"It's easier to record that way. Plenty of space, too, so it's like living alone. We stay out of each other's way, at least. I prefer it."
"A house of dudes. I can only imagine the clean up."
"Three of us, and a girl."
Cal eyed him, playful. "I don't know whether to feel bad for her or impressed."
Murdoc shook his head quickly. "It's not like that at all, trust me. She's quite younger and it's just … not like that at all."
"Sure." Cal took another swig of the beer. "Moving on from your living situation, what else is there, Greenleaf? You hate this place so much but you drink here. That means something."
"Bollocks."
"Everything means something. Everything we do or don't do has some intention."
"So, me lounging on the couch watching a bit of tele while scratching my balls means something, does it?"
She nodded with genuine consideration. "It means you have an itch. If it persists, consult with your doctor. They make creams for that."
The chuckle escaped his lips. "Cheeky." Thinking on her question for a moment, he absently swirled the whiskey in his glass. "The booze is cheap. It's tucked away. I can get away from everything to think."
"Your adoring fans won't find you here, huh?"
He eyed her. She was staring up at him through half-opened eyes, her lips curled, her head weighty on her palm. "It's easy to disappear in Stoke, whether you want to not."
"I hate to use this one, but, Niccals, you're like an onion. So many layers."
"I suppose I should be glad you said that and not something like stinky."
Cal laughed, picked up her head and sat as upright as she could. She looked over her shoulder. "Hey, Albert-a-rino, dude – can you fetch me some water?"
"Water?" Murdoc questioned as Cal turned back to him. "Don't tell me you're tapping out so soon, Cal." There was a genuine heaviness that gnawed at him as Albert grumpily sat the water in front of Cal.
She waved her hand at him, chugging half the glass in the other. "I'm not leaving, but I also don't want to start puking so soon, either. I'd hate to end up in another sexless threesome with you, Niccals."
"'Sexless' and 'threesome,' two words that should never find themselves within the same sentence."
"Does that depress you?"
"The sexless part, yes. Threesomes … meh, too much work."
"And this comes from your extensive knowledge on the subject?"
Murdoc grinned at her, running his tongue behind his teeth. "Fifty years of life comes with experience, love."
Cal nodded, impressed. She raised her glass to him, which he clinked. They both took a drink. "Well, fuck, I can't compete with that. You win."
He shook a finger at her, setting his glass down. "In the game of sex, there are no winners or losers, only the satisfied and the unsatisfied. Bullshit I did when I was younger may seem admirable, but if it's not your thing, it's not your thing, which does not place me 'ahead.' If you're satisfied with the status of your love life, at least where it's been, then who I am to say anything at all, except cheers."
"I wouldn't say 'cheers,' but it hasn't been horrible. So, yay for mediocre achievement." She raised a shaky fist and polished off her beer.
Murdoc shook his head. "That is truly the most depressing thing you've said all night."
"Even more than the whole writing shit?"
"Sadly, yes. Writing effectively is a selective talent. For fuck's sake, every being on this planet should be able to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh." He raised a fist heavenward and glared up at the ceiling. "Have you no mercy, you soulless twat?"
Cal burst out into laughter and quickly clutched his upright wrist, pulling it down as she noticed others around the bar looking at them. He curled a lip at her as she held onto him, her laughter dying down as she realized she hadn't let him go. Finally, she released him, and he rested his hand on his thigh.
"Thank you, but I know how to fight my own battles, Sir Niccals."
"Don't worry, he knows I'm into Satan, anyway. He wouldn't do shit for me even if I asked."
"Oo, so dark," Cal teased. "Dark and aloof. An emo kid out of time."
"I really wish you wouldn't degrade me so."
"Says the women you've been with."
"Low fucking blow, Cal."
She pinched his cheek and chuckled. "You can take it, Greenleaf."
His skin burned from where she pinched him, the sensation lingering as she moved away. Her hands were soft. "So, might I inquire as to when the US of A is finally ridding blessed Stoke of its favorite nuisance?"
Cal clutched her chest and bowed. "Thank you, thank you. And I'm being deported on Monday. The boat sails at noon."
"So Albert and I have to endure this nonsense for another couple evenings?"
"I'll have no part of it!" Albert chimed from the other side of the bar.
Murdoc watched Cal's expression relax. She licked her lips. "Was that presumptuous?" he inquired, the heat overcoming his face.
"Hey, if there's a party, I'm down." She looked back at Albert. "Albert, we should throw a party. We should have cake. And karaoke!"
Murdoc cocked an eyebrow. "Oh lord, not you too."
"Me too?"
"My lead singer loves karaoke. Actually, the whole band does. It's deafening."
"Ah, well, I love to sing."
"And what terrible musical choices do you make for such a shit activity?"
"I love to sing songs by Madonna."
"Ah, Madge. I've a thing for the old bird."
Cal laughed. "I have a thing for her music. Especially her stuff from the late 80s/early 90s. 'Bedtime Stories' – great album."
"What other music are you into?" Murdoc inquired, purposefully wondering if she had figured out who he was yet. There was a part of him that believed she could be acting polite to keep the pressure off, or that perhaps she hadn't heard of his band at all. The latter would be a first for him.
"Oo, that's a hard one … I'm very eclectic."
"Try me."
"I can do just about anything that isn't country. I love rock music, though." She gestured at her shirt. "I'm not a huge fan of pop but there are some songs I enjoy as guilty pleasures. When I write, I have to listen to soundtrack music, whatever invokes the emotion I'm trying to explain. That's crucial." She paused. "Stupid question since you're in a band but, what about you?"
"Fairly eclectic myself, but I, too, lean more towards rock. My musical influences were Black Sabbath, The Clash … I enjoy the Stones, too." He gave her a look. "Please tell me you've heard of them."
"I have. I wasn't big into The Clash or the Rolling Stones, but I do love me some Ozzy. Do I get any UK-cred for loving Depeche Mode?"
"We don't have 'cred' but if it'll ease your mind, sure." He chuckled. "You seem like the type."
"To …?"
"To love a band like Depeche Mode."
She leaned in closer to him. "What does that mean?"
Challenging her, he leaned in closer, too. They were about an inch apart. "It means I can see you dancing drunk off your rocker to 'Enjoy the Silence' whilst crying and hugging yourself."
Cal rolled her eyes and leaned away. She held her middle finger directly in front of his face.
"Is that your clever response?"
"Yes, it is. Do you see it?" She thrust her hand closer, just beyond his nose. "Do you see that, Niccals? This is what I think about that."
"It's a thought I have often," he chuckled, and he enclosed his hand around hers, lowering them both. "And a gesture most often given to me, so no harm." He gave her a wink and let her hand go. She retracted it slowly, looking at down at it. She sighed.
"What is it?"
"Honestly, I want to dance."
Murdoc laughed. "Bloody hell, you must be pissed."
"Why do you say that?"
"You're so random."
"And that's a bad thing?"
"Well … no." His smile waned as he tried to configure how to continue. "Actually, it's quite refreshing."
Cal rested her head on her hand again. "Do you like to dance, Niccals?"
"No, of course not."
"Let me guess, you're the guy in the booth drinking by himself while he complains about the volume of the music and how terrible the dancing is."
"You read me like a book."
"Grumpy old man."
"I'd prefer refined, first-rate connoisseur of good music."
"Or, first-rate prick."
"I haven't had a complaint yet."
Cal glared at him. "I didn't mean it like that."
He smirked. "It's too late to backtrack, now, Cal. What's said is said."
Cal yawned. "What time is it, prick?"
Murdoc pulled out his phone. "Just after eleven."
Cal sat up and stretched. "I hate to do this but, I think I'm going to take off. I can feel the booze weighing me down. The water was my downfall."
"It usually is," replied Murdoc, less than enthusiastic. "You want me to get you a cab?"
She stared at him. "How much longer are you going to be out here?"
"It's hard to tell."
"No, I mean before you and the band moves on? Did you really want to like … I don't know, hang out?"
Murdoc was taken aback by the question. "Oh, well, uh, sure. I mean, we have stuff to do tomorrow, press stuff, but, I mean if you're not busy tomorrow night …"
She shook her head a little too quick. "I'm free whenever."
"That's great."
Cal leaned on the bar, closer to him. "So, you think this time I could actually get your number? For real? You know, not to lead you on or anything, even though you're totally fuckable or whatever that bullshit was you said to me last night."
Murdoc swallowed hard, forcing a laugh. What are you doing, twat, give the lady your number. No harm. "Right, of course." He recited his phone number as Cal entered it into her phone. "Text me yours and I'll ring you tomorrow when we're done."
Cal nodded. "Sounds like a plan, man." She stood from the stool and stretched, the tee shirt slipping just above her belly button. Her stomach was flat and Murdoc had to lock his eyes on her face to keep from lowering them. Returning to her relaxed posture, she placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'd tell you not to do anything too crazy tonight, Niccals, but you're the overlord of threesomes, so anything that could probably happen in this place is probably too tame anyway."
"You'd be surprised at the number of prostitutes that reside in Stoke."
"Well, no glove no love, am I right?" She bumped him with her hip and started for the door, Murdoc spinning around on the stool to follow her with his gaze. She turned to him as she placed a hand on the heavy slab of wood. "If it does happen, though, remember, they make creams!"
Murdoc shook his head. "You're mental, you know that?"
"I told you so," Albert chimed.
"I love you, too, Albert," cooed Cal.
"Shall I call you a cab?" Murdoc called to her.
"I already did." She held up her phone to him. "Just promise you'll call me tomorrow. Ya know, if you to, or whatever." She grinned and pushed the door with her backside, moving out of sight.
Murdoc stared at the door as it closed, then turned back to the bar where Albert cast him a dirty look. "Come off it, mate," he remarked and held up his empty glass. "Be a dear and fetch me another."
Albert's upper lip shook as he huffily fulfilled the request. Murdoc watched, the grin not leaving his satisfied face.