Howdy
I'm honestly curious how long it'll take my friends to find this story. Regardless, here's my attempt at a story involving two things I hold near and dear: music and Kung Fu Panda. Hope you enjoy
Chapter 1: The Old Man
/ Seattle, Washington /
The boys and I had just finished another successful session of punk rock music for the masses. We played at an old venue by the name of "The Dead Skunk"; classic hangout for a good time. Punk rock music, beverages that may or may not be alcoholic (I won't tell) and moshing with no regard where one's body travels. Not the biggest fan of the moshing, if I'm honest. I myself am fonder of the classic movies like the "fist pump" and the "head bob"; feeling crazy, maybe even the "jump up and down in time". Classic moves, though this new crowd of punk rockers seem to think of the classics as "outdated". Like they even know what a date is. Fools.
Overall, the gig was okay at best. Sure, we did our punk thing, but one "hiccup" did irk me. Once again, Bassist and leader James called out Benjamin Harrison on our anti-political anthem "I'm Not a Fan". They're doing that intentionally; James KNOWS that the 23rd president of the United States of America was/IS the only good president. For god sakes, Benjamin Harrison is more than just good, He's the god-damn best leader this world has ever produced and that will ever be produced. Nobody will ever meet the Benjamin Harrison bar of expectation again. James is doing this intentionally. I would go on, though I have found myself quite dehydrated from the punk rock.
I left the Dead Skunk from the entrance and out into the city of Seattle on a foggy night; illuminated by the artificial lights of buildings and glowing advertisements. A beautiful sight for those who enjoy the concept of the urban jungle. I'm more in favor of the mountains of Scotland, or 'highlands' as I've been told. The lyrics of 'Heeya' will remain untouched by this.
I continued my way out of the Dead Skunk and into the night, only to be interrupted by a soothing punk voice. "Hey man!" the voice shouted. I turned around to see my trustworthy companion, the guitarist of Air Conditioner; Ari. I displayed the most causal of grins when I saw him approach me. His lengthy curly brown hair bounced at every step, making slight contact with his thin shoulders.
"Ari, what's up?" I replied. While still touting his way towards me, he continued to converse. "James and I were wondering if you could get some tea for the band." I merely shrugged out a "Sure, you got money?". Ari stoic punk stature became noticeably less confident. He sheepishly replied "Would…it be okay if you paid…?". He averted his gaze from mine when barely able to squeak out the last part. I groaned "Seriously, dude? We just did a killer set for a full house and there's nothing? No leftover from the venue? Merch sales? Nothing?" Ari in response squinted his eyes while shrugging his shoulders in a timid manner, replying "The money hasn't pooled in yet."
"Okay, but do you have any money to spare?"
Ari only responded in silence, staring with hope into my eyes.
"Gez…" I uttered under my breath, "Alright, I'll get the tea, but you'll have to pay me back". Ari's stance brought back confidence and his face plastered with fulfillment. "Thank you so much, you're the man!". I waved my hand at him, "Yeah, yeah, I'll be back later".
And from that, I headed off; Ari returned into the Dead Skunk while I found myself walking down the dim-lit streets of downtown Seattle. The sounds of the urban jungle playing with the pitter-patter of my shoes sloshing through various puddles filled my ears. The aroma of misty dew and homeless people invaded my nostrils. I made my way down two blocks before I took a right at a nearby street that was home to many businesses: most being restaurants and thrift stores. Upon quick inspection, I was able to locate the shop I was looking for: "Teahouse", the teahouse that I was looking for. There it was, right in front of me.
The location was nothing out of the ordinary; a small slab of an establishment squeezed between a Subway to the left and a Bank on the right. If you blinked, you would have missed it. I've been to the Teahouse numerous times on various punk tours. Always enjoyed its atmosphere. Walking in from the front door, I am immediately greeted by colors of aged green wallpaper highlighted by faint striped patterns of yellow. Most of the interior Decor shows origin from the 70s; decorated with plants, paintings and a TV in the far-left corner; right above the tea station. There is a booth on the right side facing the right wall with multiple stools while the left side acts as a walkway for the back of the house along with some additional seating. I know the back hosted more seating and a restroom, but I prefer to stay up in the front due to the TV. Well, more specifically, what usually plays on it.
From previous excursions through Seattle, the Teahouse's TV would show one of the best films of all time; Kung Fu Panda 2. A movie I cannot get enough of. From the story and character development to the music and cinematography, everything about it screams quality. I feel confident in the fact that I'm the penultimate fan of Kung Fu Panda and no one can take the title away from me. As excitement ran its way through my body, expectations were quickly diminished once my eyes took further notice of what was really playing on the old screen. The black sheep of the holy trinity; Kung Fu Panda 3.
With what small hope now slowly fading, I begrudgingly sigh as I take a seat at the booth, catching the attention of the head barista. Looks to be in her 40s; red hair cut short, light makeup around the eyelids and lips a natural flesh tone. Wearing a rose apron over a green V-neck and jeans combo, what the woman wore could best be described as a modern-day Mata from Kronk's New Groove. On her apron is a name tag: Monica. Monica's the one on the floor running the show. From taking orders to brewing leaved concoctions at a constant rate while ensuring the other baristas are doing their jobs, she does it all with an easy-going manner.
As Monica inched ever closer to my booth, my face emitted a soft smile; one of familiarity to the head barista. "Ah, good to see ya, kid. How was your performance?" said Monica in her warm welcoming dark register. "The gig went alright for the most part. James called out Benjamin Harrison again…" I replied with a slight sense of distaste in my mouth Monica caught on to. "Oh, that situation again…probably just a slip of the tongue, you know? Happens all the time. I wouldn't worry about it."
"Yeah, I guess." I replied.
"And besides, if it really bothers you, why not just talk to him about it?"
"Because apparently confrontation isn't punk rock."
"Oh…right. Well, uh, the usual then?
"Hm? Oh, right! Yeah. Thanks."
I hand Monica the money from my wallet. Graciously taking my hard-earned free-lance money, Monica walked back to her stand and began preparation for the tea. With time to kill, I begrudgingly reverted my attention back to the television and the poor excuse of cinema it was projecting. Kung Fu Panda 3...man where to begin...I don't know if I'm in the right state of mind to explain my distaste. But let it be known, it sucks. My eyes began to wonder from the screen to the rest of my surroundings, eventually sharing a quick glimpse of a patron sitting next to me. I exchange a brief nod followed by a slight smile before turning my attention elsewhere.
A smile was already present on the patron's face when our eyes quickly locked. The person appeared to be an older man. Nothing else stood out from the quick glimpse. I think I saw them wearing a hat, could be wrong. What I knew for certain was the old man's eyes were still fixed on me. Feeling pressured by societal convention, my eyes darted back on to the aged man.
Not much to my surprise, but more my discomfort, the man's eyes were locked on me with a plastered grin. I offer a quite casual "hey" to the man, awaiting his response. He remained silent. I began to quiver internally in anticipation. Silence...until the man's smile began to open with an inhale of air. Bug-eyed on the man, he finally exhaled into a conversation.
"I see you're not a big fan of this… film?" said the man. I scoffed at his remark. "That's an understatement, man. There are many layers to that. But I don't know if you want to open up that can of beans with me". The man gave a slight rise of the right hand while his left rested comfortably on the counter, responding with, "I'm in no rush. Besides, perhaps we share similar distaste."
He had an interesting presence to himself, now that I'm getting a good look of the guy. He wore a green benne with a brown tunic under a tan rain jacket. You would think he would take the jacket off because he was inside, but he seems comfortable. I swear, it felt like this guy was radiating chill vibes. Every gesture out of the guy felt like it was done with such ease, no stress present whatsoever. While fascinated by the character sitting beside me, I pulled myself out of my head to remind myself what the old man said. Seeing that I would be waiting for another five or so, I shrugged while mentally preparing myself.
"Well...let's start with what sucked the most; Po. Dude, he was egregiously childish to say the least. Whatever sense of character development and personal growth DreamWorks had for the black and white lad was immediately thrown down the john of an old corporate CEO who can only 'get off' when they ruin my favorite characters. Any lesson of humility and discipline felt gone and what was left was an empty shell of what Po used to stand for."
The old man continued to listen, nodding every now and then to my rant of which I continued. "Po meeting his father for the first time…that was garbage. Like, you take this guy, Po, right? Take him away from his kin due to a genocidal feathered-freak, make him question whether or not he's the only panda left let alone if any of his biological family members are alive, to then show that his mother sacrificed herself for his survival from Shen, which in turn helped him find inner peace and acceptance for what a relationship he has with his adopted father; Mr. Ping. You take all of that powerful character development and the first thing Dreamworks does with Po's first interaction with his biological father is make a gag out of it...like...what the hell?"
Around my last statement, Monica came out with the tea being held within a small, cardboard cup-holder. "Here you go, sweetheart", she said as she handed me the tea. Grabbing the container, I respond, "thank you" while turning attention back to the old man; attention still on me, entranced by my persuasive argument. "And that's just the beginning of it, man. There's so much more that didn't work."
Before I could say anything more, the old man interjected. "Yet it appears the heaviest burden on your soul comes in the form of the panda. How he was not who he once was."
I stared at the man. "How he was not who he once was...sounds sick when you put it that way. But yeah. Po was not Po." I said, achieving another smiled nod from the old man. From the final nod, I readied myself to leave. "Well hey, it was nice talking to you...uh...I didn't get your name."
"Name? To you, I'm just an old man." the old man chuckled with a slight smile. I looked somewhat confused, but I can respect that title. "And you are…" he said, gesturing for a name. I quickly responded, "To you, I'm just a Drummer."
The old man once again made a humming noise while pulling a tea mug up, gesturing to me. "Share a sip before you depart, Drummer. May we see each other again… sooner than later". Pulling my tea from the cupholder, I raise my cup to his mug, clink together our beverages, followed by a quick sip. From there, I gave a wave back to Monica and headed for the door. "Bye old man".
I continued my way back to the Dead Skunk, currently loaded with leaved beverages. Taking the path from before, my mind began to wonder around the last twenty minutes of my life. Why was that old man so keen about not liking Kung Fu Panda 3? I don't blame him; the movie is actual garbage. Yet, he's the first person I've been able to rant my issues with the film without being given looks of judgement. Perhaps he and I are the only one who really see the problems with these stories. My inner thoughts were interrupted by a drop of rain pelting my forehead. One drop followed after another until the streets became the subject of a calm drizzle. The artificial lights of downtown Seattle became more vibrant as they reflected in various puddles upon my journey back to the venue.