(8 A.M. - Friday Morning, Lauren's Townhouse)
"Felice just called," Lauren called upstairs to Robbie, who was in his room. "She wants to know if tonight is still on."
"Yep!" He yelled back.
"Yeah," Lauren said into the phone. "What exactly is tonight?"
"We're going to Chester's. There's this band called Violent Turn playing and Aiden says it has great food. He also knows the lead singer of the band or something like that. It's supposed to be awesome." Felice said as she whipped the pancake batter.
"What time is it?"
"Seven."
"Okay, well, I had better get ready for work. I just woke up. Love you, dahlin."
"Love you, too."
Lauren hung up the phone and put it back on its cradle, then headed up the narrow staircase, to the second floor. She walked into the bathroom and yelled goodbye to Robbie who was heading out to the office.
Still wearing her baggy white and baby blue and pink plaid drawstring pajamas and a loose white shirt, Lauren braced her hands on the 30's-style porcelein sink. She looked up into the oval mirror and at the bright blue eyes staring back at her.
"I want to go back to bed." She said out loud, and then turned to the cabinets that lined the wall and took out her small stereo and some towels. Stripping down, she turned on Placebo and then stepped into the shower stall.
For some reason, she was very excited about tonight.
************************************************************************
(4:14 P.M. - Trent's loft)
Trent sat on his newly acquired couch after he plugged the cables into the amp. Strumming his guitar, he began to play 'Blue American.' (A/N This is by Placebo. He's just prepping himself for the show.)
Trent had written this song in one of his deepest depressions. He had been half drunk, barely awake, and this song had just sprung from his body. He opened his mouth and began to sing.
"I wrote this novel just for you. It sounds pretencious, but it's true.
I wrote this novel just for you, that's why it's vulgar. That's why it's blue.
And I say thank you, I say thank you.
I wrote this novel just for mom, for all the mommy things she's done.
For all the times she showed me wrong,
For all the time she sang God's song.
And I say, thank you mom. Hello, mom. Thank you, mom. Hi, mom."
He strummed his guitar..
"But now ebonics rule our song, those motherfuckers... got it wrong.
And I ask: Who is Uncle Tom? Who is Uncle Tom?
Who is Uncle Tom? You are.
I read a book about the self, said I should get expensive help...
Go fix my head, create some wealth."
Trent was sucked completely into the song, his head moved slowly back in forth, his voice coming out strong. He felt deeply about this song, although it made no sense.
"I don't care for myself, I don't care for myself.. I don't care.
I wrote this novel just for you, I'm so pretencious, yes, it's true.
I wrote this novel just for you, just for you.
Just for you....."
Trent went back and played the opening bars of the song, and then layed the guitar on his lap. He looked at his hands, then. The back of his right one was slightly scarred, but those had faded. He had long, tapered fingers with short, square nails and large palms. The top of his fingers were flat and scarred from bleeding so much from strumming the wires, but no matter how much pain, he didn't feel it while he was playing.
Trent still loved the music. He loved his guitar.
And it was showtime.
************************************************************************
"Felice just called," Lauren called upstairs to Robbie, who was in his room. "She wants to know if tonight is still on."
"Yep!" He yelled back.
"Yeah," Lauren said into the phone. "What exactly is tonight?"
"We're going to Chester's. There's this band called Violent Turn playing and Aiden says it has great food. He also knows the lead singer of the band or something like that. It's supposed to be awesome." Felice said as she whipped the pancake batter.
"What time is it?"
"Seven."
"Okay, well, I had better get ready for work. I just woke up. Love you, dahlin."
"Love you, too."
Lauren hung up the phone and put it back on its cradle, then headed up the narrow staircase, to the second floor. She walked into the bathroom and yelled goodbye to Robbie who was heading out to the office.
Still wearing her baggy white and baby blue and pink plaid drawstring pajamas and a loose white shirt, Lauren braced her hands on the 30's-style porcelein sink. She looked up into the oval mirror and at the bright blue eyes staring back at her.
"I want to go back to bed." She said out loud, and then turned to the cabinets that lined the wall and took out her small stereo and some towels. Stripping down, she turned on Placebo and then stepped into the shower stall.
For some reason, she was very excited about tonight.
************************************************************************
(4:14 P.M. - Trent's loft)
Trent sat on his newly acquired couch after he plugged the cables into the amp. Strumming his guitar, he began to play 'Blue American.' (A/N This is by Placebo. He's just prepping himself for the show.)
Trent had written this song in one of his deepest depressions. He had been half drunk, barely awake, and this song had just sprung from his body. He opened his mouth and began to sing.
"I wrote this novel just for you. It sounds pretencious, but it's true.
I wrote this novel just for you, that's why it's vulgar. That's why it's blue.
And I say thank you, I say thank you.
I wrote this novel just for mom, for all the mommy things she's done.
For all the times she showed me wrong,
For all the time she sang God's song.
And I say, thank you mom. Hello, mom. Thank you, mom. Hi, mom."
He strummed his guitar..
"But now ebonics rule our song, those motherfuckers... got it wrong.
And I ask: Who is Uncle Tom? Who is Uncle Tom?
Who is Uncle Tom? You are.
I read a book about the self, said I should get expensive help...
Go fix my head, create some wealth."
Trent was sucked completely into the song, his head moved slowly back in forth, his voice coming out strong. He felt deeply about this song, although it made no sense.
"I don't care for myself, I don't care for myself.. I don't care.
I wrote this novel just for you, I'm so pretencious, yes, it's true.
I wrote this novel just for you, just for you.
Just for you....."
Trent went back and played the opening bars of the song, and then layed the guitar on his lap. He looked at his hands, then. The back of his right one was slightly scarred, but those had faded. He had long, tapered fingers with short, square nails and large palms. The top of his fingers were flat and scarred from bleeding so much from strumming the wires, but no matter how much pain, he didn't feel it while he was playing.
Trent still loved the music. He loved his guitar.
And it was showtime.
************************************************************************
