{{This story is set in an entirely different universe than Punch Love, but
I still want Eugene to be a cute, emo boy who plays guitar. Something
totally fun and random.}}
{{THE WAVE MECHANICAL}}
{{Mic Check}}
I never thought I'd have my heart shredded to bits before I finished high school, but as long as I can remember my life has been full of surprises.
Bad luck follows me like a black cloud, and I mean that in the metaphorical and literal sense. (I'm convinced it rained deliberately on me for three days once.) But I've learned to deal with it over the years. That's not the only thing I've learned to deal with. Did I mention I'm something of a klutz? And that sentence should be awarded the understatement of the year. It seems wherever I go, something awful is bound to follow right behind like a shadow.
But hey, I'm not bitter.
I suppose you could call me an optimist if I'm still able to look on the bright side of things after everything that's gone wrong in my life. I mean, hell, I was born on Friday the 13th. My life was bound—destined even to be one horrible misadventure after the next. But don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. Despite all the bad, there's a lot of good. Or, well, there was a lot of good.
Allow me to explain how I came to be: a poor sap with nothing left but his guitar as a catalyst for his feelings.
It all started with the Battle of the Bands and a girl named Rhonda Wellington-Lloyde.
"Bring it down to Dropped-D, Eugene," Arnold called from across the dark cellar, lit only by one small lamp placed on a rickety wooden table against the far wall under the one small window that was close the ceiling. The window's placement was the only indicator revealing the fact that the room was indeed underground.
I nodded and began adjusting the top string, matching it was the solid note Arnold struck from his side of the cellar on his own guitar. I grinned as we strummed in unison, the notes sounding exactly the same.
"Are you guys gonna keep tunin' all day or are we actually gonna get around to playin'?" Stinky asked from behind his drum set, sounding exasperated. He drummed a careless beat upon them, his posture and his face suggesting the onslaught of boredom.
"Chill out, Stinky," I reasoned, already finished tuning. I strummed the guitar as a whole, listening to the beautiful melody it created, a unique sound that my ears never tired of. "You can't expect great music to be produced in under an hour, and that's about how long we've been here..." I continued strumming, experimenting with a few chords. Arnold did the same.
Sid was over in the corner, lounging on a dilapidated recliner and cradling his bass in his lap. He strummed away, nonplussed by the rest of our constant bickering—which was nothing new to anyone. His eyes were half- closed as though he was off in another world. He too was strumming away, trying out new sounds.
Somehow, the four of us had come together to form our interpretation of a band. I played lead guitar, Arnold was backup, and Stinky was on drums while Sid played bass. We'd been practicing everyday for the past two weeks hoping to come up with a solid sound that perfectly represented all of us. So far, no luck. But I'd never been good with luck anyway, so that was nothing new either.
The place where band practice was held happened to be Arnold's cellar under the boarding house. It was a perfect place really. Spacious enough to accommodate four teenage boys, out of the way, and underground so we could be as loud as we wanted and not worry about bothering anyone. And we didn't have to worry about anyone bothering us either. The cellar had been pretty bare when we first decided to use it, but we've spruced the place up a little—made it more suitable for practicing, or even just chilling in. It actually became something of a hangout after awhile. Posters where taped all over the bland cement walls. The old recliner and a beat-up sofa were dragged down there (compliments of the thrift store a few blocks away). All of our equipment was down there, and a little mini fridge to keep drinks in.
It was a pretty sweet setup. The ideal place to practice and practice and practice until we were perfect. Until we were certain we could win the Battle of the Bands.
"Come one! Let's play somethin' already!" Stinky persisted, pounding more impatiently upon his drums. "I'm tired of sittin' around and doin' nothin'."
The big guy had a point.
I was about to agree with him. I even stood up and started making my way over to the mic, my guitar in hand, but something happened—as something always inevitably does. The mic chord somehow or another got itself wound around my boot. Before I knew it, I was kissing my balance goodbye.
If it hadn't been for Arnold's lightening-fast reflexes, me and my black Fender Stratocaster would have been severely wounded. He caught me by the sleeve of my jean jacket, restoring my balance once again and giving one of those easy grins of his.
"We're literally going to tear this place up with you around, Eugene," Arnold joke, his guitar hanging by the strap around his shoulder. He grabbed it with both hands now and looked at me. "You ready to try something or what?" Hooked up to the amps, mine and Arnold's guitars sounded killer together. Add in Sid's bass and Stinky's drumbeat and we had a pretty decent sound, but there was just something that wasn't right about it. Something that had to be fixed, and as of now none of knew what that secret ingredient was or might be.
Sid stood up now, taking his position among the band while I carefully stepped up to the mic, trying my hardest to avoid in rogue cords or cables that might suddenly jump out at me.
Now I was cradling my own beauty. My Fender. A fine piece of work that had taken me two years to save up for working at the coffee bar called Jolt that I'm still employed at today. I ran my fingers down the familiar neck of my guitar, my mouth so close to the mic it was almost touching.
I had lyrics.
I just didn't know if I wanted to sing them in front of the guys. I knew I'd get hassled for it big time if I did sing my stuff, but if I didn't I knew I would be wasting good, quality lyrics and the Battle of the Bands was just around the corner, and us without a song to our name's.
Stinky was about to start up a drum beat, tapping the cymbal to count off, but I cut him short.
Sid sighed loudly, plucking his bass in annoyance. "What now, Eugene? Are we going to practice anytime this century?" He gazed over at me sullenly, the new addition to his face (a lip ring) giving it a whole new dimension of immaturity, something Sid had plenty of already.
"Stuff it," I spat back, glowering at him. We weren't seriously mad. All of us were just slightly tweaked that we hadn't gotten any real work done yet. I normally wasn't in this sort of mood, me being the optimist that I am, but when creativity is being stifled, it's a whole 'nother ballgame.
"Come on, dudes," Arnold jumped in just in time, stopping what would have been a huge bitch fight between me and Sid. They occurred almost every band practice. Luckily, my mood wasn't nearly sour enough to argue with Arnold, who had always been the martyr of good intentions. "Eugene, what did you wanna say?"
"What I wanted to say," I said, absently rubbing the back of my head—a nervous habit I have—and probably thoroughly messing my hair. And when your hair is already wavy and red, it's comical enough without a nervous habit adding to its hilarity. "What I wanted to say is that we've been practicing for two weeks and we still don't have a band name."
Sid raised an eyebrow as though the idea had just dawned on him—and it probably had. "You're right," he agreed, something that surprised me enough. Sid and I don't usually agree. "Guess all the hype about the competition and getting together an act made us forget about that crucial detail, huh?" He chuckled at that, and that alone lightened the mood in the cellar considerably.
"Well, we can't very well go onstage without a name," Stinky said in a matter-of-fact tone as though none of us yet realized that.
"Right, a name. So what's it gonna be?" Arnold asked, taking off his guitar and setting it on it's special stand next to one of the amps. Apparently, this was the latest business for the band instead of actually practicing.
I shrugged. "Nothing generic. It's gotta be really cool."
Arnold cracked an evil grin. "How about the Mauve Avengers?" he joked and everyone in the cellar cracked up laughing, including me.
"Dude, that was years ago!"
"It was still your idea!"
"Nah...nah..." Sid said, trying to catch his breath, but still doubled over holding his sides from laughing so hard. "It's gotta be something authentic, but with an edge..." Sid glanced around the cellar, apparently looking for inspiration where there wasn't any. "How about...the Cellar Dwellers?"
"OK, I know lame, and that's lame," Stinky told Sid was frankness that only Stinky could possess.
"You think of a better idea," Sid spat, falling back onto the recliner, but Stinky just shrugged.
"Something with an edge..." Arnold mused aloud, pacing around the small confines of the cellar. He opened up the small mini fridge that resided on the wood table next to the dim lamp, grabbing out a soda before continuing his pacing. I followed him with my eyes, wondering what exactly was going on in that football-shaped head of his. "Well, I mean, look at all this stuff," Arnold started, gesturing around at all their equipment and instruments. "This is hi-tech stuff if you think about it. It's machinery...mechanical shit—wait," Arnold stopped short. "Machanical..."
"Ooo...edgy word," Sid piped up sarcastically from the recliner, but it seemed Arnold was onto something.
He smiled again and suddenly looked over at me. I raised an eyebrow.
"What?"
"Well, Mr. Lead Singer," Arnold said, "We've got the word Mechanical and now I only need one more piece of information."
I admit I was a little scared as to where Arnold could possibly be going with this. Sometimes, that dude is so creative it's just plain creepy. But I went along with it. What other choice did I have? "And what piece of information would that be?"
"What was that one horrible nickname that everyone called you in seventh grade?"
Oh, no.
The cellar erupted in laughter again. Sid actually laughed so hard that he almost had an asthma attack. I just felt like the butt of a giant joke.
When the laughter had subsided, my angry was about ready to boil over, but I decided to answer Arnold's little question. "The Wave, OK? Everyone in seventh grade called me the Wave because of my hair! Happy?" Truth be told, my hair did do this horrible wavy thing in seventh grade that earned me that heinous nickname that didn't stop until I took up playing the guitar and growing my hair out a little. Plus, straightening tonic is one of my best friends.
"There you go."
I gave Arnold an incredulous look, no longer sure whether I should be angry or confused. "What the hell do you mean, 'There you go'? All we got is The Wave and Mechanical. How does that make an awesome band name, Arnold? Please, enlighten me."
"The Wave Mechanical," Stinky said suddenly, and even with Stinky's horrible accent, the name sounded, well, excellent.
"Edgy," Sid added with no hint of sarcasm in his voice for once.
"The Wave Mechanical," Arnold repeated. "Completely cool and totally authentic. How about it, Eugene?"
I nodded slowly. Honestly, I couldn't complain. Even with my awful old nickname being half of the new band name, it still sounded totally awesome. "The Wave Mechanical it is then," I said finally, cracking a grin.
"Now can we play a bloody song already?" Sid asked pleadingly.
Arnold quickly grabbed his guitar. I grabbed mine, stepping up to the mic without any more mishaps. The sound system was on. I could hear the slight feedback ringing in my ears; the sound was so familiar, nothing but white noise these days.
"OK," I said into the mic, surprised for about a half second at hearing my own voice. It was something that every singer had to get used to for the first time, every time. "This song was written by me, Eugene, about three months ago. It's entitled..." I paused, ready to sing something straight from my heart, "...Rhonda."
At the exact same moment, Arnold, Stinky, and Sid both let out a huge groan.
{{Silly, silly boys. I think I'm going to have a lot of fun with this one. Review and tell me what you think about the idea. I'd like to credit King Cheetah for the whole Battle of the Bands idea. Thanks. :D }}
{{THE WAVE MECHANICAL}}
{{Mic Check}}
I never thought I'd have my heart shredded to bits before I finished high school, but as long as I can remember my life has been full of surprises.
Bad luck follows me like a black cloud, and I mean that in the metaphorical and literal sense. (I'm convinced it rained deliberately on me for three days once.) But I've learned to deal with it over the years. That's not the only thing I've learned to deal with. Did I mention I'm something of a klutz? And that sentence should be awarded the understatement of the year. It seems wherever I go, something awful is bound to follow right behind like a shadow.
But hey, I'm not bitter.
I suppose you could call me an optimist if I'm still able to look on the bright side of things after everything that's gone wrong in my life. I mean, hell, I was born on Friday the 13th. My life was bound—destined even to be one horrible misadventure after the next. But don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. Despite all the bad, there's a lot of good. Or, well, there was a lot of good.
Allow me to explain how I came to be: a poor sap with nothing left but his guitar as a catalyst for his feelings.
It all started with the Battle of the Bands and a girl named Rhonda Wellington-Lloyde.
"Bring it down to Dropped-D, Eugene," Arnold called from across the dark cellar, lit only by one small lamp placed on a rickety wooden table against the far wall under the one small window that was close the ceiling. The window's placement was the only indicator revealing the fact that the room was indeed underground.
I nodded and began adjusting the top string, matching it was the solid note Arnold struck from his side of the cellar on his own guitar. I grinned as we strummed in unison, the notes sounding exactly the same.
"Are you guys gonna keep tunin' all day or are we actually gonna get around to playin'?" Stinky asked from behind his drum set, sounding exasperated. He drummed a careless beat upon them, his posture and his face suggesting the onslaught of boredom.
"Chill out, Stinky," I reasoned, already finished tuning. I strummed the guitar as a whole, listening to the beautiful melody it created, a unique sound that my ears never tired of. "You can't expect great music to be produced in under an hour, and that's about how long we've been here..." I continued strumming, experimenting with a few chords. Arnold did the same.
Sid was over in the corner, lounging on a dilapidated recliner and cradling his bass in his lap. He strummed away, nonplussed by the rest of our constant bickering—which was nothing new to anyone. His eyes were half- closed as though he was off in another world. He too was strumming away, trying out new sounds.
Somehow, the four of us had come together to form our interpretation of a band. I played lead guitar, Arnold was backup, and Stinky was on drums while Sid played bass. We'd been practicing everyday for the past two weeks hoping to come up with a solid sound that perfectly represented all of us. So far, no luck. But I'd never been good with luck anyway, so that was nothing new either.
The place where band practice was held happened to be Arnold's cellar under the boarding house. It was a perfect place really. Spacious enough to accommodate four teenage boys, out of the way, and underground so we could be as loud as we wanted and not worry about bothering anyone. And we didn't have to worry about anyone bothering us either. The cellar had been pretty bare when we first decided to use it, but we've spruced the place up a little—made it more suitable for practicing, or even just chilling in. It actually became something of a hangout after awhile. Posters where taped all over the bland cement walls. The old recliner and a beat-up sofa were dragged down there (compliments of the thrift store a few blocks away). All of our equipment was down there, and a little mini fridge to keep drinks in.
It was a pretty sweet setup. The ideal place to practice and practice and practice until we were perfect. Until we were certain we could win the Battle of the Bands.
"Come one! Let's play somethin' already!" Stinky persisted, pounding more impatiently upon his drums. "I'm tired of sittin' around and doin' nothin'."
The big guy had a point.
I was about to agree with him. I even stood up and started making my way over to the mic, my guitar in hand, but something happened—as something always inevitably does. The mic chord somehow or another got itself wound around my boot. Before I knew it, I was kissing my balance goodbye.
If it hadn't been for Arnold's lightening-fast reflexes, me and my black Fender Stratocaster would have been severely wounded. He caught me by the sleeve of my jean jacket, restoring my balance once again and giving one of those easy grins of his.
"We're literally going to tear this place up with you around, Eugene," Arnold joke, his guitar hanging by the strap around his shoulder. He grabbed it with both hands now and looked at me. "You ready to try something or what?" Hooked up to the amps, mine and Arnold's guitars sounded killer together. Add in Sid's bass and Stinky's drumbeat and we had a pretty decent sound, but there was just something that wasn't right about it. Something that had to be fixed, and as of now none of knew what that secret ingredient was or might be.
Sid stood up now, taking his position among the band while I carefully stepped up to the mic, trying my hardest to avoid in rogue cords or cables that might suddenly jump out at me.
Now I was cradling my own beauty. My Fender. A fine piece of work that had taken me two years to save up for working at the coffee bar called Jolt that I'm still employed at today. I ran my fingers down the familiar neck of my guitar, my mouth so close to the mic it was almost touching.
I had lyrics.
I just didn't know if I wanted to sing them in front of the guys. I knew I'd get hassled for it big time if I did sing my stuff, but if I didn't I knew I would be wasting good, quality lyrics and the Battle of the Bands was just around the corner, and us without a song to our name's.
Stinky was about to start up a drum beat, tapping the cymbal to count off, but I cut him short.
Sid sighed loudly, plucking his bass in annoyance. "What now, Eugene? Are we going to practice anytime this century?" He gazed over at me sullenly, the new addition to his face (a lip ring) giving it a whole new dimension of immaturity, something Sid had plenty of already.
"Stuff it," I spat back, glowering at him. We weren't seriously mad. All of us were just slightly tweaked that we hadn't gotten any real work done yet. I normally wasn't in this sort of mood, me being the optimist that I am, but when creativity is being stifled, it's a whole 'nother ballgame.
"Come on, dudes," Arnold jumped in just in time, stopping what would have been a huge bitch fight between me and Sid. They occurred almost every band practice. Luckily, my mood wasn't nearly sour enough to argue with Arnold, who had always been the martyr of good intentions. "Eugene, what did you wanna say?"
"What I wanted to say," I said, absently rubbing the back of my head—a nervous habit I have—and probably thoroughly messing my hair. And when your hair is already wavy and red, it's comical enough without a nervous habit adding to its hilarity. "What I wanted to say is that we've been practicing for two weeks and we still don't have a band name."
Sid raised an eyebrow as though the idea had just dawned on him—and it probably had. "You're right," he agreed, something that surprised me enough. Sid and I don't usually agree. "Guess all the hype about the competition and getting together an act made us forget about that crucial detail, huh?" He chuckled at that, and that alone lightened the mood in the cellar considerably.
"Well, we can't very well go onstage without a name," Stinky said in a matter-of-fact tone as though none of us yet realized that.
"Right, a name. So what's it gonna be?" Arnold asked, taking off his guitar and setting it on it's special stand next to one of the amps. Apparently, this was the latest business for the band instead of actually practicing.
I shrugged. "Nothing generic. It's gotta be really cool."
Arnold cracked an evil grin. "How about the Mauve Avengers?" he joked and everyone in the cellar cracked up laughing, including me.
"Dude, that was years ago!"
"It was still your idea!"
"Nah...nah..." Sid said, trying to catch his breath, but still doubled over holding his sides from laughing so hard. "It's gotta be something authentic, but with an edge..." Sid glanced around the cellar, apparently looking for inspiration where there wasn't any. "How about...the Cellar Dwellers?"
"OK, I know lame, and that's lame," Stinky told Sid was frankness that only Stinky could possess.
"You think of a better idea," Sid spat, falling back onto the recliner, but Stinky just shrugged.
"Something with an edge..." Arnold mused aloud, pacing around the small confines of the cellar. He opened up the small mini fridge that resided on the wood table next to the dim lamp, grabbing out a soda before continuing his pacing. I followed him with my eyes, wondering what exactly was going on in that football-shaped head of his. "Well, I mean, look at all this stuff," Arnold started, gesturing around at all their equipment and instruments. "This is hi-tech stuff if you think about it. It's machinery...mechanical shit—wait," Arnold stopped short. "Machanical..."
"Ooo...edgy word," Sid piped up sarcastically from the recliner, but it seemed Arnold was onto something.
He smiled again and suddenly looked over at me. I raised an eyebrow.
"What?"
"Well, Mr. Lead Singer," Arnold said, "We've got the word Mechanical and now I only need one more piece of information."
I admit I was a little scared as to where Arnold could possibly be going with this. Sometimes, that dude is so creative it's just plain creepy. But I went along with it. What other choice did I have? "And what piece of information would that be?"
"What was that one horrible nickname that everyone called you in seventh grade?"
Oh, no.
The cellar erupted in laughter again. Sid actually laughed so hard that he almost had an asthma attack. I just felt like the butt of a giant joke.
When the laughter had subsided, my angry was about ready to boil over, but I decided to answer Arnold's little question. "The Wave, OK? Everyone in seventh grade called me the Wave because of my hair! Happy?" Truth be told, my hair did do this horrible wavy thing in seventh grade that earned me that heinous nickname that didn't stop until I took up playing the guitar and growing my hair out a little. Plus, straightening tonic is one of my best friends.
"There you go."
I gave Arnold an incredulous look, no longer sure whether I should be angry or confused. "What the hell do you mean, 'There you go'? All we got is The Wave and Mechanical. How does that make an awesome band name, Arnold? Please, enlighten me."
"The Wave Mechanical," Stinky said suddenly, and even with Stinky's horrible accent, the name sounded, well, excellent.
"Edgy," Sid added with no hint of sarcasm in his voice for once.
"The Wave Mechanical," Arnold repeated. "Completely cool and totally authentic. How about it, Eugene?"
I nodded slowly. Honestly, I couldn't complain. Even with my awful old nickname being half of the new band name, it still sounded totally awesome. "The Wave Mechanical it is then," I said finally, cracking a grin.
"Now can we play a bloody song already?" Sid asked pleadingly.
Arnold quickly grabbed his guitar. I grabbed mine, stepping up to the mic without any more mishaps. The sound system was on. I could hear the slight feedback ringing in my ears; the sound was so familiar, nothing but white noise these days.
"OK," I said into the mic, surprised for about a half second at hearing my own voice. It was something that every singer had to get used to for the first time, every time. "This song was written by me, Eugene, about three months ago. It's entitled..." I paused, ready to sing something straight from my heart, "...Rhonda."
At the exact same moment, Arnold, Stinky, and Sid both let out a huge groan.
{{Silly, silly boys. I think I'm going to have a lot of fun with this one. Review and tell me what you think about the idea. I'd like to credit King Cheetah for the whole Battle of the Bands idea. Thanks. :D }}