A/N: I actually wrote this little number a very long time ago. Strangely enough, I believe that this may be one of the best things I've ever written. Why I've finally decided to share it now, I couldn't tell you. Maybe it's just seeing that first episode of FLCL once again tonight (I must have seen every episode at least five times, maybe even more). Either way, I give to you, one of the best things I think I've ever written. Let's hope nothing blows up, and nothing comes out of our foreheads.
A/H: OHHH, one thing I forgot to mention. As much as I wish it were mine….don't own the characters or the episodes or any part of the insanely beautiful known as FLCL (or Fooly Cooly, or Furi Kuri, as you please'm). I do own the lyrics to the one original song, which I have dubbed "The Young Boy Next Door", and an original character named Mike, which was inspired by a couple guitar store clerks I've met before, and original character named Lieutenant Beale, which for some reason, is kind of inspired by an AUish sort of Amarou. Kinda like what I could see Amarou like if he had grown up for real; if he hadn't been such a poor, pitiable, immature man. I dunno why people hate Amarou so much, because, seriously,I feel bad for them man….sigh anyway….he's original too.
His Own Song
The sun rose over the dull, unshining, ordinary waters of that easy, slow moving river. It was a peaceful morning, the very kind that was the norm around this place. A figure, barely visible sitting under the bridge, back to the rising sun, watched the waters, sluggish and low, slowly catching the light, and sighed.
Nothing every happened around this place. Nothing before she came, and nothing after she left.
He'd come down here this morning, waking up at an insane hour, lugging his bulky guitar down the road to this place where he'd spent so many careless hours just to see if the sun looked the same from down here. Maybe, just maybe today, the spirit of the Pirate King, awaked by a blinding light of inspiration, would possess the now silent instrument with a divine rhythm all his own. He could almost hear it: blaring notes filling his empty head, a magic alchemy of beautiful, chaotic chords filling his empty chest. He would be blessed a divine madness of teenage dreams, a sacred vision of Gods untold and lands yet unseen.
But no. The sun looked the same today as it had every day for two years now, after he'd been flung headlong out of childhood's naïve paradise, watching a neon-haired wild child ride erratically out of his life forever. The telltale guitar, the last remaining memento of those long ago months spent in a mad daze, could remember the legends of it's forefathers: Hendrix, Stones, Zeppelin, Skynyrd, Santana, Floyd, The Who: on and on. These were the Gods of the bright spirit of the Eternal Rift, all worshiped in a search for some unnamable inner light that would bring him truly to life. Ever since that first lonely summer when it all fell to pieces, he'd searched with all his might, and yet all it ever seemed to sing was of its loneliness, its longing for its hyperactive mother than had disappeared as suddenly as she'd come.
TWAY-AY-ANG! Naota felt a small grin come over his face as he watched a flock of black river birds, startled by his sudden exclamation of rebellious passion, rose, panicking, as the beautiful sound reverberated through the serene air. After all this time, he still didn't get it: why a guitar? It seemed a rather strange weapon, even for her. Then again, was there anything about her that hadn't been strange? He laughed inside. Haruko, not strange? It was blasphemy, utter blasphemy. Haruko couldn't have been not strange if her life depended on it.
He sighed, looking down into the dull water, his wobbling reflection looking backward at him, staring up to the sky in longing. Maybe he'd come down here because he wanted to be strange again too. The reflection had changed over the two years: form starting to fill a little bit, growth spurt of maybe five inches, a little more sophisticated without the hoody and a little longer hair, but in the end, the same Naota. It would be good to be strange again.
It wasn't easy, spending an entire lazy summer left prey once again to this nothing little town. He hadn't known it then, but his new friends had only hung out with him because of Haruko. When she was gone, so were the friends. So all through the summer, day in and day out, he'd spend his time wandering around town, wondering what to do with himself. He'd learned the guitar that summer, and now he was glad he did. It would be the only thing to carry him through that last year of middle school. After all that time, it seemed as though he'd had nothing they wanted after all. He still couldn't figure out what people had liked about him before, but he certainly didn't seem to have it then. The next summer, if it was even possible, had seemed even lonelier. He'd had faith that high school might breathe new life into him, that he would find a new spot for himself in that little universe that he couldn't find outside of it. But even if most people had forgotten all about those twelve-year-old days, he had not.
In one sense, it'd been his own fault. Being with Haruko, even for those few short months, had changed him. Now, whenever, he looked around, he just couldn't see the same way he had before. Once, Mabase had been home, and these people his neighbors and friends. But there was something . . . something . . . he couldn't quite explain it well enough. Carrying his guitar on his back through the halls, like some kind of wandering minstrel of the days of yore . . . at first, they liked to hear him play those songs they heard on the radio. And for a small time, he liked playing those songs for them. It was good to have people listen and like him again. But it didn't take him long until he started to realize that every note he played for them was hollow…fake. There was no emotion in them, no passion, no power…not like how she played. There were better things he wanted to play, for himself. And then beyond that, there were even greater things, magical things; notes that moved and shook, that made earthquakes, tsunamis . . . but he didn't know how to play them. He had stopped playing those silly songs for them. He had never learned to play for their benefit, anyway. And though there were still some that came to hear him, slowly, they had dwindled away, bit by bit, until one day, there was no one left at all. From that time on, he had again been left to his devices, plucking strings idly, strumming pieces of his own teenage musings, of all the watered-down things this town was, of everything he could think of. But at the end of the day, all he had to show for himself were scattered little chords, a few scribbled lines that he always ended up discarding. Reading over them, he would sometimes try to figure out what was wrong with them. But it somehow just wasn't right. Of course, he kept on trying. Somewhere, somewhere, he knew it was in him: something amazing, something like she'd had. Mamimi had once spoke of this thing…it just had to be there somewhere. All he had to do was just find some way to find it.
But he hadn't found it yet.
And now, just a few weeks after school had let out yet again, he was still wondering what he was supposed to be doing with himself. This had been a boring place before, but at least back then, he'd had some friends. Back before his brother had left for college, and before his dad had gotten more involved with work. He didn't really like his dad all that much, but at least it would have been someone. Gramps had gone back to what would probably end up being a futile attempt to revive business in the bakery. Heck, even Mamimi, the girl that used to sit in this very spot every afternoon to dream of fairy tales and play fire starters had graduated and been accepted at Tokyo U. Gone to study photography, she'd write soon, she said before she left. See ya, Naota.
He hadn't said "See ya, Mamimi," back at her, not even when the bus had pulled out of sight.
Everyone seemed to be moving on, growing up, as if it hadn't mattered anyway. The only person who really stayed the same was Canti, and . . . well . . . in the most practical terms, Canti WAS just a robot. And thus, Naota, sitting under a bridge, still wondering what the hell had happened around here.
It was as if she had never even existed. Kamon hardly ever spoke of her anymore, save in passing, having a new girlfriend now, a pretty young independent magazine editor that he'd met through his work and now saw several times a week after work. In the end, the real story was that his dad didn't want to get old. Just a new sex toy for him. It probably wouldn't last much longer. Naota had tried his hand at romance a few times in the last year, but nothing had really come of it, just the same childish business they had carried on with before, no commitment at all.
Hey, but that didn't stop a guy from dreaming, right? And what good dreams they were. Dreams, mingling in juicy, splooshy teenage goodness, only to suddenly awaken to the ear-splitting sound of an alarm clock and realize it was time to change the sheets again. It happened once in a while, no big deal. But then there were those nightmares, too, sometimes incomprehensibly mixed in with a good dream, that little white patch of skin just above his brow swelling to incredible size, just waiting for some weird, unbelievable object to come somehow morphing through his skull and into some strange kind of existence. How often he would wake with a start, race to the bathroom at breakneck speed not even excused by the most extremely strained bladder, blast on the blinding light, and stand staring in absolute terror at the face he was sure would soon be sprouting some horrible device of utter chaos. Or even worse, the cat ears coming out of his head again. Of everything that through those long gone chaotic months had come out of his mysteriously empty head, the cat ears were by far the worst.
It never happened. Nothing ever happened in Mabase. He should have learned that by now, he guessed.
The sun had begun to rise into the sky now. By now, they would have eaten all the breakfast, forgotten all about another person in the house, and he would have to fend for himself yet again. All of Canti's cooking was wasted on that guy. There was no use going back for it now. He may as well just start walking again. Every day the same; the quest for that one amazing, soul-riveting, one-of-a-kind tune that would change everything once and for all.
Like that existed or something. Naota laughed, slung the guitar across his back again, and started to climb back up onto the bridge to head back towards the greater Mabase, the town where nothing ever happened.
- - - - -
Noonday had rolled around, and it still wasn't very hot. It never got that hot in Mabase. Nor did it ever get cold. It was always that same comfy temperature year round, the sort of seventy to seventy five Fahrenheit that seemed just right and nobody could complain about. Naota smiled despite himself. Even the main street in Mabase hadn't changed all that much. He'd heard that in other towns, businesses came and went, but around here, they just stayed, whether they were successful or not. Not too many new ones came here. There was just no reason to.
But that wasn't always quite the same.
A guitar store, right there in the middle of town, had rolled in about five months ago. Not a music store that carried guitars; there was already a few of those. None of them had real guitars. No, this was a guitar store, and though he'd never really been inside, he'd always felt a connection to the place, paying it extra attention when he'd walked by. The owner; a tall, lank twenty-something-year-old looking beatnik type guy with long, stringy black hair and shirts with bands he'd never heard of, had waved to him a few times, and he'd waved back. He was probably one of the only people in town with a guitar.
Well, no time like the present . . .
Unlike most of the other shops in town, there was no merry jingle to announce his presence. The dim, dusty looking place looked as though it hadn't seen a vacuum in a long stretch, and as if it hadn't seen much daylight either. All over, amps spread out, looking all too well like they had made for makeshift chairs. Wires, strung out in massive webs of tangled labyrinths, just waiting for someone to trip to their doom. Ancient instruments, guitars mostly, who looked as though they hadn't sung a note in years, hung like gargoyles on the wall.
The wall . . . there was an idea. He took his own instrument down off his back, made a few tuning adjustments, and then, with the mystical prayer to Floyd, God of psychedelica, began to sing the praises in a hushed voice . . .
'I don't need no walls around me
And I don't need no drugs to calm me
I can see the writing on the wall
Don't think I need anything at all' (1)
"NO!" a voice sang out suddenly, falling in tune perfectly, "Don't think I need anything at all!" Naota stopped with a start, whirling around just in time to see the owner emerging from a set of hidden stairs; probably a basement, seeing that he was carrying a box of old plugs. He smiled a strange, wry-looking grin, cigarette hanging askew out of one corner of his mouth. "Good to finally meet ya, kid." (2)
Naota breathed a sigh of relief. "Man, you scared me."
A clever, somewhat caustic, yet still good-natured laugh emitted from the thin man's chest. "Scared you?" he asked, his eyes glittering behind a pair of sunglasses as he practically dropped the box down on the floor. "And you don't think a random person walking into your store and suddenly starting playing is a little scary too?
He could suddenly feel a blush of embarrassment come over his face. Now that he thought of it, it had been kind of rude, just walking in here without calling out or anything. The kinda thing that Haruko might have done. "Sorry," he muttered lowly, looking at his feet "I . . . I didn't mean to-"
"Hey, hey!" the stranger suddenly clapped him hard on the shoulder. "No harm, no foul, right? Actually, I was kinda relieved. Gets too quiet around this damn place. I was just wondering when you'd finally come in and see me."
"Hnh," Naota grinned. "So you have noticed me."
"How couldn't I have?" the stranger sat down on one of the older amps, busily reattaching the plugs to one another. "Maybe I'm observant, or maybe I'm just nosey, but you're like the only real kid in this friggin' town. At least that I've seen, that is."
"Thanks . . ."
Not a bad silence, but just a silence passed, somewhat awkward, but not uncomfortably so. Naota stared up at the ancient machines on the walls and their price tags, priced far lower than their real worth, and frowned. These things, these beautiful machines were bound to a fate of basements, attics, and closets, of being hung on den walls, of the hands of kids who didn't give a damn about anything except looking cool and getting the girls, of under-appreciation in high school band rooms, of a million unjust, twisted tragedies until they finally found their deaths in decay. It almost made him feel like crying, if boys cried. Thankfully, the owner caught up the conversation before that cloud of melancholia had a chance to roll in again.
"So, you have a name or somethin', or I just call you kid?" he asked, trying to fit a particularly obstinate plug onto the end of its frayed wire.
"Naota," he sighed heavily, setting the guitar down by his side on the floor, where he had inevitably come to sit. "Just Naota."
"Naota, eh?" the owner pondered for a second, touching one long, thin knobby finger to his temple, as if pondering it. "Naota . . . not a bad name, I'd say. Better than Mike, that's for sure."
"Mike?" he asked in confusion. "Mike? That's your name?"
"I'm an American," Mike explained with a wave of his hand.
Naota stared in disbelief. It just didn't make sense. Not only was this someone who had not come from Mabase, come from outside it's seemingly impenetrable city borders, but had actually come from a world away, from America. America . . . you might as well have said you were from Mars. He hated to admit it, but the only thing Naota knew about America was that they dropped a bomb on Japan in the war, and now they were friends and did all kinds of trade.
"Jeez, I didn't think it was that incredible," he chuckled, noticing the look on his face. Quickly, Naota tried to wipe the look of amazement off his face, only to be replaced by yet another blush. Out of instinct, he tried to look down again, hiding it.
Mike clicked his tongue. "You Japanese," he shook his head as he took a roll of duct tape to mend a splitting wire.
Naota looked over at him, curious. "What do you mean?"
"You know, the whole face saving thing," a few sparks flew out as he tried one in at a socket. He cursed and continued, flicking the faulty plug back into the box. "I mean, sure, everybody does it, but you Japanese take the cake."
Sigh. "Everybody has ways to keep themselves from getting hurt . . . or at least, most people do . . . I guess . . ." Naota hung his head. "Wish I could do that a little better."
"So now we get to the bottom of things, eh?" Mike turned toward him, a fresh cigarette now dangling from his mouth, lighter in hand as the red tip grew a tail of smoke. "I knew there was something up with you."
"I don't understand what you mean," Naota said indignantly. "Why don't you just say what you think you see?"
"I'm indirect yet direct in nature. Don't change the subject," he scolded almost parentally. "You came here for a reason more than just wandering in, didn't you, Naota?" he said with the grin like a wise sage.
"Maybe," Naota admitted. "Probably."
"Hate to burst your bubble, kid," Mike patted him on the shoulder, "but nobody sighs that many times unless he has something on his mind."
"I thought you said you weren't gonna call me kid."
"Term of friendliness. Get over it. Unless you like Nao-kun better, I guess."
Naota looked around back at Mike, stunned. "What did you just call me?"
Mike shrugged, confused. "I said Nao-kun. What'sa matter?"
Nao-kun. Yes, he should have been called that, if everybody hadn't been so busy calling him by a wrong name.
Naota smiled, remembering. "Nobody ever called me that. They always used to confuse me with my brother and call me-" He stopped mid-sentence, and looked down again . . . "Ta-kun."
Ta-kun. That's what everybody had called him back then. Dad, Mamimi, Eri . . . and Haruko. She even named her cat Ta-kun after him.
Ta-kun, Ta-kun; that's what he had answered to for those past crazy months. She loved bugging him about it, repeating it over and over again, just to piss him off. Sometimes, it had seemed like she was doing it out of spite, like she was angry at him, or just liked to see his face twitch ever so slightly whenever she called out to him in that blaring voice of hers ("TAAAAA-KUUUUUUN!"). She'd gotten other people to call him that, too, like it was some kind of big joke on him that he just couldn't beat. It made him so mad sometimes. But there were other times when he could have sworn that sparkly look in her eyes when she would call it out was telltale of endearment.
Ta-kun. That's what she'd used to call him.
"Is this the same thing we got snarled up with before?" Mike asked perceptively, finally pushing the box away for later.
"Yeah," he admitted yet again. "But I'd just rather not talk, okay? I'd just rather forget it."
This silence, now, was the awkward one. Naota stared at the ceiling, hardly visible under the dim lights, covered in cobwebs that seemed to have grown there; so natural they seemed, a fitting little canopy for the place. It was like a crypt, bound to be the death of these machines, and yet, at the same time, a fitting resting place for those doomed to eternal un-appreciation. But after all the ignorant came and left, there would always be a few that would watch in horror as the entire tragedy occurred and yet could do nothing about it. It was being forced to be a bystander when the irony was that you were only one who could see it. That's why he had come in here; because of the little everyday tragedies that nobody seemed to see. He had to prove that it wasn't just him, that there really was somebody else in the world who thought that Mabase killed people inside without them even knowing it. He had to prove that somewhere, there was a place that wasn't Mabase, that there was another world out beyond that giant ruined hand that was once Medical Mechanica, that there was a road that led outside the misty fog that sometimes seemed to surround them, block them off from the world . . . that there was something else.
"You seen her, haven't you?" Mike suddenly interrupted his thoughts.
"Hmm?" Naota asked, coming slowly out of his daze.
"The muse. You've seen her."
"Muse? What muse?"
"Ahh," Mike sighed idly, "I know it when I see it, Nao-kun, so don't lie to me. You've seen the muse; the angel of our ancient spirit, Goddess of the rift, celestial maiden that we have longed would return. You've seen her, drifting from the sky, touching all with her amazing light of musical alchemy. You've seen her . . . and you're in love with her."
Naota blinked, unaware of what to say. What was going on here? How did he know about her? This was serious. Did this mean that Haruko had met others, perhaps even bonded with them? What if the news got a hold of it? Oh, man . . .
"Just a fairy tale, kid," Mike said at last, laughing heartily, half-coughing through his cigarette. "A joke."
With a sigh of relief, Naota sank to the floor, cuddling his guitar to his side in thanks. Thank God. Thank God, thank God. Slowly, after trying to get past a soft fit of laughter that obviously he couldn't let loose, lest his secret revealed, he got to his feet, slung his guitar back over his back.
"Good joke, ain't it?" Mike asked, oblivious to the real reason he had begun to convulse with laughter.
"Yeah, it is," Naota said as he dusted himself off, grinning slightly. "You'll have to tell me again next time I drop by."
"See ya, kid," Mike pulled the box of ancient plugs towards him again in a desperate yet futile attempt to perhaps resell them someday. Just before Naota got to the door, he laughed.
"Hunh! You poor kid. You almost sound like you believed that silly story!"
"Mike," he said with a laugh as he opened up the door out to the wasteland of Mabase yet again, "trust me, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."
The T.V was on too loud again. Grumbling, he pushed the pillow against his ears, grinding his teeth. Was Kamon unaware that there was a little thing called the down button on the volume? Angrily, he stomped across the room, slammed the door closed with his foot, and scowled at it. It was almost silly, being angry at a door that couldn't keep the sound out better. It was doing its best, being a door. In fact, it was a pretty good door, now that he thought about it. But for some reason, he was still angry at it. He gave it another good kick just under the doorknob (maybe that's where doors hurt) and stomped back over to his bed.
Idly, he strummed a few thoughtful notes, staring at the ceiling above his bunk bed. It was like it was hiding or something. Right on the tips of his fingers, just waiting to come on out, and yet still . . . Naota shut his eyes. Where was it? It was crying out to him, and he was failing it. It was asking to be found, and he just couldn't seem to deliver.
Everybody had grown up and left. Everybody moved on. But here was Naota, still chasing wayward dreams of a life beyond this premature death. Here was Naota, still trying to find a way to make sense of all of this. Naota, still trying to scale the walls of this seemingly infinite prison . . . it wasn't fair. He didn't want to grow up.
His eyes sprung open suddenly. That was it. His fingertips suddenly strummed a note he had never heard before. Curious, he sat up from the bed, and tried his tired fingers at the strings again. A few more new notes followed. Yeah, it wasn't fair. He was on his feet. A whole new string of them together. It wasn't fair and he wasn't going to take it. A loud, breaking chord rang through the night air. Why had he ever taken in it the first place? WRAAANNNNG! He didn't want to grow up, and nobody was going to make him, God dammit!
Naota stared up at the ceiling, breathing hard. This was it. This was what he had been waiting for all this time. All of sudden, it was all there. Notes that had never been strummed, and words that had never been sung, or written, not even thought. It was all there, there for him to grasp in his mighty hand and make fly.
He grinned, held his head up high and looked out. In his mind, things were changing. He wasn't in his dingy little room in Mabase, the town where nothing ever happened, anymore. Oh, no, he was in the darkened depths of a gigantic stage, staring out an amphitheatre full to the breaking point, people chanting, all of them come to hear him play. Slowly, his eyes led to the top of the highest staircase in the back. A familiar figure was standing there, the legendary Atomask in hand . . . he pulled the microphone to his lips and spoke.
"This one's for you."
A low, steady, almost base-like beat echoed out of the depths of his machine. Slowly, its almost sinister intensity began to rise, a vibration carrying around the world, taking them higher and higher 'til they couldn't take it anymore. It suddenly stopped short . . . and began again. This time, there was something to say.
"Well, you thought you were gonna keep me down
This world would be blind to my eyes
You kicked me, hurt me, pushed me 'round
And I'm sorry, but that ain't gonna fly.
Well, you thought you were gonna make me slave
And the chains shackled around my wrist
Well, I hate to tell you, man, but I've got name
And you cross it off your sinful list
I used to be the boy that lived next door
But you're not gonna see me round no more
Cuz there's nothin' for me in this nothin' town
So I guess it's time I was leaving it now
Oh, you never could keep a secret too well
So you blinded me with your bright lies
You hate me, killed me, gave me hell
And I'm sorry, but that ain't gonna fly.
Well, you thought that you'd control my mind
Hide me from the truth I craved so much
I hate to tell you, man, but I've come to find
That I strive to find that human touch
No, I'm taking this world to another place
Where your hands can't reach me anymore
Finally be a member of the human race
Gonna get past your prison doors.
I used to be the boy that lived next door
But you're not gonna see me round no more
Cuz there's nothing for me in this nothin' town
So I guess it's time I was leavin' it now
You can laugh your head off all you please
Call me names 'til the sun's gone down
Hate me, kill me, though know I've seen
What you searched for and yet never found
I'm leaving here forever, may it burn
With His grace, yes, I know it will
So slave on, move on, take your turn
Go to live and die, if that's your fill
Or follow me down my solemn road
Oh, to where it leads, I cannot tell
But of all uncertain, one thing I know
It's better than this serene hell
I used to be the boy who lived next door
But you're not gonna see me round no more
Cuz there's nothin' for me in this nothin' town
So I guess it's time I was leavin' it now
Yes, I guess it's time I was leavin' it now . . ."
(3)
And thus was Naota's song.
For a moment or so, all he could do was sit and stare, wondering what the hell had just happened. It had to be some sort of dream. It couldn't have just happened. And yet, there were his fingers, still on the strings, which were still vibrating from his passionate outbreak of divine inspiration. That had been his song.
And for the first time in over a year, he knew exactly what to do with himself.
It was getting late now. He'd wait perhaps an hour or two longer. He could get it ready in that time. Hurriedly, he grabbed his wallet and counted all that was inside. It wasn't very much, but it would have to do.
For just once, Naota knew he could make it. Somehow, they would all make it there someday.
12:30: time to move. Slowly, as to not make any noise, he climbed out of bed. His backpack, lying incognito as a lumped-up sheet on his brother's bunk, was packed and ready to go. Naota grinned as he stripped off his pajamas only to reveal his clothes underneath. Grownups could be so easy to fool sometimes.
He'd been hiding all the stuff in his closet, and he had never known why he'd hidden it until now. A Bomber jacket, a pair of riding gloves, a dog tag necklace, and a large pair of leather boots; some of the best clothes he'd ever owned, and despite their negative stigma, the ones that he'd always liked the best. He had only worn them a few times before, and never all at once. It felt a little strange, doing this, and yet, somehow right at the same time. There were no regrets, no guilt, only a strange sense of nostalgia as he slung his guitar over his shoulder one last time.
With one arm, he grabbed his backpack off the top bunk. A wayward pillow came with it, falling with a soft 'plump' to the floor.
Naota smiled slightly. Even as he was getting ready to leave it, his room still loved him. Carefully, he poked the tiny pillow into his bag, among the few clothes that he was taking with him, his wallet, his toothbrush, compass/watch, a pocketknife, five packs of ramen, and a blank book. He'd need something to write everything down in.
After all, everybody had a story.
The stairs were kind to his escape. Even the squeaky one at the second to the bottom chose not to act up this time. Although the house was dark, his eyes had adjusted enough to discern his way through it. The kitchen table, where they had all eaten that stupid mild curry that wasn't mild at all, and he had hated anyway. They'd be sure to see it here.
Dad,
I'm leaving. I should have left a long time ago. This place will kill me, and I'm not going to die. I hope you understand that I have a few things to say before I go.
I don't want to be this person I am. I didn't want to play baseball or be the cat. I didn't want to be in the dumb play at all. I don't want those stupid eyebrows, and don't want to be mistaken for my brother. I don't want to live in Mabase anymore.
But there are a few things that I do want. I want to play the guitar and be free. I want to feel a real breeze in my hair and breathe real air for once in my life. I want to see places far away and meet strangers. I want to be somewhere else. That's why I have to leave this place.
I guess I should say something along the lines of I'll be safe and not to worry and that I'll miss you and all that kind of thing. But of all of that, I really don't know. I guess I'll do the best that I can. All I know is that if I stay here, I'm going to die, and I DON'T want to die.
I really don't know what I'm supposed to say here, so I guess I'll just say this. It's simple and sweet, just how everything's always been around here.
Goodbye, and thanks,
Naota.
P.S. If you want to do anything, please get everyone to stop calling me Ta-kun. If you really want to call me anything, call me Nao-kun. That's what it's supposed to be, and that's what I'm called.
And that was that. He smoothed it up against the vase, which currently held a bunch of fake flowers, their gaudy yellow petals shining in all their plastic greatness under the moonlight.
When he at last made his way out the side door through the kitchen, he did not say 'goodbye', not even whispered under his breath so no one would hear.
The light of the waning half moon, golden with the summer air, gazed down at him as he slighted quickly through the night to the tiny shed that was supposed to work as a small garage, but never turned out that way. They'd never had a car, and now, Naota was dead glad for it. For the most part, it had been abandoned and forgotten, making no better use than a home a few ancient rusting tools and large cities of spiders. It also made a perfect hiding place for, besides his guitar, his most prized possession of all.
It was pretty old, at least ten years or so, but it ran like hell. He'd learned to ride the ancient motorcycle secretly throughout this last year after he'd bought it for seven thousand yen at a garage sale. It was good for any kid to have a few secrets form their parents, and though it took a little effort to keep it ready with gas with prices the way they were, it had been worth it for a moment like this. Hopefully, it wouldn't be as loud this time as it had a few times in the past. That was the only problem with old machines like this: sure they were classic, but man, could they wake the neighborhood!
The neighborhood. Now that he thought of it, Naota had lived his whole life in this little suburban neighborhood. He'd never even really been anywhere else. Where was he going to go after this? The open road? It was a question that he hadn't really considered until just now.
"It's too late to lose your nerve now," he said to himself as he kicked the engine into life, lying his backpack behind him, fitting perfectly in the little compartment in the back. With a flick of his wrists, the engine growled. It was ready to go, even if he wasn't sure if he was.
"Let's go, then," he whispered to the night as the gas suddenly hit and he whipped off down the street in a growling mass. The evening breeze, blowing off from the river, fluttered his black strands across his face and into his eyes. If Naota could have hit himself in the head, he would have. He had almost forgotten something vital. With one hand, he dove into the bomber jacket's pocket to reveal a pair of large, bottle green goggles. With these on, he could see a little better. Though it was all a little bit darker with them on, it was much easier than trying to prevent the wind.
Almost all the lights on the main street in Mabase had already gone out. It was funny. It was almost like a dead town. But yet in the death, there were still small signs of light. The old woman who never turned her light off of the intense fear of burglars; she must've changed that stupid porch light at least fifty times a year. The coffee shop on the corner that stayed open even past the bars. In fact, they did more business that way. Coffee was in high demand after a hard binge.
Maybe this place wasn't dead, but it would kill him someday if he stayed here. Someday, there would be no lights, save for those monotonous street lamps, all the same shape, height, color. That's all that could remain after you stayed in this town: copies of whatever had existed here before. There was safety in numbers, and that's what they had here. But he couldn't be one of them, and he would never be. He had never been in the first place. And that was why he had to leave.
Suddenly, Naota felt himself slam on the brakes, nearly throwing himself off the bike with his suddenness.
There was one light he'd forgotten about.
There, at the little room on top of the guitar store . . . Mike. Mike probably lived up there, from the looks of things. Mike was a light still, and hopefully, he would breathe a new life into this place. Naota had a strange sort of faith that perhaps Mike would save those few last lights, if they let him, and that they might carry on without him here, carry on without Naota, the boy with the robot pal and the alien girl for friends.
They'd make it. With His grace, they would make it. But not without one last goodbye.
He tore a page out of his book. Thankfully, he'd remembered to put a pen in the pocket, just in case, and though he'd forgotten about it, he knew it would come in useful. And in an untidy scrawl, a short note.
Mike,
You were right. I have seen her. I've seen the muse, and it's taken me this long to find out where my heart belongs. I won't be around here anymore, but know that more than anybody else, I want to thank you, Mike. So, from the bottom of what heart anyone has, thank you.
See ya,
Nao-kun ("Kid")
Folded up and placed around the handle of the door, he'd probably see it tomorrow when he opened the place up. By that time, Naota had no idea where he might be. That didn't really matter at this point. Wherever he was going, he'd be there someday, and hopefully, people like Mike would be there too. He'd had enough of the other kind of people.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the bridge appeared. On the other end was the road, past that, Mechanica, past that, the highway, and past . . . well, past that was the city limit, and he didn't know what was past that.
"Well, okay . . ." Naota said with a little gulp as he started on across the bridge. As he rode along quietly, the stars a neat net above him, he looked down at the waters to the little embankment made by the sands underneath where he'd been sitting only this morning and sighed. Who would've thought that in just the span of a day, things could have changed so much? This morning, he had been here, watching the sun rise, just trying to find that song. Under the moon, he'd found it, and now where was he off to? This morning, his life had had a position. Now, he wasn't sure. In the murky waters, his own reflection, a dark figure silhouetted against the moon, shone back up at him. He looked so alien from that perspective. It was like he was a stranger already, just a lone wanderer without a home passing through this nothing place. He was already without a home.
But for now, that would have to do.
There was Mechanica, only a few miles down the road. Why they had ever chosen a hand to represent their company, he'd never been able to understand. It just didn't make sense. However, Mechanica itself had never really made sense. What did it do, anyway? Was its only purpose to watch over what Haruko did and make sure she didn't blow up Mabase or cause world destruction or something like that? Had they done anything before that? Because as far as he knew, Mechanica had been basically nonexistent before. Before Haruko, he hadn't known what the big hand even was.
Maybe the hand was stretching for whatever it was they just couldn't seem to reach . . . Maybe there was something to say about reaching for the things we know we will never have, and still reaching anyway. Maybe that's what he was talking about the whole time and just had never known. Some dreams, even those that will not come true, are still worth having.
But Mechanica was long abandoned now. No, no fancy computers and space-age technology there now. More homes to cobwebs. Amarou, the guy with the funny eyebrows, hadn't been seen for a long time now.
What had Mechanica been, anyway? He'd never really noticed it until they'd started to interfere with his life. Naota guessed it had just been there or something. So many things were just there and you never knew what they really did there. All you knew was they were there, and for some reason, you just left it at that.
That was exactly the kind of attitude that he wanted to escape now. Lately, it seemed like nobody asked 'why' anymore. No one questioned anything. No one seemed interested in questions at all. Everyone just wanted to be happy. Ignorance makes people happy, he guessed. But ignorance didn't make him happy anymore. He was sick of all these people around him with nothing on their minds and nothing in their hearts, or sometimes it seemed.
At last, he was on his way down the highway. There was only a little farther to go now, and then, he'd be in a place that he just simply could not imagine; the edge of Mabase. If he could only make it so far, he might be able to free himself from this gravitational pull forever.
He passed it.
He was free.
Suddenly, as if coming out of a daze, he began to realize that he was no longer alone on this road. A stream of cars were coming from behind and from before him, too. Most of them were people who did not live there, he could tell. Nobody who lived there usually went elsewhere. No, these were businesses and those like, or people who came to visit (as if anyone would want visit Mabase anyways). He hadn't expected this. He was being forced to drive a little more aggressively now. Naota suddenly realized that he had never driven up on the highway before. It was quite a different experience from driving on an empty suburban street. But somehow, this felt so right. It was so different from the quiet, easy streets down in town. This was loud, expressive, passionate, beautiful in its own way. Strangely enough, Naota liked it this way. There was no more serene silence looming there, just waiting to attack.
Something was so close, he could almost taste it . . .
Freedom. He could smell, hear, see, feel, taste freedom. It was just a few yards out of his reach . . .
He was broken out of his daze as a car in the lane next him suddenly swerved dangerously. He had been so caught off guard that he was forced to swerve into the lane to his left. For just a moment, he thought he'd be safe, and, flipping the wayward driver off, thought it was the end of that.
Until the shocking revelation that his troubles were far, far from over.
He had been pushed out of the last lane on his side. He was going the wrong way.
His pupils dilated at the next sight to greet his eyes.
The eight-wheeler semi was like an ominous God of Death, a predator looming above him, just waiting to fall upon its prey, a hawk's eyes gathering to swoop upon the mouse. Horns blaring their angry, insane howl, lights glaring like twin suns ready to scorch him into oblivion . . . in a split second, his gloved hands were clenching on the handlebars. He had one chance. This was his chance, and he wasn't going to lose it. He wasn't going to let them take it, now he was so close.
He wasn't going to let them have it.
Or follow me down my solemn road
Oh, to where it leads, I cannot tell . . .
Yes, that was it. That was the answer. This was a road, and he had no idea where it was going to lead him. But it had taken him this far, and it sure as hell wasn't going to end here. Not if he could help it.
With an agility and skill unbeknownst to any space or time, he pulled fiercely to the right, just as he was about to be smashed into a proverbial human pancake on the cement. Skidding just inches to the ground, barely on balance still, riding to the edge, sparks flying into his face and over his body, and yet he didn't feel a one of them. His mouth gritted down on itself, almost drawing blood. He had to make it. He had to. There was no choice.
No, I'm taking this world to another place
Where your hands can't reach me anymore
Finally be a member of the human race
Gonna get past your prison doors. . .
He was not going to let the Reaper win in the end. Naota would not succumb to those walls, that prison that not this morning had threatened to kill him, eat him alive.
If a good and just God existed, then that just couldn't happen,
Then… he was on balance again, swerving aggressively back into his own lane. He made sure to cut right in front of the car that had swerved out in the first place. It was his fault. He gave him both fingers this time. What was he trying to do, kill him?
If he was, then he'd almost succeeded.
About ten more minutes down the road, it began to open up a bit more again. There were less cars out here, less noise, less threat, and getting less and less crowded by the minute. Naota looked around him. He had never seen any of this before. Sure, it wasn't so different from what he'd seen in Mabase, little flowers growing by the side of the road, slight wafting breeze falling gently through his hair and across his skin. And yet at the same time, he had never seen a road like this, one that opened to promises he could not think of. It was empty now, not a car to be seen on it anymore. But it wasn't straight, like in the movies in the middle of a desert or anything. Roads had curves and twists and turns. Most people looked discouraged when they saw that the road wasn't straight. But Naota wanted to feel the curves, ride through them, feel life like it was in the truth, unsugared and unfettered by what Mabase and people that lived there had been.
He would forget them now, if he could. Forget Mabase and most of those who had lived there. He had a new life to lead now, and he didn't' have to look back now.
All he needed now was someone to talk to.
A strange, sudden thought struck his head, a thought that had been on his mind all day, and yet had only come to the surface just now. How could he have been so stupid? It had practically rung itself at him.
All he needed now was . . .
Like an answer to his thoughts, ESP or something, a sound fell upon Naota's ears at that moment. It was coming from behind him; the cruel, hard grinding of metal on asphalt. Naota smiled. A kindred. Must have come on at the last off ramp. For a moment, he drove on, hardly paying attention. It wasn't until the figure had almost come up behind him that he looked around. . .
Naota blinked. It was impossible. And yet, here, he saw it with his own two eyes.
A yellow Vespa. A girl, with neon pink hair, wearing goggles on her forehead, a orange vest wrapped around her rather voluptuous front, easily shed by a rather noticeable zipper, baggy green pants hanging down to show just the hint of a pierced belly button, a sacred, red guitar strapped to her back, more precious than if it were her child. Surprisingly strong arms, hands in thick bull-hide gloves, the inspiration for his own pair, gripping tight to the Vespa's bright arms, a strange charm dangling gently, singing some foreign lullaby. Bright shining green eyes, born laughing, as if the entire world was some sort of joke she'd played on everybody.
A smile like no other anywhere. The smile of Haru Haru Haruko.
Within a moment or two, her Vespa was level with his motorcycle, golden cat-like eyes meeting with his own glasses-covered ones. She'd always had that smug expression on her face, as if she was saying 'I told you so,' as if she'd somehow known all along, some big, cosmic joke played on you that only made sense to her. Naota could do nothing to cover his amazement except to just smile smugly back at her.
With this, Haruko's eyes sparkled slightly. Almost like a cliché, she suddenly revved her engine, raising one pink eyebrow at the corner, like 'you in?'
Brrrrrrrrmmmmmm. Brrrrrrrrrmmmm. Naota revved his own engine in response, tilting his head slightly like 'was there ever a question?'
Her smile widened to a genuine one, the brightness in her eyes going from self-satisfied to honestly proud of him. Giving him a quick wink, she suddenly stepped on the gas, pulling ahead of him, waving for him to follow her.
Naota sped away after her, and didn't even look back. They would do it together, just the two of them. They would ride down this road forever, and though neither knew where it would lead them, they weren't going to be afraid. Because, in the end, if you feared the future, you feared tomorrow. And no one should ever feel fear of the sunrise. Together, they'd watch the sun rise in confidence, in honesty, in courage . . . and in love.
It didn't matter what had changed. It didn't matter what had happened before. All anyone had was the present, and for the first time in his life, he was prepared to take it that way.
And as they left Mabase in their dust, Naota could swear he could still hear a tune, and words that would live in him forever . . .
"I used to be the boy who lived next door
But you're not gonna see me round no more
Cuz there's nothin' for me in this nothin' town
So I guess it's time I was leavin' it now
Yes, I guess it's time I was leavin' it now . . ."
A dance of red and blue lights. A serenade of awful sound, repetitive, monotonous squeals, the sirens sang their one ode to the night. Not more than a half mile away, a large, graying sign, "Welcome to Mabase" stood vigil over the scene. And what a scene it was. The cars jumbled in uproar, all huddled around seemingly one spot of road. People seemingly had streamed out of nowhere, all circled around. It would be a wonderful sight, if only it had not been its implications. Somewhere within the crowd, the low sound of crying could be heard.
At that moment, a Volkswagen Rabbit, reminiscent of one that no one seemed to be able to place, pulled up to the scene. A man in a black trench coat suddenly emerged from the passenger side door and strode quickly toward the crowd, leaving the gumshoe that he had been forced to let tag along trying to catch up. Swiftly, and surprisingly without much resistance, he made his way through to get a look at the scene.
The sobbing man in the middle of the knot of people could barely make out the words to say the kid had come out of nowhere; that a car had pushed him out of his lane, and then, just like magic, he had been right there. He'd never had a chance. Witnesses around him could do nothing to help the poor man but simply offer what condolences they could. There was nothing could have been done about it. It was just an accident. Nobody blamed him. As the gumshoe took down the different accounts, all being prepped for the late night news, Detective Beale looked down at the scene and wondered at it.
Despite the force of the impact, it looked strangely peaceful. Illuminated in the headlight of the mighty big-rig, the boy looked like he might be merely asleep, lost in some faraway dream. By some strange laws of physics, some anomaly, he was not broken or bleeding, simply lying on the pavement. His eyes were closed, his body limp and relaxed like a tired rag doll. Beale could almost swear he saw a smile.
Witnesses had said that at the impact, it was like seeing him fly into the air, sailing up until gravity claimed him once again. He had been dead before he hit the pavement.
Several feet away, a busted motorcycle lay, barely identifiable as an old model, the kind of thing Beale himself might have had back in his college days. Apparently, the kid thought he was James Dean.
No kids were like that anymore.
Near the side of the road, next to a fallen backpack, which had amazingly stayed closed the entire time, a guitar lay, broken and defeated. Those strings would never hear another note. The guitar, like the boy who held it, would be cold forever. There was something very sad about it: something tragic, like those dreams he had had when he was a kid, only to learn that the real world wasn't going to let his dreams happen. He had still never really forgiven himself, always wondering what would have happened if he had really tried to live those dreams.
That guitar…
What was the last song he had played on that guitar? What was its final memory?
That guitar…what was it about that guitar?…
A sudden memory: a photograph. It had been a photograph, hadn't it? A photograph in a newspaper, in the strange magazine he couldn't place, he had seen a few years ago. A slight, young boy, standing on a pile of rubble, looking up into the sky…looking up like looking for God, or the meaning of life, or maybe just the sight of youth fluttering on by. That photograph…didn't everyone have a photograph like that, suddenly realizing you had to grow up? And that guitar…
"Sir?" he was shaken out of his reverie by the voice of the young gumshoe. "Sir? Is there anything the matter?"
"Hmm?" he'd answered dazedly, shaking back to reality. "Oh, right, right…yeah, nothing to see here really…let's get outta here, the forensics people are gonna be getting here soon, and they want us cleared out." Before the young partner could even answer, he found himself starting hurriedly towards the Volkswagen Rabbit, wanting to get out of this place. It made him feel strange to be here, like it was all the doubts and backwards dreams coming back to him right now. For some strange reason, he felt guilty.
What would have happened if he had never given up on those dreams?
He looked back just once, watching the red and blue lights flutter over the limp form of the boy who drove right off the edge of sense.
Had he been smiling?
Lieutenant Beale closed the door as his partner scrambled into his side of the car. He started the engine with a roar and started to drive away.
It couldn't have been the kid from the picture, he told himself. That kid was a rebel, and rebels didn't live long, usually. And kids like that just didn't live in Mabase, the smallest place in the world, where nothing ever happened.
Happy Trails, Ta-kun
The End
A/N (again):
(hums)
With the kids, sing out the future,
Maybe kids don't need the masters
Just waiting for the Little Busters
Oh Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeahhhhhhhhhhhh
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah… (5)
(1): These lyrics, as it was mentioned, are Pink Floyd's. It comes from a song called "Another Brick in the Wall: Part III", which, in turn, is from "The Wall" album. Just to letcha know.
(2): Not to seem stereotypical, but I guess this is just how I see this original redeeming character: the regular beatnik guitar store clerk. By his nature, he's foreign in Japan, but yet, seems to fit in, in his own way. Hope you like him, folks.
(3): I'm not exactly sure what inspired "The Young Boy Next Door." I think I must have either been in a very angsty, very angry, or very self-righteous sort of mood when I came up with the lyrics. All I know is that I agonized over what to write for it for a good while, but when I finally started to write it, it started to flow from me, just like it supposedly flows from Naota. Coincidence? Perhaps not…
(4): Did I make the association to strong with mentioning the Volkswagen Rabbit? This is kind of what I imagined Amarou might have been, had he somehow grown up in a more normal manner and not ended up as the rather pitiable character we know. You know, I don't know why so many people don't like Amarou, because I seriously feel sorry for the guy…sigh. I'm sorry it didn't work out, my dear Amarou…
(5): This one's way too obvious, but I'll say it anyway. This comes from an original FLCL song by the name of "Little Busters". It is preformed by The Pillows, who do almost all the music for FLCL. If you've watched even one episode of FLCL, you've heard this song, because it's in every single one.
So…reviews?