Useless
A/N: Based on the song "Lover I Don't Have to Love" by Bright Eyes. Lyrics of Trickstir's song belong to Bright Eyes. Everything is Bright Eyes. Love.
Chapter 2: A Classic Tragedy
I throw my jacket on the card table and pick up the screaming telephone in one fluid motion. "Yello?"
"Manning, what's up?"
"Oh, hey Adam," I answer to the voice I know so well, the one of my bandmate. "What's going on?"
"Um, I think we're going to meet up at 6, so are you in?"
Shit. The show. I totally blanked. "Oh, yea, sure, well I just got home so I might need a few minutes."
"A few minutes is fine, Manning, but don't make it an hour like you did last name."
"Never!" I say with mock horror.
"Whatever dude." Click.
I rub my whole face and glance at the clock. Fucking great. 5:47. I have to leave in, well, now. I can't believe I forgot about the show tonight. We're actually getting paid for this. We're the fourth band playing out of five. It's not bad. We still haven't gotten popular enough to occupy the last spot, but maybe someday...
I walk into the bedroom, hoping for some sign of Ellie. None, of course. I glance at where her knee high boots were, and I notice them to be missing. I figure out the obvious, that she's wearing them, and realize she's "working." Whatever. The chick's crazy.
The shirt I throw on says "Macbeth" on it. Obviously, a bit of irony, since at one point, I was well on my way to being a Shakesperian expert. I took so many classes on Old English and Renaissance literature that I could recite most of the times' best works backwards. That insane period of time where I literally had the world as my bitch. I'm not saying I've ever regretted any decision I've ever made, because I certainly wanted that at the time, but there's a definite sense of security that I'm going to miss.
I don't bother to leave a note, since she'll be gone til late. Later than late. Late as in 10. Tomorrow morning.
I'm not late. Not to them, since I said I would be late. I walk in at 6:13. That's really fucking good for me. The place is already "buzzing." Whatever that means. There's a bunch of punk/poser/skater kids all hanging out like they live for this shit. Shitty bands that they should avoid at all costs. But they gave up their weekly allowance, so I'm not going to say anything.
We have an impromptu meeting on the corner to discuss the name game. Adam, the young, cocky ass drummer, is insisting on Trickstir. He starts telling the story of some Indian that would play tricks on people, but his outstanding feature is the fact that his genitalia is in a box that he carries on his shoulder. "So, moving on..." I say once the story's over. He gives me the kind of look 18 year olds give you when they're pissed and have nothing intelligent or clever to say. "Whaddya say, Bobby?" I ask our "quiet" bassist. He's not quiet, just, you gotta get him on a stage first.
"Whatever." Bobby's got the experience of age on his side, and he really doesn't give a shit, like me. The only reason I care, why I have to care, is because I can't let Adam win. Except I have no good ideas of my own.
"We'll play tonight as Trickstir," I concede. Adam's look gets suddenly serious and cocky. I shake my head at him. "Anything else?"
No one says anything. I just kind of shrug. Bobby and our second guitarist, Mack, start to head back into the club. Adam grabs my arm when I start to follow them. "You gotta give them the look," he mumbles. I cock my eyebrow. "I know you think my hair is just naturally like this, but it ain't. Your's is easy as fuck, but just... do something. Make the chicks wanna dig you."
First off, the kid's hair is as greasy as the bacon I ate at Denny's yesterday. Also, it is straight and falls to his nose. It's shit. "I already have a chick digging me."
"Do it for the fucking band," he says. He whips out a comb(I don't ask) and spends five minutes "poofing" my hair. We head inside, and I check myself out in a mirror. It looks absolutely the same.
"Yea, alright," I say and shove him a bit. He shrugs and walks away.
I turn around to check out the crowd. Good looking bunch. On second glance, no one is that attractive. Except for the one. The one that stands out. She's gorgeous. No, no, no. She's fucking gorgeous. Her dark brown hair falls almost to her hips. She's dark in a sense, but not dark like Manny, more dark as in.. unknown. Fucking unreachable. Some kind of sub-human spirit. Beautiful.
Something in my pants agrees with me, and I turn around in embarassment. I hold my breath and count to ten, thinking of a million different things. Finally, I'm calmed down, and I turn back. She's gone. Totally fucking figures.
I stare at where she had been sitting. I wonder what her name is. Probably something as beautiful and exotic as she is, something like Penelope or... Juliet. Yes, Juliet.
The first three bands, and I still haven't caught site of Juliet since. I know she's around here somewhere, she has to be, you're not allowed re-entry, yet still I can't find her. I've never thought of the venue as big, but it really is when I least need it to be. My search is only interrupted my hands being placed firmly on my shoulders. "It's time, Manning," Adam says once I turn around.
I nod and follow him to the stage. In all my distractions, I haven't realized that they were setting up the whole time. I laugh indifferently to myself. Oh, it's all so funny. Oh, it's all so fucking ironic.
"Hey guys, we're, urm, Trickstir," I speak the last word like a piece of broccoli left on my teeth. Actually, the last thing, the thing about everything being ironic, it's not. It's just fate. And I guess a little bit of luck. "We're going to play a little set here, so I hope you checked your throwing vegetables at the door," I continue. I get a few chuckles. The punk kids are antsy. I don't want to piss the punk kids off, mind you.
I play the opening chords. I look up to see if the group's into it, and they are. Even Juliet. I see her now. She looks more distant, but still as taking as before. Her outfit, something I must have only subconciously seen, has the attitude of sex. She's wearing a long red sleveless t-shirt that rests on her upper thighs. You can barely see them, but I do occasionally glance some black fabric underneath, but something so miniscule that it's barely there. I have half a mind to jump off the stage and take her right here, in the middle of the Toronto punk scene, but I grit my teeth and bear it.
I stare at her as the words flow out of me:
"You write such pretty words, But life's no storybook.
Love's an excuse to get hurt.
And to hurt. Do you like to hurt?
I do, I do.
Then hurt me,
Then hurt me,
Then hurt me..."
The set's over. The kids come up to me and tell me I "fucking rocked, dude" then proceed to beg me to buy them cigarettes. I always stand close to Juliet, not sure what to say, trying to get rid of the kids. The final band is playing, a longer set than most but I could stay here, watching here, all night. It's not long enough. I can't wait until the end.
"Hey!" I scream over the deafening volume of the drums and squealing guitar. She looks at me. Her body stops swaying to the music for a half-second, and I smile at her response, although it's not really a response at all. I don't know what to do now. Her attention is back on the stage. I size her up, 5'8, 130, nail-bitingly gorgeous(although I think that's a contradiction in and of itself). Then I notice her shoes. They look like mocassins gone punk. They are checkered black and white, and in the white, she's written a few lyrics. "I like your shoes!" The music is dying down behind us, so I don't have to scream.
She smiles, still not looking at me. "Thanks." We stand like that until the music is totally done, and everyone's getting kicked out. She looks at me, and I avert my eyes since I had been staring. "Can I follow you?"
I grab her hand and lead her out of the madhouse. She couldn't have said four more choice words. Perfect. I point to my building since it's only two blocks down. Perfect.
We walk into the apartment, and I suddenly really wish I'd ask Ellie to clean more. It's not as bad as it can be, but we won't talk about what Juliet deserves. She deserves so much better. Speaking of Juliet... "I still don't know your name," I say.
She raises her eyebrows in response. "What time is it?"
Alright, so we're playing that game. Whatever floats your boat, Juliet. "Not late," I answer. "Before midnight." We stand awkwardly in our makeshift dining room. "Urm, well, I have a few movies..." I start, but I'm interrupted. She forces me against the wall and pushes her tongue inside my mouth to stop the words from coming out anymore.
The kiss is so passionate, so greedy, that I don't want to move or even breathe until she breaks it. She slides her hands to my thighs and rubs her hands all over my jeans. I let out a small moan, I can't help it, and she forces her tongue into my mouth harder.
I don't know how, but we make it to the bedroom. She falls on top of me on the bed. She gets off of me for a short time. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
I figure there's no sense in lying. "Yea, but she's..."
"I don't fucking care," she says. "I just smell her." Then, she's right back on top of me.
After we're done, we get drunk and do it all again. We do it three times in all. And we're also shit-faced. I would ask her to stay, but Ellie...
"I gotta walk you to your car now."
"Mmkay," she answers.
"But you can't drive!" I say slapping myself on the head.
"Nahhhh, I'm fine."
"Okay," I say. We walk back to the club, groping each other like teenagers at prom. "So, where's your car?" I ask once we get near the club.
"Urm, like, over there," she says throwing her arm out in a random direction. Unfortunately for us, that direction just happened to be a brick wall.
"Try again."
"I don't know, why do you need to know?"
"Forget it," I say. "You're taking the Subway home."
She giggles. "'Kay."
"Will you come back tomorrow morning?"
"'Kay."
"Come to my house. I'll help you find your car and everything."
"'Kay." I lead her to the Subway station, only another block away.
"Will you get home okay?" I ask.
"Yep," she answers with a toothy smile. I grab a pen out of my back pocket and scribble my number onto her left arm.
"In case you get lost..." I simply say.
"Don't worry, whatever your name is. I'll just call you Romeo. You're my Romeo. But don't worry. I'll get home fine." She seems more sober, and I'm still drunk, so I totally believe her.
She never came back. Isn't that all ironic? I'm her Romeo, and she's my Juliet, and we'll never see each other again. A classic tragedy.
A/N: Based on the song "Lover I Don't Have to Love" by Bright Eyes. Lyrics of Trickstir's song belong to Bright Eyes. Everything is Bright Eyes. Love.
Chapter 2: A Classic Tragedy
I throw my jacket on the card table and pick up the screaming telephone in one fluid motion. "Yello?"
"Manning, what's up?"
"Oh, hey Adam," I answer to the voice I know so well, the one of my bandmate. "What's going on?"
"Um, I think we're going to meet up at 6, so are you in?"
Shit. The show. I totally blanked. "Oh, yea, sure, well I just got home so I might need a few minutes."
"A few minutes is fine, Manning, but don't make it an hour like you did last name."
"Never!" I say with mock horror.
"Whatever dude." Click.
I rub my whole face and glance at the clock. Fucking great. 5:47. I have to leave in, well, now. I can't believe I forgot about the show tonight. We're actually getting paid for this. We're the fourth band playing out of five. It's not bad. We still haven't gotten popular enough to occupy the last spot, but maybe someday...
I walk into the bedroom, hoping for some sign of Ellie. None, of course. I glance at where her knee high boots were, and I notice them to be missing. I figure out the obvious, that she's wearing them, and realize she's "working." Whatever. The chick's crazy.
The shirt I throw on says "Macbeth" on it. Obviously, a bit of irony, since at one point, I was well on my way to being a Shakesperian expert. I took so many classes on Old English and Renaissance literature that I could recite most of the times' best works backwards. That insane period of time where I literally had the world as my bitch. I'm not saying I've ever regretted any decision I've ever made, because I certainly wanted that at the time, but there's a definite sense of security that I'm going to miss.
I don't bother to leave a note, since she'll be gone til late. Later than late. Late as in 10. Tomorrow morning.
I'm not late. Not to them, since I said I would be late. I walk in at 6:13. That's really fucking good for me. The place is already "buzzing." Whatever that means. There's a bunch of punk/poser/skater kids all hanging out like they live for this shit. Shitty bands that they should avoid at all costs. But they gave up their weekly allowance, so I'm not going to say anything.
We have an impromptu meeting on the corner to discuss the name game. Adam, the young, cocky ass drummer, is insisting on Trickstir. He starts telling the story of some Indian that would play tricks on people, but his outstanding feature is the fact that his genitalia is in a box that he carries on his shoulder. "So, moving on..." I say once the story's over. He gives me the kind of look 18 year olds give you when they're pissed and have nothing intelligent or clever to say. "Whaddya say, Bobby?" I ask our "quiet" bassist. He's not quiet, just, you gotta get him on a stage first.
"Whatever." Bobby's got the experience of age on his side, and he really doesn't give a shit, like me. The only reason I care, why I have to care, is because I can't let Adam win. Except I have no good ideas of my own.
"We'll play tonight as Trickstir," I concede. Adam's look gets suddenly serious and cocky. I shake my head at him. "Anything else?"
No one says anything. I just kind of shrug. Bobby and our second guitarist, Mack, start to head back into the club. Adam grabs my arm when I start to follow them. "You gotta give them the look," he mumbles. I cock my eyebrow. "I know you think my hair is just naturally like this, but it ain't. Your's is easy as fuck, but just... do something. Make the chicks wanna dig you."
First off, the kid's hair is as greasy as the bacon I ate at Denny's yesterday. Also, it is straight and falls to his nose. It's shit. "I already have a chick digging me."
"Do it for the fucking band," he says. He whips out a comb(I don't ask) and spends five minutes "poofing" my hair. We head inside, and I check myself out in a mirror. It looks absolutely the same.
"Yea, alright," I say and shove him a bit. He shrugs and walks away.
I turn around to check out the crowd. Good looking bunch. On second glance, no one is that attractive. Except for the one. The one that stands out. She's gorgeous. No, no, no. She's fucking gorgeous. Her dark brown hair falls almost to her hips. She's dark in a sense, but not dark like Manny, more dark as in.. unknown. Fucking unreachable. Some kind of sub-human spirit. Beautiful.
Something in my pants agrees with me, and I turn around in embarassment. I hold my breath and count to ten, thinking of a million different things. Finally, I'm calmed down, and I turn back. She's gone. Totally fucking figures.
I stare at where she had been sitting. I wonder what her name is. Probably something as beautiful and exotic as she is, something like Penelope or... Juliet. Yes, Juliet.
The first three bands, and I still haven't caught site of Juliet since. I know she's around here somewhere, she has to be, you're not allowed re-entry, yet still I can't find her. I've never thought of the venue as big, but it really is when I least need it to be. My search is only interrupted my hands being placed firmly on my shoulders. "It's time, Manning," Adam says once I turn around.
I nod and follow him to the stage. In all my distractions, I haven't realized that they were setting up the whole time. I laugh indifferently to myself. Oh, it's all so funny. Oh, it's all so fucking ironic.
"Hey guys, we're, urm, Trickstir," I speak the last word like a piece of broccoli left on my teeth. Actually, the last thing, the thing about everything being ironic, it's not. It's just fate. And I guess a little bit of luck. "We're going to play a little set here, so I hope you checked your throwing vegetables at the door," I continue. I get a few chuckles. The punk kids are antsy. I don't want to piss the punk kids off, mind you.
I play the opening chords. I look up to see if the group's into it, and they are. Even Juliet. I see her now. She looks more distant, but still as taking as before. Her outfit, something I must have only subconciously seen, has the attitude of sex. She's wearing a long red sleveless t-shirt that rests on her upper thighs. You can barely see them, but I do occasionally glance some black fabric underneath, but something so miniscule that it's barely there. I have half a mind to jump off the stage and take her right here, in the middle of the Toronto punk scene, but I grit my teeth and bear it.
I stare at her as the words flow out of me:
"You write such pretty words, But life's no storybook.
Love's an excuse to get hurt.
And to hurt. Do you like to hurt?
I do, I do.
Then hurt me,
Then hurt me,
Then hurt me..."
The set's over. The kids come up to me and tell me I "fucking rocked, dude" then proceed to beg me to buy them cigarettes. I always stand close to Juliet, not sure what to say, trying to get rid of the kids. The final band is playing, a longer set than most but I could stay here, watching here, all night. It's not long enough. I can't wait until the end.
"Hey!" I scream over the deafening volume of the drums and squealing guitar. She looks at me. Her body stops swaying to the music for a half-second, and I smile at her response, although it's not really a response at all. I don't know what to do now. Her attention is back on the stage. I size her up, 5'8, 130, nail-bitingly gorgeous(although I think that's a contradiction in and of itself). Then I notice her shoes. They look like mocassins gone punk. They are checkered black and white, and in the white, she's written a few lyrics. "I like your shoes!" The music is dying down behind us, so I don't have to scream.
She smiles, still not looking at me. "Thanks." We stand like that until the music is totally done, and everyone's getting kicked out. She looks at me, and I avert my eyes since I had been staring. "Can I follow you?"
I grab her hand and lead her out of the madhouse. She couldn't have said four more choice words. Perfect. I point to my building since it's only two blocks down. Perfect.
We walk into the apartment, and I suddenly really wish I'd ask Ellie to clean more. It's not as bad as it can be, but we won't talk about what Juliet deserves. She deserves so much better. Speaking of Juliet... "I still don't know your name," I say.
She raises her eyebrows in response. "What time is it?"
Alright, so we're playing that game. Whatever floats your boat, Juliet. "Not late," I answer. "Before midnight." We stand awkwardly in our makeshift dining room. "Urm, well, I have a few movies..." I start, but I'm interrupted. She forces me against the wall and pushes her tongue inside my mouth to stop the words from coming out anymore.
The kiss is so passionate, so greedy, that I don't want to move or even breathe until she breaks it. She slides her hands to my thighs and rubs her hands all over my jeans. I let out a small moan, I can't help it, and she forces her tongue into my mouth harder.
I don't know how, but we make it to the bedroom. She falls on top of me on the bed. She gets off of me for a short time. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
I figure there's no sense in lying. "Yea, but she's..."
"I don't fucking care," she says. "I just smell her." Then, she's right back on top of me.
After we're done, we get drunk and do it all again. We do it three times in all. And we're also shit-faced. I would ask her to stay, but Ellie...
"I gotta walk you to your car now."
"Mmkay," she answers.
"But you can't drive!" I say slapping myself on the head.
"Nahhhh, I'm fine."
"Okay," I say. We walk back to the club, groping each other like teenagers at prom. "So, where's your car?" I ask once we get near the club.
"Urm, like, over there," she says throwing her arm out in a random direction. Unfortunately for us, that direction just happened to be a brick wall.
"Try again."
"I don't know, why do you need to know?"
"Forget it," I say. "You're taking the Subway home."
She giggles. "'Kay."
"Will you come back tomorrow morning?"
"'Kay."
"Come to my house. I'll help you find your car and everything."
"'Kay." I lead her to the Subway station, only another block away.
"Will you get home okay?" I ask.
"Yep," she answers with a toothy smile. I grab a pen out of my back pocket and scribble my number onto her left arm.
"In case you get lost..." I simply say.
"Don't worry, whatever your name is. I'll just call you Romeo. You're my Romeo. But don't worry. I'll get home fine." She seems more sober, and I'm still drunk, so I totally believe her.
She never came back. Isn't that all ironic? I'm her Romeo, and she's my Juliet, and we'll never see each other again. A classic tragedy.