TITLE: Scenes from an Unplanned Life
SPOILERS: Anything from the series is fair game here.
DISCLAIMER: I neither own nor claim to own anything relating to the show Drake & Josh. The powers that be from Nickelodeon and Schneider's Bakery own all. I am not making a profit except for the satisfaction of being able to play with words for a little while.
A/N: Please remember, these "chapters" are not in chronological order. They are pieces of a greater puzzle. Also, please excuse the shameless plug for my beloved alma mater. Go Gators!
Chapter 5: A Change of Plans
POV: Drake, 18 years old
"Hey, kid." The words were spoken gruffly, in a voice tinged with impatience and a roughness brought on by a prolonged three-pack-a-day habit. Drake opened his eyes. The gray-haired bus driver stood over him, his wrinkled shirt taut over a middle aged paunch that could be attributed to countless pre-wrapped processed foods eaten over endless hours of highway driving.
"Where are we?" Drake asked, sitting up. He felt a twinge in his neck. Tomorrow, he probably wouldn't be able to turn his head to the left.
"Gainesville, Florida. We had to make an emergency stop."
"Why?" Drake asked. He was on his way to Key West. Three days ago, as he sat at a table in the back corner of a diner in Redding, nursing a cup of coffee as the clock ticked off the minutes until midnight, he had decided on Key West. He had spent the last three months making his way through California, running as far as his meager savings and his still-sharp anger could carry him. But Redding hadn't been far enough – it was still in California, after all. He wanted to do something bold. Something drastic. Something that would make it harder to change his mind. He had chosen Key West for two reasons – it was warm and it was just about as far from San Diego as he could get and still be in the United States.
"Cracked engine block. Bus is outta commission. They're sending a tow truck and unless you wanna take a ride back in the direction we just came, I suggest you get off and wait inside. They're sending another bus."
"How long 'til it gets here?" Drake asked, looking at his watch. He'd already been on the bus for what felt like a lifetime and just wanted to get there.
"Couple hours. Give or take." And with that, the driver turned and shuffled down the middle aisle.
Drake watched him in silence as he stepped off the bus. A couple hours. Give or take. He should've flown, but he couldn't spare the expense.
Grudgingly, Drake maneuvered his guitar case from between his knees and stood up. He had kept hold of it even as he dozed, afraid that someone would steal it. Standing, he reached into the overhead rack and grabbed his backpack. Everything else he had brought with him – a few clothes, some CDs – was in it and he slung it over his shoulder and headed towards the front of the bus, holding the guitar case in front of him.
The humidity struck him like a monster truck when he stepped off the bus and into the Florida heat. It was the middle of September. He blinked rapidly in the bright sunshine and massaged the side of his neck – falling asleep against the window of a dingy Greyhound bus was not conducive to comfort.
The small bus station shimmered like a mirage in the desert and when he walked inside, he felt like he had stepped into some kind of time warp. Rows of cracked plastic chairs that Drake guessed used to be blue but were now a sickly shade of gray lined the room. A ticket agent sat behind a now-opaque plexiglass window protected by rusty metal bars. Her head was down as if she herself was trying to avoid the grim view. A Coke machine Drake thought was older than he was rattled ominously in the corner, every button flashing its red "Sold Out" light.
He chose an empty seat in the corner and slumped into it. Two seats away, an old man was staring at him. Drake nodded at him and looked away. After a minute, he noticed the man still staring at him. "Can I help you?" Drake asked, a little annoyed.
A slow smile spread across the man's face. "You waitin' on a bus?" he asked.
Drake lifted one eyebrow. "Uh, yeah." He was in a bus station; he thought that would've been obvious.
"Where you goin'?" the old man asked, his voice as thin as parchment.
The way the guy didn't seem to blink was a little unnerving. Drake decided not to give too many details. "South," he said.
"South," the man repeated. "It's nice down there." He nodded slowly in emphasis.
"Yeah," Drake said, gripping the handle of his guitar case. "So I've heard." He stood up. "Excuse me," he said and hastily walked into the men's room. He walked into the handicapped stall at the far end and closed the door behind him, sliding the latch into place. Propping his guitar against the wall next to the sink, he dropped his backpack on the floor next to it. He took a deep breath, smelled the faint odors of bleach and stale cigarette smoke.
He was tired. This was the thirty-eighth town they had passed through in the last three days. There had been twenty-seven layovers, ranging from five minutes to three hours. But most of the time had been spent traveling, crammed into a small bus seat surrounded by strangers he didn't want to know. Other times were spent killing time waiting for the next bus and eating food that had enough preservatives in it to last until the next Ice Age. It had taken four transfers to reach this point – one each in Sacramento, Los Angeles, Dallas, and Atlanta. Turning on the faucet, he bent to cup some water into his hands, throwing the water over his face. He reached for some paper towels – there actually were some, he was surprised to discover – and patted his face dry, looking at himself in the mirror.
He had been eighteen for three and a half months – officially an adult. Which is exactly what he had told his parents when they wanted him to really think about his future – "We just think you need to explore your options." When they mentioned the words "community college," he had had enough. They couldn't tell him what to do anymore; he didn't have to answer to them. They had given him the "while you're under our roof" speech – in the heat of the moment – and he had countered with the obligatory "then I won't be under your roof anymore" response.
The whole thing had been building for a few weeks before that, a clash that had ultimately resulted in him leaving one morning before dawn without even saying goodbye. He regretted that now – especially when it came to Josh and Megan – but he had been afraid that if he had to look them in the eye and tell them that he was leaving, that he wouldn't be able to. Besides, he had later justified to himself, he was just expediting the inevitable. Josh was leaving for college at the end of August and they would've had to part ways anyway. Josh had already started sporting his wounded kitten look whenever he talked about college – the one Drake couldn't bear to see. So he had decided to do it quick, like pulling off a band aid. It would only hurt for a second.
Except he was wrong. It still hurt – the guilt sitting heavily in his stomach like a stone. He had spent the first two weeks secretly staying in Trevor's room, nursing his anger, and the fact that no one had called there looking for him had made him even angrier. But the anger that had carried him to the bus station in Redding had nearly vanished by the time he had reached Phoenix and was completely gone by the time the bus had rolled into the station in Dallas a day ago. It seemed the farther east he went, the more his anger receded. But he hadn't known how to fix it – humility was not his strong suit and unless they were words to a song, eloquence escaped him.
He had left his cell phone sitting in plain sight on the kitchen table – his way of saying, "Don't call me, I'll call you." It was the exclamation point at the end of his statement of independence. Later, outside the dingy bus station in Shreveport where he was waiting until his bus left, he leaned against the wall next to a decrepit old pay phone with a pocketful of quarters, intent on making the call. He had gone so far as to dial the number – his fingers trembling – and listen to the rings through the pounding in his ears. But he had closed his eyes when the answering machine had picked up, "Hi, you have reached Audrey, Walter, Josh…," each person saying their own name on the recording. He had hung up before his own name, part of him afraid that it wouldn't be there any longer.
That had only been a day ago. But it felt like forever.
Drake looked at himself again. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to take a shower. He wanted to eat a meal that didn't come out of a package. He dug in his pocket for his wallet and opened it, pulling out the money he had left. Counting it, he frowned. He had less than 200 dollars left – he had gone through more than 1300 in three months. Where it had all gone he couldn't remember, except that the bus ticket itself had cost him over 200. At this rate, he'd be out of money in a month. Then what?
He didn't have the answer to that.
Sighing, he stuffed the money back into his wallet and slipped his wallet back into his pocket. Two hundred dollars was plenty to get him to where he was going. He'd worry about the rest later.
Gathering up his things, he exited the bathroom. The old man was resting his head against the back of his chair, eyes closed. Drake walked stealthily to a chair at the opposite end of the room and sat down, resting his backpack on his lap, holding it in one hand while the other hand gripped his guitar case.
In no time, he was asleep.
When he awoke, the sunlight streaming through the windows had been replaced by dim overhead fluorescents. It was dark outside. He felt someone looking at him and looked to his left. The old man from earlier sat staring back at him, unblinking.
The old man smiled. "I think you missed your bus."
Drake looked around. He and the old man were the only two people still waiting. A heavy feeling clutched at his insides. Ignoring the old man, Drake stood up, hauling his things to the ticket window. There was a man sitting behind the barred glass, reading a magazine.
"Excuse me," Drake asked, waiting for the man to look up at him. "Did the replacement bus for the passengers going to Key West come yet?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
The man checked a list. "That bus came and went an hour ago."
Drake closed his eyes, resting his head in the crook of his elbow on the counter. "When's the next one?" he asked wearily, looking up again.
Consulting the list again, the man answered, " There ain't another bus headed to the Keys until Tuesday." It was Saturday night.
"What?" Drake asked. "Why so long?" He was so tired of waiting. He was so tired.
The man shrugged. "That route only comes through here twice a week. Ain't no demand for it." He picked up his magazine again, turning his attention to it.
Drake stared at the man in silence for a moment, then mumbled an irritated, "Thanks."
The old man was still grinning at him when he turned around. "Still going south?" he asked.
Drake bit back the harsh reply that sprang to mind. Instead, he said nothing as he pushed through the door and into the humid Florida night.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
He nodded sleepily into his coffee cup. Sitting at the counter in a cozy little diner, he was almost asleep.
"You look wiped," the waitress said softly, setting the coffee pot on the counter.
Drake lifted his head slowly, his tired eyes taking a moment to focus. A forty-ish woman with dark blonde hair and kind brown eyes looked back at him. He smiled lopsidedly. "That obvious, huh?"
She chuckled. "You were almost droolin' in your coffee."
Drake snorted. "It's been a long day," he replied, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. He looked around – the place was empty except for the two of them. "Slow night," he commented.
"For now," she replied. The small gold-colored pin on her lapel said her name was Phyllis. "Wait until the game lets out."
"Game?" Drake asked curiously.
Phyllis smiled at him. "You're not from around here, are you?"
Drake shook his head. "I'm headed south. I fell asleep and missed my bus," he said sheepishly.
"Well, enjoy the quiet while it lasts. 'Cause in less than an hour, this place'll be full of hungry football fans demandin' their dinner." Phyllis snapped her fingers. "That reminds me. Let's find out how the boys're doin'." Her southern drawl caused her to drop every "g" at the end of her words.
She pulled out a radio from underneath the counter and turned it on, tuning it to the correct station. The raucous sound of a college football game echoed from the speakers. The excited voice of the announcer was in the middle of blaring, "…57 yards for a touchdown! Oh my! What a return! That puts the Gators ahead 41 to 3 with 17 seconds left! Oh my…" Phyllis switched it off. She smiled at Drake. "Looks like the boys are gonna win again," she said. "At least everyone'll be happy tonight."
"What college is here?" he asked, feeling a little stupid.
"Why, the –" she pronounced it thee " – University of Florida, of course. Home of the Gators." She winked at him. "We take our football very seriously."
Drake replied, "I can see that."
"Where are you from?" she asked, leaning in the counter.
"California," he answered. "San Diego."
She whistled between her teeth. "That's a long way from here," she said. "What brings you to Florida?"
It was a question he didn't want to answer. He looked at her, trying to decide what to say. Finally, he did what he always did – he fell back on his charm. "The company," he said, smiling.
Phyllis laughed. "Yeah, right." She studied him closely, her eyes scanning his face until he squirmed slightly under the scrutiny. "You need a place to stay?" she asked suddenly, straightening.
"Huh?" Drake asked, startled.
"My aunt – she's a real sweet lady – has a room for rent." She raised one eyebrow. "If you're interested."
Drake demurred, waving his hand in the air between them and shaking his head. "I won't be here that long. I'm leaving on Tuesday. But thanks anyway."
She gave him a small smile, tilting her head slightly to the side. "Sure." She paused, assessing him some more. Then she pulled her order pad from her apron pocket and clicked open her retractable pen. "My aunt," she said, scribbling, "just loves the guitar." She pronounced it "gi-tar." She tore off the piece of paper and handed it to him. The name Mildred Wallace, an address, and a phone number with a 352 area code were written on it. Underneath that was written, "Aunt Millie, He's a nice boy. And he plays the guitar! Love, Phyl."
Drake tried to hand it back. "No, really…" he began.
She cut him off by putting up her hand. "Three days is a long time," she said. "Plans can change." She smiled. "Just keep it. Humor an old lady."
After a moment of contemplation, Drake folded the paper and put it in his pocket. "Thanks," he said softly.
"You're welcome." She looked at her watch. "Oh my. I better make some more coffee. The natives get restless if they don't get their coffee." She gave him a wink and turned away, busying herself with the coffee maker.
Drake watched her in silence as she expertly prepared the coffee. The bell over the door jingled him out of his reverie and he looked up. A group of six people pushed through the door, whooping it up, dressed in an outrageous array of orange and blue.
"We need food!" one of them exclaimed as they crammed into a booth.
"See, I told you," Phyllis whispered conspiratorially to him across the counter.
Drake just smiled. While she was busy with the newcomers, he took out his wallet, dropped twenty bucks onto the counter – he didn't think she'd take it if she was looking – and pushed out the door past another group of hungry college students coming in for their post-victory meal.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
It was a quiet neighborhood. The house he was looking for was on the left-hand side, third house from the corner. It sat back from the road, its upper floor almost completely obscured by trees. An older house, it had peeling paint and a sagging front porch, the boards creaking under his feet as he walked to the door.
He rapped his knuckles against the frame of the screen door and waited, a folded piece of paper in his left hand. After a moment, the door opened and a tiny woman in her sixties peered out at him through the screen.
"Mrs. Wallace?" Drake asked.
"Yes?" she asked, stepping closer.
"Hi," he said tentatively. "My name is Drake Parker. Your niece said you had a room for rent." He held out the piece of paper. "She gave me this."
Mildred Wallace opened the door and took the paper from his hand, setting the glasses that were dangling from a silver chain around her neck onto her nose. As she read the note, she smiled. "Do you know the song, 'The Yellow Rose of Texas?'" she asked, looking up at him. "That's my favorite."
Drake smiled. "No, ma'am," he said. "But I can learn."
His life had just changed forever, but he didn't know it yet.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
He had the taste of cigarettes in his mouth. He lay awake next to a girl whose name he couldn't remember – he wasn't really sure she had even told him – and briefly wondered where he was.
Then it dawned on him. He had agreed to be the fill-in guitarist for a local garage band at a gig they had booked at a fraternity party. The fraternity had needed cheap entertainment and Drake had needed the money. He had only been in town for two weeks, but he had already run out of money and the bartender at a bar he played at one night knew a guy who knew the singer in the band whose guitarist had just come down with appendicitis. It only paid 100 bucks, but he'd take it.
The band was terrible, really, if you asked him – just a lot of eardrum-splitting noise and no substance – but the gig was a gift horse and he wasn't about to look it in the mouth. Mrs. Wallace was doing him a favor (he knew that she was asking a lot less for rent than what it was worth) and he didn't want to betray her trust in him.
So he played his part with as much gusto as he could muster – it was easy work, actually, since the key was just to sound as much like a chainsaw as possible – and gulped down cup after cup of what was called fruit punch, but what Drake suspected had a much higher octane rating.
He was in a random room with a random girl whose clothes, as well as his, were spread out randomly on the floor. A thin blade of light knifed beneath the door, cutting across the bed. He looked over at her, vaguely remembering the way her long dark hair felt against his face. She had been wearing a red shirt that was cut low enough to reveal just the top of a tattoo on her left breast – a tattoo that he'd later discover was a butterfly. She smoked Marlboro Lights and had laughed when he turned down the one she had offered him.
"I don't smoke," he said. They were sitting on the edge of a bed in someone else's bedroom. He couldn't quite remember how he had gotten there.
"No?" she asked, laughing. "Imagine that. A rock star who doesn't smoke." She slid closer to him, her fingers snaking slowly up the inside of his thigh, stopping when they brushed against his groin. Her grin widened, the tip of her tongue between her teeth. "So, rock star. You got a name?"
"Drake," he whispered, clenching his teeth. He looked into her eyes, thought they were blue. "Drake P–"
"Eh eh," she teased. "'Drake' is just fine." She captured his mouth in her own, pushing her tongue past his teeth. After a moment, she pulled back, her lips wet.
Drake licked his own lips, tasted cigarettes and cherry lip gloss. His eyes focused on her mouth when she spoke next. "Smoking relaxes me, Drake." Suddenly she threw her leg across his lap, straddling him, her weight pushing him back onto the bed. She stared down at him, her hair tickling his face. "What do you do to relax?"
He thought he should get up, go home. He had no idea what time it was, but knew it was really late. But she was breathing evenly next to him and the sound lulled him to sleep before he could even sit up.
When he woke up again, she was gone.
Much later, he would discover that her name was Kelly. And her eyes weren't blue. They were gray.
Feedback is like discovering that there's one more chocolate chip cookie left in the package. Please review. Thank you.