Chapter 2
-Pete Wentz-
in the movie of my life...
starring you instead of me...
when the moonlight...
hits your bright eyes I go blind...
maybe next time I'll remember...
how to write a freaking decent song...
Why am I sucking so bad today? I asked myself. I could usually write brilliant songs in no time at all, but now I couldn't write anything. It'd been like that all week. Joe and I were starting a new band, and we wanted to take this one seriously. I would play bass, Joe would play the guitar. I could scream, but I couldn't really sing. At least, not exceptionally well—which is what we needed. So, we were holding auditions for a singer, and a drummer, which we also needed. We'd had a couple of auditions already, but no one had really stood out yet.
"Hey, Pete," Joe said as he walked through the door of the small studio we were renting to hold auditions in, and eventually practices—once we had a band.
"Hey, Joe," I said from the couch I was sitting on. The studio consisted of our drum set, Joe's guitar, my bass, a microphone stand, and a couch that was already in the studio when we first got here. It was otherwise empty. "What time is our first audition today?" I asked. Joe shrugged, taking a seat next to me with his guitar.
"Two guys called me yesterday, but I don't know if the first one is coming. He should be here by now. The other should be here in half an hour," he told me. I sighed. This is going to be a long week, I thought.
The first guy never showed, but the second one was right on time. He was tall and thin, not an ounce of muscle on his body. He was wearing a sweater vest over a button-down shirt, pleated slacks, a hint of checkered socks showing at his ankles whenever he walked.
"Hello, I'm Jeremy," he introduced himself. "I'm trying out to be your drummer." I almost laughed. He was the exact opposite of what we were looking for—Joe in his usual attire of a tee-shirt and jeans, his Jew-fro looking just a little crazier than normal, and me in my skinny jeans and hoodie, black eyeliner smudged around my eyes. How are we gonna get a decent punk sound outta this kid? I thought.
It turned out worse than I'd anticipated. He couldn't keep a beat to save his life, and he thrashed around like he was having a seizure. I really don't think he'd ever touched a drum set in his life. When he finally stopped, his hair disheveled and his breathing heavy, I just stared at him. Joe thanked him and told him we'd call him if he got the job. Yeah… We wouldn't be calling him. Ever. My disgust and disappointment must have shown on my face after the kid left because Joe put his hand on my shoulder.
"Don't worry, man. We'll find our guys," he said.
"I hope so," I replied. "I really hope so."