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hargrove-mayfields · 3 years

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for @magellan-88!

When Hawkins’ class of ‘85 graduated high school, Billy was the first to take off, halfway back to San Francisco before the caps even touched the ground.

Everyone gave hats off to him for being one of the few who’d ever make it out of the dying ghost town that was Hawkins, but as much as he hated that place and all its confines, he felt like he had left behind a lot.

The job wasn’t what he really wanted to do anyways, his house, when he was still staying there, was cramped, and after only a couple of months, the town had no sentimental value to him. The only thing he couldn’t help but feel bad about ditching, and that amounted to a whole lot of regret on his part, were the people.

Not the girls who swooned over him or the half made friendships he’d been neglecting since they formed anyways either, but he had his little sister, to whom he promised he’d drop everything and come back the second she said the word, and he also had Steve.

His relationship with Steve was a little blurrier, the two of them had gotten to the point of calling each other friends just after Christmas, best friends by the time Neil kicked Billy out for nothing but turning the big one-eight in april, and he was left crashing on the Harrington’s designer couch until he was free to leave Hawkins.

That’s where Steve would’ve ended the story at least, but as for Billy, he’d fallen ass over tits in love for his best friend in a matter of a smoldering gaze at a Halloween party.

Of all the many things he regrets about his short time in that cramped little town, he’d have to say the biggest was not having worked up the courage to fess up about his little crush before he skipped town to live it up more than two thousand miles away, mostly because that had been the only of his mistake he never took any time to resolve.

So it was that when Steve, apparently completely forgetting about the existence of time zones, calls him up at five in the morning to ask if he could come out to visit his new place in the golden state in a few weeks, Billy senses a pretty big opportunity.

What Steve had always done when Billy was staying at his place was cover the couch in the upstairs foyer, as he was made to call it, in layers of spare pillows and blankets, making it up like a bed for him. If he could, he would’ve let him have the guest bedroom, but that was out of the question when every other night that Steve’s parents were home, they argued and John had to take the spare.

But Billy doesn’t have a spare room, and he isn’t too sure about doing the same for Steve in his new apartment.

The problem isn’t that he can't, he has a brand new couch, bought from an actual furniture store instead of an old busted up one at thrift (or that he brought in off the curb and said was bought at thrift) and it’s even got a pull out to make things easier. He’d spent too many dozens of nights on Steve’s couch, staring up at the way high ceiling and wishing he had the guts to make a move, that he doesn’t think his yearning heart can take being just down the hall from him again, especially not with the promise that in a few weeks time, there’d be that vast, looming space between them again.

So he’s settled on it, Steve is going to sleep in his bed. He’s just gotta find a way to get him there, and that’s simple enough, he just has to pretend there’s nowhere else for him to sleep.

Now, he’ll admit that his plan on selling that idea is shaky at best, but Steve is bone tired when he gets there a few days later, his first time flying and dealing with jet lag taking everything he has out of him, so really, he’s looking to crash as soon as they get up to Billy’s apartment.

Only, he notices immediately that the couch isn’t set up like a bed like he usually would have done it up, and he looks to Billy with a slight tilt of his head, confusion in those big puppy-dog eyes.

So Billy answers, trying not to be too smug about it, “Sorry man, couch is out of the question.”

“Why?” Steve asks, then thinks better of it, knowing Billy’s history, “Actually, hold that thought, I don’t think I want to know.”

That makes Billy laugh, makes him remember why he fell in love with Steve in the first place too, “Nothing gross this time, s’just brand new. Can’t have you drooling all over the furniture that cost me two months of rent.”

“Right. So.. where am I going to sleep then?”

“I’ve got a bed, Steve.”

“Well duh, but I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed.”

“I didn’t say that. You’re not the only one with a queen sized now. I got room for two.”

“But.. is that going to be weird?” Steve asks, shifting on his feet, like the suggestion makes him uncomfortable, and Billy almost backs out then, lies about how he was just messing around to test Steve, but he sticks to his guns, saying, “Only if you make it weird. Don’t have much of a choice anyhow, unless you want to sleep in the bathtub.”

Steve insists on arguing though, “What’s wrong with sleeping on the floor?”

“Dude, this is a shitty ass apartment. I live here and I don’t even know half of the nasty shit that’s been on this floor.”

“Fine, just as long as I have a place to sleep.” Steve half-mumbles, cut off by a yawn, obviously too tired to keep pressing the issue.

He saunters off to Billy’s room not too long after that, not even changing out of his clothes before he’s throwing himself face down in his bed, leaving Billy to do his entire nighttime routine while Steve makes himself right at home, assuming that after brushing his teeth and putting his hair up, changing out of his jeans and triple checking that the doors and windows were locked tight, that’d be enough time for Steve to fall asleep.

That however, does not happen to be the case.

Billy knew from sleeping just down the hall from Steve’s bedroom that he snored like a motherfucker, and from the times he had fallen asleep on the basketball bus after a game that Steve never stopped moving in his sleep, but he was truly not prepared for how difficult it was for Steve to get to sleep in the first place.

He understands it, he remembers how hard it had been trying to relax in the silence that surrounded the country, and since that was all Steve was used to, it wasn’t exactly a surprise that the sounds of the city were hard for him to tune out and just sleep.

What he doesn’t understand is how Steve doesn’t wear himself out tossing and turning, and after at least an hour of it, Billy’s got to wonder if this is a princess and the pea type situation, some messed up spring in his mattress making this arrangement not proper for the royalty at his side.

Billy can tell he wants to talk, from the way he keeps feeling Steve’s eyes on his back, the tapping of his fingers against the headboard, which, if they got to talking he might not even need part two of his plan, but Steve doesn’t ever say anything just sighs with every chime on the clock, another hour he can’t get to sleep.

It isn’t until three in the morning rolls around that Steve finally conks out, Billy himself still barely awake enough to shoot his shot, draping himself over Steve and pulling him close before he has a chance to roll over onto his front again, falling asleep with his crush in his arms.

~~~~

The sun’s not up yet, and the clock’s too blurry to say exactly what time it is when Steve wakes up again, realizing after a few minutes that he’s hot as hell, and didn’t immediately start tossing and turning again, which, once he’s actually woken up enough to think, he discovers that the only reason that is is because Billy is pressed against his back, his arm thrown over his side, spooning him and basically keeping him held there in place.

Steve at first tries not to think about it, the whole, sleeping in the same bed as the person he deliberately never did that with to avoid facing his feeling, and just get comfortable with Billy all cuddled up to him, but he’s a front sleeper, and Billy is fucking hot in more ways than one, so when it’s evident that’s not going to work, he clears his throat, announcing into the silence, “You’re smotherin’ me, Bill.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath behind him, like Billy had just woken up, and a soft little hum of a question, “Hm?”

“You’re like, on top of me, man.” Steve informs him, like he didn’t notice he was half laying on him, but Billy answers bluntly, voice all tired and scratchy, “Don’t care.”

That sort of confuses Steve. He’d been expecting an apology, for Billy to roll over and them to pretend this never happened in the morning, and it’s got his mind, and his heart, racing a mile a minute, because Billy isn’t the only one with a helpless crush, there’s a reason Steve flew 2,000 miles just to see him.

So he asks, before he can lead himself on, “Just to be clear, is this an accidental thing that only isn’t awkward because we’re friends or is this like, meaningful?”

Billy just hums, pulling him even closer, making Steve feel small, “Go to sleep, Steven.”

“Okay.” He tries to, shoving his arm under the pillows and shifting under Billy’s weight so he’d be comfortable enough, but it’s just nagging at his lovesick brain, “But seriously man, I don’t know what I should take away from this.”

Billy sighs softly, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, maybe because he was tired, maybe because Steve was being Steve, “Look, you’re in my bed, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, because of the couch, I thought you were just a cuddler or something.”

“Nope. This was all by design.”

“So then the couch..”

“Was perfectly fine, yeah. Damn thing even has a fold out.”

“You did this on purpose?”

“Thought I made that pretty obvious.”

Steve pouts, sitting up so Billy has to let go of him, “Well if you’re so annoyed with me, I’ll just leave you to get back to sleep.”

“Oh no. It’s much too late for that. I’m thinking we’re going to have to find another way to spend the time now. And, well, since you’re already here...”

#harringrove #steve harrington #billy hargrove #ej writer #story by ej!#this took ages and I’m really very sorry about that #I hit a huge writers block because of school stress and stuff #but it’s here! and other requests will be being written too!#as well as new chapters on my fics!#basically this is your sign that I’m being productive again!

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no-dull-days · 3 years

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Bogota, Colombia

Exploring Bogota's Misunderstood History

Three weeks in to Colombia, I headed to the infamous Bogota . As dawn approached, I arrived at the North Terminal. 14 hours had passed during the night bus from Popayan. The trek to Bogota took us through the Andes mountains, hairpin curves, and peculiar weather. I was suspicious as we drove by uneasy scenery. I’d researched every other destination prior to arrival. Bogota was the exception.

History: During the 1980’s & 90’s Bogota was the most dangerous city in the world. I'll bet you think it's danger emanated from drug cartels…More people were killed in Bogota by buses and cars than by military or political problems. Children feared being hit by a car, truck, or bus. Public transportation was a mafia run business. Buses would block traffic or run people over on the sidewalk. The people of Bogota were ashamed of the city. There was a lack of infrastructure coupled by low security and high safety concerns. Residents had zero faith in the future. Leaders didn’t know where to go or what to do. Bogota had no vision, no model and no money. It was known as the worst place in Latin America.

In 1998 Enrique Peñalosa was elected mayor of Bogota. During a visit to Europe, Peñalosa said, “as a fish needs to swim, we need to walk. Not in order to survive, but in order to be happy.” In regards to Bogota, Peñalosa was convinced, crime and poverty were connected to Bogota’s design — how the city was structured.

Something had to be done, considering Bogota’s population grew from 100k to 7 million in 100 years. Peñalosa created automobile restrictions. In the following ten years, Bogota’s murder rate fell a whopping 70%! From the highest in the world to less than that of Washington DC.

Bogota’s bus system was modeled after a Brazilian city. Today, Bogota has an internationally acclaimed bus system. Public transportation has brought the community together. Take Avenida el Dorado— there’s what seems to be endless miles of road dedicated solely to pedestrians. On Sundays, over a million people show up to ride, walk and socialize. It’s the safest place in the city. By way of urban design, a city for the people was created.

It changed beyond belief. We changed the city more for people than for cars.

— Enrique Peñalosa

As a statement of priorities, Avenida el Dorado was built to go through the poorest communities. It’s the longest pedestrian walkway on the continent. Buses and parks are all connected causing entire neighborhoods to interact. When communities know one another, crime rates fall and the quality of life improves. Locals even denounced those who violated the system.

Public transportation was a multi billion dollar industry. By placing mafia members on the board of directors and giving them stock options, the system evolved. A power play considering the mob could crush the city.

Bogota’s large sidewalks show people are equally or more valuable than automobiles. These and other changes made it more difficult for people to access businesses which led to a movement to impeach Peñalosa. People soon realized public interests come before private interests. This urban design proclaims a bicyclist is just as important as a $30,000 automobile. Bogota’s mayor, Peñalosa, left office with the highest approval rating of any mayor in history.

This is one iota of Bogota’s history. The powerful drug cartels of the 80s who ruled cities such as Medellin, Bogota, and Miami were historical times no doubt. Seeing the murals, sites, and stomping grounds of these tumultuous times was spine-tingling.

I explored the Halls of Justice where Supreme Court Justices were assassinated and many others were killed or held hostage. I’ve watched dozens of documentaries on Colombia and Pablo Escobar’s reign over Bogota. Walking around the city was like being in a history book.

The history was so thick, it almost rivaled The Lost City of Petra’s history! Escobar and the drug cartels pillaged Bogota and ran the city at some points. Escobar practically owned the police. He was both loved and hated by fellow Colombians. He also made the Forbes Top 10 List. Netflix’s, ‘Narcos’, does a great job of documenting what happened during this time. Both enthralling, and terrifying.

My Experience: Upon arrival, I had no plans. My Spanish had drastically improved. I was sociable, yet cautious. Violent crime still occurs at random. After Cartagena, I discovered it was tough finding a place to stay in advance. Taxis can be dangerous and I didn’t know how far I’d be from my destination. There were times I’d arrive in a new city, by plane or bus after dark. I didn’t think it was wise to take a bus or walk through unfamiliar neighborhoods. Speaking far from perfect Spanish and carrying thousands of dollars of electronics didn’t ease the situation.

All through Colombia, ATMs dispense pesos. Many of the bills are COL$50,000 and finding change can be difficult. Exchange rates and small bills was another barrier. If you’re traveling to Colombia, I’d recommend learning how to count to 100,000 in Spanish.

I rented a room in the common style five bedroom home for COL$50,000/24 hours. This gave me time to make plans, look at a map and figure out where I wanted to stay thereafter. I had a queen bed with a private bathroom. 15 minutes later, I was walking to another bus. I paid special attention to the landmarks because addresses were beyond my understanding. Getting lost was no fun.

Perhaps my favorite thing to do in Bogota was play tejo. Tejo can be played for fun with points or in professional tournaments. The object of the game is to throw fairly heavy discs at small triangle packets filled with gunpowder. Points are acquired when there’s a ferocious bang! They sound like revolvers firing at random. It’s fun playing in lanes with 30 people. It sounds like a fire fight. Only difference is, everyone’s drinking beers and smoking various substances. Players stand about 40 feet away and the gun powder packets are about 3 inches. They sit in a clay bay at a 45 degree angle.

Aside from tejo, sampling mouthwatering exotic fruits was a meal in itself. I sampled literally dozens of fruits I never knew existed. Fruits with vibrant colors and bizarre shapes with funky names. Outrageous natural flavors. I’d return to Bogota just for the fruits!

Though Bogota’s fruits were an enlightening experience, it made me sad and angry. I thought of Monsanto — the massive evil corporation based in the US that’s burned farmers in more ways than god intended. I thought of the politicians and lobbyists that support GMOs — special seeds created from the same corporation that developed Agent Orange in Vietnam.

Between fresh fruits in Bogota, godly organic produce in the rural Nicaraguan mountains and Panamanian islands, I practically had steam coming outta my ears. I drank water from a stream near Ecuador. It was the purest, most amazing water I’ve ever had. If you know what food and water should taste like, it should make you absolutely livid that corporations and politicians are taking control of our food supply and destroying our water for bigger profits.

La Candelaria: I made a friend at the bus stop who guided me to La Candelaria in Bogota. La Candelaria is a hipster neighborhood that reminded me of Berkeley and San Francisco. Graffiti on every corner, VW’s, head shops, music stores, and reggae music all flooded by local college students.

The nightlife here was unique. Hundreds of people mingled throughout the area on bicycles and mopeds. The energy was comforting and it was refreshing to meet a wide array of travelers in this area who spoke broken English.

The daunting feelings of massive Bogota subsided when I found a great hostel in this neighborhood. I got a private room and bathroom for COL$60,000/night. I met other international travelers. I had a solid internet connection, private living quarters, a hot shower, and food from all over the world in my neighborhood.

In the following days, I explored the city on bicycle — by guided tour and on my own. Two friends and I rode around for five hours with a Bogota local. We saw cemeteries, tasted the world’s finest coffee, learned about political graffiti, human rights, Pablo Escobar, terrorism, cocaine, Buddhism, the upper class, and people who lived in sewers. We learned about the Emerald Industry and agriculture.

Attractions: The city of Bogota, home to about 10 million people, is a massive city. It resides at 8,660 ft in the Andes Mountains. The air is a little thin, but I got used to it. You��d really need many months to see everything the city has to offer. I enjoyed the hike to the top of the Monserrate.

Monserrate is a mountain that dominates the city center of Bogota, the capital city of Colombia. It rises to 10,341 ft above the sea level, where there is a church built in the 17th century. — Wikipedia

Bolivar Square is a huge plaza with government buildings, tremendous history and usually the location of concerts and festivals. It’s a great place to socialize and take in the open air. I also enjoyed the Bogota Botanical Gardens. It too was a nice place to casually walk around, mingle, and learn something new.

However, I enjoyed Parque 93 moreso. It reminded me of Golden Gate Park in San Francisco where singles, families, couples, bikers, and dog walkers all come together for lunch, reading the newspaper, and snoozing in the sunshine. The bike tour was probably my favorite though. There’s a number of companies throughout the city. If you’re looking for nightlife in Bogota, I can vouch for that too. If you’re a social butterfly, workaholic, party animal, foodie, or entrepreneur, Bogota has plenty to offer.

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tzdkh · 3 years

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For my next party trick, @immolatic has asked once more for two hacker idiots: “ he doesn't deserve you. and i’m not— i’m not trying to be that asshole that says i do. but I sure as hell would never hurt you like that. ”

There are things about London Reggie enjoys immensely - the way the air tastes like blood and revolution, the freedom he feels despite the oppression, the threat of violence that’s always right there, just out of his grip. But there are things about London that Reggie does does not enjoy, and the rapidly lowering temperatures is one of them. The fact that his usual attire - hoodies and jeans - does next to nothing to combat the bite of the cold and promise of snow is frustrating, and the fact that he’d not thought ahead before taking his definitely-not-running-away trip to London is something he’s mildly ashamed of.

Fact of the matter is, Reggie is broke, flat broke. Everything he steals goes into plans, everything he scams out of companies goes into supplies and rent. And anything that doesn’t, he spends on things he shouldn’t. Takeout and beer. Imported cigarettes and drugs he’d made a promise never to get back on.

But promises are easily broken, and like the promise of ‘Until Death do us part’ , his promise of going clean goes right out the window, shatters against a nearby wall, it’s pieces left to rot in his past in San Francisco.

So Reggie spends more than he has, makes due with both petty crime and grand theft. Everything is fine. Until winter comes, and he finds himself with numb fingers and no gloves to solve the problem and no sheets on the bed to warm him at night.

Predictably, however, Jay is fine. Jay plans ahead, much to Reggie’s utter dismay at times. The Fixer had grown in their time apart, from someone selfish and angry and bitter at the world, to someone who was still all the aforementioned, but a touch more aware of his surroundings. He’d planned ahead, of course, for cold days and colder nights, and it takes all of Reggie’s willpower not to complain about it.

He doesn’t complain - because he’s a grown ass man - but things show up in his half of the apartment anyway. A black beanie that he takes to wearing all the time. Gloves with fingerpads that register on touch technology. Thick hooded pullovers (some that have Defalt screen printed on them, which he does not laugh about) that he changes out his thinner sweater for. Flannel sheets for the mattress they share, a duvet that looks too nice and out of place in his messy apartment. Simple things. Expensive things. Things they don’t speak of because both of them are too wrapped up in their own shit to question what the hell is going on in the other’s head.

So. Reggie wears clothes Jay buys him. Jay looks indifferent. Winter creeps in and settles over London, and the resistance slows for a time, people focused on helping each other survive and not murdering each other in (literal now) cold blood. It’s almost peaceful. Almost.

And then Reggie drinks himself drunk and Jackson calls Jay to pick him up.

(’S’fine, m’fine.’ ‘You ate shit walking on even floor. I’m not letting you walk home like this. You’ll fall somewhere and freeze to death.’ ‘Fine. Call Jay.’ ‘Are you... sure about that?’ ‘Yes.’)

Jay, predictable, looks unimpressed with the entire affair, but he doesn’t baby Reggie, which is nice. He doesn’t scold him either - which is more nice. He just hefts an arm over his shoulders, slides an arm around Reggie’s waist and starts the walk home. A walk because Reggie insisted, between sighs and pouts, that it would be better, nicer, to walk home.

(‘It’s the first snow. C’mon, Jay, it’s almost romantic.’ ‘Fine. Fine. Shut up.’)

Which left them there. Two dangerous men, shuffling home in the dead of night through London as snow gently fell around them. Quiet as mice (rats) as each thought about whatever bullshit it was, as long as it wasn’t the other.

Reggie doesn’t last long in the silence. He’s warm, and drunk, and thinking of his last Christmas, which leads him down a road he shouldn’t follow, stumbling through memories more painful now to process than they would be were he sober.

“I think... I should've tried harder.” Jay doesn’t respond, but Reginald doesn’t need to. He could monologue like a villain when he needed to, and in the moment, he thinks he needs to. “Was so wrapped up in work shit. Robots. Designs. Bullshit.” He rolls his head to look at the sky, blinking just once as tears well up but quickly subside. “Zane wa’ right. M’kindof a jackass.” Gloved fingers squeeze at wrist and hip, but Reg doesn’t register the touch for what it is - a warning. Instead, he smiles ruefully and sniffles. “Shouldn’t have signed m’ fucking business...” He drifts, dropping his head. “D’you think m’fuck up?”

“Wrench.” Even drunk, Reg recognizes that tone for what it is. He groans and slumps into the body next to his, whines so he doesn’t have to listen to what comes next. Only nothing is said next. Instead, he finds himself dropped onto the stairs of the apartment block, wetness quickly seeping through denim and a chill running up his spine.

The noise he lets out is undignified, but there’s no fight to him anymore. Instead, the drunk man slumps into the halfwall nearest and blinks tiredly up at Jay. “ C’mon Jay.” He grumbles when nothing is said, after a solid minute of them staring at each other. “S’cold.”

“Shut up.” Jay squints at him, then looks away, mouth pursed in an annoyed line. When he looks back, the line softens, and Reggie watches in fascination as the other man ruffles his own hair irritably, musing dyed locks up, before huffing an irritated, smoky breath. “Stop talking about him.”

“I’m not - I’m -” Lamenting.

“Reg. Shut up and listen to me, I’m only going to say this fucking once,” Jay drops down to eye level, crouching in slush and wetness. His fingers touch the designer’s leg, palms curling over cold knees with tenderness, spreading warmth with a simple touch. “He doesn't deserve you.” Reggie’s mouth falls open, ready to protest but Jay gives him a look and he snaps it closed, listening now. “And I’m not — I’m not trying to be that asshole that says I do. But I sure as hell would never hurt you like that.”

Reggie blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Blinks again as sobriety hits him like a fucking bus, the rush of feelings hitting him like a fucking train. It’s too much said - not enough but too much - and he doesn’t know what to say. Tentatively, he touches one of Jay’s hands with his own, blinking back what he thinks are tears.

“Okay?” Jay’s expression softens, not just his mouth, but everything.

“Okay.”

It’s not quite a start, or a middle. But it’s something.

#immolatic #✦ anarchist → fuck shit up 「 gen. 」#✦ anarchist → fuck shit up 「 fills 」#:) i'm furious #i'm smiling but i'm angry

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sanfranciscopartybuscompany-blog · 3 years

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i-am-grell · 4 years

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Stuck in Quarantine? Here are some (Mostly) YA Book Recs that (probably) won’t be on other people’s lists!

Forgotten by Cat Patrick

Every night, while sixteen-year-old London Lane is asleep, her memory of that day is erased. In the morning, all she can “remember” are events from her future. London is used to relying on reminder notes and a trusted friend to get through the day, but things get complicated when Luke Henry enters the picture. Luke is not someone you’d easily forget, yet try as she might, London can’t find him in her memories of things to come.

When London starts experiencing disturbing flash-forwards, she sets out to learn about the past she keeps forgetting - before it destroys her future.

Mosquitoland by David Arnold

After the sudden collapse of her family, Mim Malone is dragged from her home in northern Ohio to the “wastelands” of Mississippi, where she lives in a medicated milieu with her dad and new stepmom. Before the dust has a chance to settle, she learns her mother is sick back in Cleveland.

So she ditches her new life and hops aboard a northbound Greyhound bus to her real home and her real mother, meeting a quirky cast of fellow travelers along the way. But when her thousand-mile journey takes a few turns she could never see coming, Mim must confront her own demons, redefining her notions of love, loyalty, and what it means to be sane.

Told in an unforgettable, kaleidoscopic voice, Mosquitoland is a modern American odyssey, as hilarious as it is heartbreaking.

Masque of the Red Death by Bethany Griffin

Everything is in ruins. A devastating plague has decimated the population, and those who are left live in fear of catching it as the city crumbles around them.

So what does Araby Worth have to live for?

Nights in the Debauchery Club, beautiful dresses, glittery makeup...and tantalizing ways to forget it all.

But in the depths of the club - in the depths of her own despair - Araby will find more than oblivion. She will find Will, the terribly handsome proprietor of the club, and Elliott, the wickedly smart aristocrat. Neither is what he seems. Both have secrets. Everyone does.

And Araby may find not just something to live for, but something to fight for - no matter what it costs her.

Switched by Amanda Hocking

When Wendy Everly was six years old, her mother was convinced she was a monster and tried to kill her. Eleven years later, Wendy discovers her mother might have been right. She’s not the person she’s always believed herself to be, and her whole life begins to unravel - all because of Finn Holmes.

Finn is a mysterious guy who always seems to be watching her. Every encounter leaves her deeply shaken...though it has more to do with her fierce attraction to him than she’d ever admit. But it isn’t long before he reveals the truth: Wendy is a changeling who was switched at birth - and he’s come to take her home.

Now Wendy’s about to journey to a magical world she never knew existed, one that’s both beautiful and frightening. And where she must leave her old life behind to discover who she’s meant to become...

Bloodsucking Fiends by Christopher Moore

Jody never asked to become a vampire. But when she wakes up under and alley Dumpster with a badly burned arm, an aching back, superhuman strength, and a distinctly Nosferatuan thirst, she realizes the decision has been made for her.

Making the transition from the nine-to-five grind to an eternity of nocturnal prowlings is going to take some doing, however, and that’s where C. Thomas Flood fits in. A would-be Kerouac from Incontinence, Indiana, Tommy (to his friends) is biding his time night-clerking and frozen-turkey bowling in a San Francisco Safeway. But all that changes when a beautiful undead redhead walks through the door...and proceeds to rock Tommy’s life - and afterlife - in ways he never thought possible.

Bloodthirsty by Flynn Meaney

Attention, all girls reading this:

We get it. The message is coming through loud and clear: You think vampires are hot. Your little sister thinks vampires are hot. Your mom thinks vampires are hot. Every single female on the face of the earth thinks vampires are hot. Girls love vampires, and I love girls. Unfortunately, girls don’t seem to love me.

So I’m making a change. For all the guys reading this, say a little prayer to the high school dating gods for me. Here’s hoping that girls think fake vampires are hot, too.

Awkward and allergic to the sun, sixteen-year-old Finbar Frame never gets the girl. But when he notices that all the female students at his school are obsessed with a vampire romance novel called Bloodthirsty, Finbar decides to boldly go where no sane guy has gone before - he becomes a vampire, minus the whole bloodsucking part.

With his brooding nature and unusually pale skin, it’s surprisingly easy for Finbar to pretend to be supernatural. But when he meets the one girl who just might like him for who he really is, he discovers that life as a pseudo-vampire is more complicated than he expected.

This hilarious debut novel is for anyone who believes that sometimes even nice guys - without sharp teeth or sparkly skin - can get the girl.

I’m Not Your Manic Pixie Dream Girl by Gretchen McNeil

Beatrice Maria Estrella Giovannini has life all figured out. She’s starting senior year at the top of her class, she’s a shoo-in for a scholarship to MIT, and she’s got a new boyfriend she’s crazy about. The only problem: All through high school Bea and her best friends, Spencer and Gabe, have been the targets of horrific bullying.

So Bea uses her math skills to come up with the Formula, a 100% mathematically guaranteed path to social happiness in high school. Now Gabe is on his way to becoming student body president, and Spencer is finally getting his art noticed. But when her boyfriend dumps her for Toile, the quirky new girl at school, Bea realizes it’s time to use the Formula for herself. She’ll be reinvented as eccentric and lovable Trixie - a quintessential manic pixie dream girl - in order to win her boyfriend back and beat Toile at her own game.

Unfortunately, being a manic pixie dream girl isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and “Trixie” is causing unexpected consequences for her friends. As the Formula begins to break down, can Bea find a way to fix everything she’s messed up? Or will the casualties of her manic pixie experiment go far deeper than she could possibly imagine?

Starters by Lissa Price

A girl with a terrifying choice. Her parents? Dead. Her brother? Sick. Her way out? Get paid to be somebody else. Who can she trust? No one.

Callie lost her parents when the Spore Wars wiped out everyone between the ages of twenty and sixty. She and her little brother, Tyler, are on the run, living as squatters with their friend Michael and fighting off renegades who would kill them for a cookie.

Callie’s only hope is Prime Destinations, a disturbing place in Beverly Hills run by a mysterious figure known as the Old Man. He hires teens to rent their bodies to Enders - seniors who want to be young again. Callie, desperate for the money that will keep her, Tyler, and Michael alive, agrees to be a donor. But the neurochip they place in Callie’s head malfunctions and she wakes up in the life of her renter, living in her mansion, driving her cars, and going out with a senator’s grandson.

It feels almost like a fairy tale, until Callie discovers that her renter intends to do more than party - and that Prime Destinations’ plans are more evil than Callie could ever have imagined...

#ya #ya books #ya novels #book recs #book recommendations #reading #bookworm #young adult #young adult novels #young adult books #im so bored

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forestcump · 4 years

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Gentrification and The Last Black Man In San Francisco

Heres a blog I wrote lol

Joe Talbot’s The Last Black Man in San Francisco is a tale told of the heartbreaking wave of culture-annihilating gentrification that has hit one of America’s iconic metropoles. It’s sloping streets, angular row houses, and quirky residents have made it a place of myth emboldened further by its key role in radical social movements such as the Anti-War Movement, The Black Panther Party, etc. But, the story Talbot tells doesn't reflect on the history known by most (white) Americans. Instead, he tells the story of the black man in San Francisco and all of the culture that gentrification is, successfully, trying to wipe away.

The film’s protagonist, Jimmie Failes IV, and his best friend, Montgomery Allen, take it upon themselves to maintain the house that Jimmie grew up in. The rub of the whole thing though is that neither Mont or Jimmie live there, in fact, this older Yuppie (stands for: Young, Urban Professional) couple are the owners of the property. In one of the first scenes, Jimmie is repainting the window sill in the front of the house and the woman who owns the house threatens to call the police, which is quickly met by her apologetic husband. This struck me as funny because it perfectly represents both sides of the well-meaning, affluent, white person that have become the principal population group in the city. On one side, these new folks are tired of locals giving them shit and not caring about them or their cool publishing jobs; and on the other they won’t call the cops to avoid the risk of being “like” other White people. Although humorous, this scene is a haunting reminder to viewers who are themselves victims of gentrification that this is what the final stages of the process look like. Neighborhoods once teeming with ethnic influence, devoid of the blandness of White America, have now been transformed into pricey and bland versions of the suburbs where these damn people come from.

The role of race is also very present in this film as it does a great job establishing the symbolic gravity that happens whenever Jimmie or Mont are on the screen. This becomes especially clear when the film returns to where Jimmie and Mont actually live, which is the far-off borough of Bayview-Hunters Point. This area plays just as key a role as the decadent Victorian house that Jimmie longs for, as it establishes the result of when a cities inhabitants are priced out of not just their homes but their impact on the cities culture. In this part of the map, there are a group of local men who spend their days busting the balls of any and everybody that come their way. This group acts as Greek Chorus which provides commentary and atmosphere to scenes where Jimmie and Mont seem to be singularly focused on the old Victorian. Another character that stood out to me was a Preacher who stands on a milk crate and preaches to these men, and anybody walking past, about the insane levels of inequality that have pushed Black people so far from the city. In one scene, the Preacher is railing against this mysterious cohort of men wearing hazmat suits cleaning some sort of chemical spill in the Bay right behind where the Preacher is standing. “Why are they wearing suits and we’re not? What are they not telling us?” he roars atop his milk crate to the attention of, uh, nobody that’s listening.

The imagery of this movie, which includes the Chorus and The Preacher, speak to the San Francisco that is fading away fast. Another image that stands out is a scene where Jimmie is waiting at a bus stop next to a nudist and they are both accosted by a party bus full of inebriated Yuppies. They roar and cackle at the sight of the nudist and proclaim him “the fuckin’ man!”, but fail to realize they’re role in the extermination of people like the nudist. Jimmie and this nude man sit silently in shared exhaustion of this wave of people storming they’re city, despite their best efforts to “be cool”, the city is dying with each yoga studio and salad bar that opens.

Although my experience as a straight, white man has no comparison to the struggles of POC and LGBTQIA+ communities in this country, I do share the same feeling of being exiled from your own home. I grew up in Hoboken, New Jersey which has now turned into a hot bed for gentrifiers who desire to work in New York. This is yet another iconic American metropole that has had it’s soul stamped out by the wave of suburbanites who feel it is their right to claim the city as their own. This is seen, mostly, in the cost of housing and cost of living which has skyrocketed as a result of the wave of private equity money that flooded the city and whose tentacles have reached nearly every industry you could imagine. Hoboken was once a working class town that had its fair share of racial tension, as any town in this country, but it always remained genuinely Hoboken, until the real estate developers came. Wharfs and warehouses that once played a key role in the American economy were demolished and turned into apartment complexes. This obviously brought more money into the community, but soon the locals that made Hoboken were being pushed out further and further. For instance, my mother and I lived in one apartment for my entire childhood until the end of middle school but the rent got raised and we were forced to move to Jersey City. In high school, I spent most of my free time in Hoboken because that’s where my friends were but everytime the party was over and my friends walked back to their childhood homes, I had to walk across the city to the train station to get back to my new home. I felt displaced and lonely for most of my high school days as I grappled with the harsh realities of gentrification and the brutality of capitalism. It also did not help that my mother was laid off from her job in 2009 and was essentially job-less for five years.

My childhood home was sold to a young couple from somewhere that they turned into some trendy little spot for them to live for the time being. No care was given to the memories I made there or the progress that my mother made as a single mom raising a child in this area, just a cold “Sorry, thanks for cleaning it before you left”. The coldness of gentrification is the most galling result of this phenomenon. The young people move in and immediately lust for making their mark; whether it be calling the police or 311 on locals loitering on the streets, or building breweries in old school buildings, etc. Business' that I grew up walking by every day became boarded up and replaced with hair salons and boutiques that were going to close in six months anyway. But, despite the spirit that lives in places like Hoboken, San Francisco, New York, or Boston; money always seems to win.

Watching “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” gave me a strange sense of hope because it showed me how to defend your home, even when the odds are terribly stacked against you. There was a scene at the end of the movie where Jimmie Failes is sitting on the bus and overhears these two Yuppie women shitting on San Francisco and talking about much they “hate it here”. Jimmie turns to them and tells them “you don't get to hate it unless you love it”, which doesn’t make an impact on the women, but it made an impact on me and many others who have seen the movie. Hearing transplants bitch and moan about how shitty the New York subway is or complaining about the cat that lives in the bodega makes me laugh when it used to make me sad, because I know that the city has won. What I mean by that, is that when you hear Yuppies complain about the community they’ve gentrified it's clear that they’ve failed to make “the city their own” and have succumbed to the community that was already there. Cities are magical places that are the center for so many things, but what truly makes them magical are the people that built them, whether it be physically or spiritually. So, I hope to embody the spirit of Jimmie and Mont as fierce defenders of their homes even when it doesnt even seem worth it to fight for it anymore.

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freedomartspress · 4 years

Text

Three Poems — Tongo Eisen Martin

Kick Drum Only

All street life to a certain extent starts fair

Sometimes with a spiritual memory even

Predawn soul-clap/ your father dying even

Maybe I’ve pushed the city too far

My sensitivities to landfill districting and minstrel whistles/

White supremacist graffiti on westbound rail guards

-all overcome and reauthored

The garbage is growing voices

Condensed Marxism

modal gangsterism for a warrior-depressive

Underpass in my pocket

because I am a deity

or decent bid on the Panther name

revolutionary violence that chose its own protagonists

or muted stage of genius

A merciful Marxism

Disquieted home life

Or metaphor for relaxing next to a person

Who is relaxing next to a gun

I stare at my father for a few seconds

Then return to my upbringing

Return to the souls of Ohio Black folks

Revolution is damn near pagan at this point

You know what the clown wants? The respect of the ant.

Wants a pen cap full of bullets

Wants to see their ancestors in broad daylight

I am not tired of these rooms; just tired of the world that give them a relativity

My only change of clothes prosecuted

The government has finally learned how to write poems

shoot-outs that briefly align…

that make up a parable

white bodies are paid well, I posit

do white men actually even have leaders?

all white people are white men

white men will only ever be metaphors

all I do is practice, Lord

A rat pictures a river

Can almost taste the racial divide

Can almost roll a family member’s head into a city hall legislative chamber

Knows who in this good book will fly

I have decided not to talk out of anger ever again, Lord

Met my wife at the same time I met new audience members for our pain

We passed each other cigarettes and watched cops win

A city gone uniquely linear

Harlem of the West due a true universe

“I will always remember you in fancy clothes,” my wife said

so here I sit… twisting in silk ideation

My rifle made of tar

My targets made of an honest language

This San Francisco poetry is how God knows that it is me whining

Writing among the lesser-respected wolves

Lesser-observed militarization

Dixie-less prison bookkeeping/I mean the California gray-coats are coming

lynch mob gossip and bourgeois debt collection

I mean, it’s tempting to change professions mid-poem

in a Chicago briefing, a white sergeant saying, “blank slate for all of us after this Black organizer is dead.”

standard academics toasting two-buck wine at the tank parade

bay of nothing, Lord

nuclear cobblestones, gunline athleticism

and the last of the inherited asthma

children given white dolls to play with and fear

facial expressions borrowed from rich people’s shoe strings

I can hear hate

And teach hate

And call tools by people names

And name people dead to themselves

no one getting naturalized except federal agents soon

carving the equator into throats soon

I’m sorry to make you relive all of this, Lord

pre-dawn monarchy

friends putting up politician posters then snorting the remainder of the paste

minstrel scripts shoveled into the walls by their elders

my children sharpening quarters on the city’s edge

For these audiences

I project myself into a ghost like state

For these gangsters, I do the same

every now and then, we take a nervous look east

Sleep becomes Christ

Sleep starts growing a racial identity

do you ever spiral, Lord?

has the gang-age betrayed us?

be patient with my poems, Lord

So much pain

there is a point to crime…

There has to be if race traitors come with it

Lord, is that my revolver in your hand?

Better presidents than these have yawned at cages

Have called us holy slaves

Filled the school libraries with cop documentaries

Baby, I don’t have money for food

I have no present moment at all

I Do Not Know the Spelling of Money

I go to the railroad tracks

And follow them to the station of my enemies

A cobalt-toothed man pitches pennies at my mugshot negative

All over the united states, there are

Toddlers in the rock

I see why everyone out here got in the big cosmic basket

And why blood agreements mean a lot

And why I get shot back at

I understand the psycho-spiritual refusal to write white history or take the glass freeway

White skin tattooed on my right forearm

Ricochet sewage near where I collapsed

into a rat-infested manhood

My new existence as living graffiti

In the kitchen with

a lot of gun cylinders to hack up

House of God in part

No cops in part

My body brings down the Christmas

The new bullets pray over blankets made from old bullets

Pray over the 28th hour’s next beauty mark

Extrajudicial confederate statue restoration

the waist band before the next protest poster

By the way,

Time is not an illusion, your honor

I will return in a few whirlwinds

I will save your desk for last

You are witty, your honor

You’re moving money again, your honor

It is only raining one thing: non-white cops

And prison guard shadows

Reminding me of

Spoiled milk floating on an oil spill

A neighborhood making a lot of fuss over its demise

A new lake for a Black Panther Party

Malcom X’s ballroom jacket slung over my son’s shoulders

Pharmacy doors mid-slide

The figment of village

a noon noose to a new white preacher

Wiretaps in the discount kitchen tile

-All in an abstract painting of a president

Bought slavers some time, didn’t it?

The tantric screeches of military bolts and Election-Tuesday cars

A cold-blooded study in leg irons

Leg irons in tornado shelters

Leg irons inside your body

Proof that some white people have actually fondled nooses

That sundown couples

made their vows of love over

opaque peach plastic

and bolt action audiences

Man, the Medgar Evers-second is definitely my favorite law of science

Fondled news clippings and primitive Methodists

My arm changes imperialisms

Simple policing vs. Structural frenzies

Elementary school script vs. Even whiter white spectrums

Artless bleeding and

the challenge of watching civilians think

“terrible rituals they have around the corner. They let their elders beg for public mercy…beg for settler polity”

“I am going to go ahead and sharpen these kids’ heads into arrows myself and see how much gravy spills out of family crests.”

Modern fans of war

What with their t-shirt poems

And t-shirt guilt

And me, having on the cheapest pair of shoes on the bus,

I have no choice but to read the city walls for signs of my life

The Chicago Prairie Fire

First, I must apologize to the souls of the house

I am wearing the cheek bones of the mask only

Pill bottle, my name is yours

Name tagged on the side of a factory of wrists

Teeth of the mask now

Back of the head of the mask now

New phase of anti-anthropomorphism fending for real faces

Stuck with one of those cultures that believes I chose this family

I am not creative

Just the silliest of the revolutionaries

My blood drying on

my only jacket

just as God got playful

the police state’s psychic middlemen

Evangelizing for the creation of an un-masses

An un-Medgar

Blood of a lamb less racialized

or awesome prison sentence

Good God

Elder-abuse hired for the low

dog eat genius

Right angle made between a point

On a Louisiana plantation

And 5-year old’s rubber ball

3 feet high and falling

like a deportee plane

to complete my interpretation

(of garden variety genocide)

I am small talk

about loving your enemies

A little more realistically

About paper tigers

And also gold…

I need my left hand back

I broke my neck on the piano keys

Found paradise in a fistfight

Maybe I should check into the Cuba line

Watching the universe’s last metronomes

some call Black Jacobins

Just wait…

These religions will start resigning in a decade or two

Some colorfully

Some transactional-ly

In a cotton gothic society

Class betrayal gone glassless/ I mean ironically/ my window started fogging over too

Wondering which Haiti will get me through this winter

Which poem houses souls

Which socialist breakthroughs

Breakthroughs like ten steps back

Then finally stillness

Stillness

Then stillness among families

a John Brown biography takes a bow

I’m up next to introduce Prosser to Monk

I remember childhood

Remember the word “Childhood” being a beginning

Scribbling on an amazing grace

I rented this body from some circumference of slavery

Remember being kicked out of the Midwest

Strange fruit theater

Lithium and circuses

Likeminded stomachs

The ruling class blessing their blank checks with levy foam…

with opioid tea

Sentient dollar bills yelling to each other pocket to pocket

Cello stands in the precinct for accompanying counterrevolutionaries

My mother raised me with a simple pain

A poet loses his mind, you know, like the room has weather

Or first-girlfriend gravity

Police-knock gravity

Mind-game gravity

Or revolution languishing behind

The sugar in my good friend’s mind

“The difference between me and you

Is that the madness

Wants me forever”

A pair of apartments

Defining both my family

And political composure

Books behind my back

Bail money paved into the streets

Playing:

Euphoria

Cliché

Bracing for the medicine’s recoil

Sharing a dirty deli sandwich with my friends

Black Jacobins

Underground topography

Or grandmother’s hands

Psychology of the mask now

Teeth of the mask again

—

Originally from San Francisco, Tongo Eisen-Martin is a movement worker and educator who has organized against mass incarceration and extra-judicial killing of Black people throughout the United States. His latest curriculum on extrajudicial killing of Black people, We Charge Genocide Again, has been used as an educational and organizing tool throughout the country. His book of poems, Someone’s Dead Already was nominated for a California Book Award.

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jellybelly30 · 5 years

Text

For the anon who sent me a number from my fluffy prompts list. Pairing is Richard/Schneider.

“If I kiss you, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

Christoph hated tour buses.

The bunks were too cramped, the lounge at the back was too small, and everyone was on top of everyone else. Little things that would have been just minor annoyances were now teeth gratingly irritating.

Add to that the fact that they were currently barrelling down a highway in the arsehole of America, with nothing to see out of the window but flat plains and Christoph was sure he was going to have to kill someone for picking their nose.

Oliver wasn’t too bad; he’d sat at one of the tables near the front of the bus with his laptop and a set of headphones to watch something on Netflix. Flake was scribbling into a notebook, occasionally chewing on the top of his pen before staring out of the window. Till was in his bunk, reading and resting his voice for the next show. Paul was sitting up beside their driver, talking about god knew what, but every so often Christoph could hear the both of them cracking up with laughter.

Richard, Christoph assumed, was either asleep in his bunk, or hiding in the back lounge. He’d been withdrawn since they’d met up with family and friends in San Francisco, and had been overheard having a yelling match with his girlfriend before storming out and going back to their hotel. No-one knew exactly what had caused the argument, but Paul had said the last thing he’d heard was Tara yelling “YOU NEED TO CHOOSE, RICHARD!”.

Christoph wasn’t sure how to describe his feelings towards Richard. They’d become friends in the chaos that was Reunification, paths crossing as they joined and started new bands. Then Christoph and Olli’s room mate had left and they were stuck for someone to take their spare room and help with the rent. Richard moved in and that’s when things got complicated; at least on Christoph’s part. At first, Richard’s girlfriends were more of a small irritation. Let’s face it, who likes being woken up by your flatmate’s girlfriend telling the world how fucking amazing he is in bed?

As time passed, what started out as a small irritation soon developed into what others would have called jealousy. Christoph was incredibly protective of Richard. Most of the women who ended up with him would get gently warned to not hurt Richard. Christoph would say he was just looking out for his friend. If Richard had a problem with it, he never said anything directly to Christoph.

That all changed when Richard met a South African woman, and fell ass over tit in stone cold love with her.

Caron. The woman he’d declared undying love to after three days, and proposed to after a week. Before anyone could tell Richard to take a step back and think it all through, he’d flown to Johannesburg and married her on a beach. He’d even taken her last name. And to top it all off, he sold his house in Berlin and moved three thousand miles to New York. Christoph felt like he’d lost an arm.

They’d kept in touch, but only sporadically. Christoph had heard on the grapevine that Richard’s marriage had broken down, that he wasn’t dealing with it well. But he’d held back from getting in touch; what would he say?

Christoph found Richard in the back lounge, smoking a cigarette and staring out of the window. He looked like shit, unshaven, eyes dulled from lack of sleep, hair flattened.

“Penny for ‘em?”

Richard turned to face Christoph, now standing in the doorway. He huffed out a breath, ran a hand through his hair.

“They’re not worth that much.”

Silence fell between them, so heavy in the air it made Christoph feel sick.

“She’s left me.”, said Richard. He stubbed out his cigarette with a bit more force than was necessary. “Said she was fed up playing second fiddle to you.”

Christoph was sure he looked like a fish out of water. The statement came out of nowhere, as if Richard was discussing the weather.

“What? But how…..what made Tara think that?”

“I think the fact that you have a habit of sneaking up behind me and humping me might have something to do with it.”

“Reesh, I do that to everyone. No-one takes it seriously.”

“Apparently, she says that I really must like it, because I never fight you off.”

“Mainly because I tend to run away before you can do anything about it.”

Richard stared out the window again, squinting as the sun filled the small lounge. “Well, then…..I guess it was the fact that the last time I fucked her, I accidentally said your name instead of hers.”

Christoph was totally floored by that admission. All these years, all of the mad backstage parties and groupies shared, and not once had Richard said a word. Not that he’d been forthcoming with his own feelings, but he’d managed to convince himself it was all one way.

“Oh.” was all that Christoph could manage to stutter out. What else could he say?

“Yeah. It wasn’t easy, lying to her about how much I wished it was you in my bed and not her. It’s not easy for me to sit here and tell you how I feel, when I know you don’t see me like that. But hey, since when have I ever had an easy life?”

Richard’s voice sounded small in the room, almost a whisper that Christoph could barely hear.

“If I’m being honest, Christoph, I’ve loved you forever, and I know you don’t feel like that about me. And it fucking kills me. So now you know. Tara left me because she knew she’d never be you.”

It took a few moments for Richard’s confession to sink in before Christoph managed to speak.

“We’re fucking idiots, Reesh.”

Richard turned to face Christoph, not expecting to see him standing there with a dopey grin on his face. “We have got to be the two most blind and stupid people on this bus right now.”

Christoph crossed the small space, and sat beside Richard. It was now or never.

“Kiss me.”.

Richard looked at Christoph like he’d suddenly sprouted two heads.

“What? You’re kidding, right?”

The already small space seemed to shrink even further as Christoph moved closer. “I said, kiss me. I think I’ve waited long enough.”

“I…..I can’t. I’m scared.”

Christoph smiled, brought his hand up to softly cup Richard’s cheek. The fact that Richard wasn’t backing away was a good start.

“Of what? It’s just me. You’d know that I’d never hurt you.”

Richard sighed, closing his eyes as he nuzzled into Christoph’s touch. “Because if I kiss you, I don’t think that I’d be able to stop.”

Christoph leaned forward, placed a small kiss to Richard’s forehead.

“Who says I’d want you to stop?”

#richard kruspe #christoph schneider #schneesh #anon #fluffy prompt #unbeta'd

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aboysbestfriendishismum · 6 years

Text

Chapter 51 - Elvis, the beard and Schroedinger’s kisses (Part One)

In the previoius chapter: Dina, Angie's best friend, goes to San Diego to meet her and it takes her a few hours with her and Eddie to figure out there's something between them. She tries to make her admit it when they're alone and she almost succeeds. She meets Jerry too and is surprised about how nonchalant Angie is with him despite all the bad things he did to her. At the beach party, Dina has further proof about the attraction between the two when she hears them talking on the shore, while the others left skinny dipping in the ocean. The next morning Angie has to leave to Seattle, Eddie can't believe he wasted that opportunity and didn't do anything although he had two whole days to act out his feelings. He almost kisses Angie as she sleeps but he realizes it's weird and stops. As he takes her to the bus station they have a little verbal fight when Angie jokingly tells him he needs a girlfriend and that his friend Michelle would be perfect. Exasperated by Angie's blindness towards his feelings, Eddie shuts her up with a kiss. In the meantime Angie dreams about Eddie the night before leaving and in her dream Eddie kisses her. When the kiss happens for real at the bus station, Angie loses her mind and hears the infamous "music": Just can't get enough by Depeche Mode.

***

“I’m in love again, been like this before…” maybe I shouldn’t have put that one on the tape, too blunt. Well… I just shoved my tongue in her mouth, so I’m pretty sure that it’s impossible to be any blunter than that. Just… It’s been hours and I can only assume that the stupid grin that’s plastered on my face ever since I said goodbye to Angie is still there. I look up and see myself in the mirror, humming like a poor fool. I assumed correctly, fuck. I keep on repeating in my mind all the steps of our conversation from the moment she woke up that lead to us kissing and… and stop, that’s all I can do while I throw my things in the suitcase, ready to hit the road and leave this house again, this time with a heavy heart. Yes, because whereas before my house was just some sort of depiction of my frustrations, of my loneliness and everything I hadn’t been able to be and obtain, even though I had always wanted it, now it has an added value: the memories, pleasant moments that I’ve built with the girl I love, the turn of events that has led me to declare my feelings, albeit not with words. There had been many opportunities to do that before: in each other’s arms on the sofa, in front of a bonfire at the beach, on the terrace of Pike Place Market, on top of the Space Needle, on that bench of Balboa Park, even the other night on the dancefloor, and all of those situations were certainly more romantic and appropriate; but, even so, I wouldn’t change anything about those stolen kisses at the bus station. But it must also be said that, had I made a move before, I wouldn’t have to wait a week for the second round. This morning, for a second, I thought about not letting her get on that fuckin’ bus and taking her back here at home, but Angie's got university, work and I’m not going to get between her and all the responsibilities she cares so much about. Besides I didn’t want to look like a sentimental ass. Not yet.

Somebody knocks at the door. I zip my bag, pull it over my shoulder, take one last look around – trying to memorize as much detail as possible – and then go out.

“You’re all set?” Mike flinches a little, maybe taken aback by my quick exit.

“He’s all set” Jeff, by his side, answers for me.

“I can confirm it, I’m ready to go!”

“And he’s happy too” adds the guitarist.

“Yeah” Ament nods.

“Why are you happy?” Stone appears on the stairs.

“Lemme guess: Angie didn’t leave!” McCready ventures a comment.

“She's comeing to Oakland with us!” adds my roommate.

“She follows us for the rest of the tour!”

"God, I hope she doesn't!" Stone gives Mike a nasty look then wickedly smiles at me "Somebody else thinks differently though, right?"

"The fuck are you talking about? What's with Angie?" I try and play dumb but I bet that if I still had my bedroom's mirror in front of me right now I'd see the same fuckin' smile. So I think I'm failing miserably.

"Where is she?"

"I don't really know exactly, at 7 o'clock in the morning I put her on a bus to Seattle, so I guess she's still there. Well technically it was a but to Los Angeles, then from there she had to take another to Seattle. She must already be there by now. On the second bus. I think" honestly I thought she'd call from there already, I mean, I'd have called her as soon as I could, at the first stop. What did I say about the sentimental ass? Angie's more pragmatic, more practiacl, she must have thought it was more logic to call further on during the journey, maybe halfway through. Maybe she thought I was resting before leaving and didn't want to bother me. As if it can be possible to sleep after what happened.

"Uh. She left then?" Jeff asks as if he wasn't that convinced.

"Yeah, sure"

"So why are you happy?" Gossard insists, followed by his friend.

"You should be sad"

"Haha and why? What's with those long faces? She wasn't sent to the scaffold, she's going home and we're seeing her again in one week, even less" I sound pretty convincing as I include the whole band in being sad for Angie's leaving.

"Oh well, yeah, of course..." Mike mumbles.

"And what about you leaving? Leaving San Diego? Your house? Aren't you sad about that?" Jeff goes on with the questioning.

"Sure but-" I barely try to answer but I already know it's gonna be pointless way before Stone interrupts me.

"... but, as they say, home is where the heart is, isn't it?"

"I'm not happy anyway!"

"Ha! I knew that!" Jeff exclaims, all pleased with himself with no apparent reason.

"I'm just pumped up, for the show..."

"Huh. Yes. The show, sure" Mikey's been nodding his head yes for fifteen minutes basically, I think he's been in this comatose state since last night. The only thing that prevents me from being 100% sure it's his giant mirror shades, which creat a barrier between him and the outside world.

"Well, you gotta find motivations, you know. To go on..." Jeff puts his arm around my neck and we walk down the stairs and then through the garden up to the small gate, the other two guys tagging along. "And by the way, three days pass very fast" he adds in a low voice, winking at me.

"Oh we need to go to Craig's first, I need to give him the keys for my landlady. And to tell him bye. I'll be quick" I immediately change the topic of the conversation. I wouldn't really give away this house but I can't really afford two rents.

"Be really quick, Kelly's already waiting for us." Stone calls us to order as we all get into the van "We've just got five hundred miles to go"

First ring. Ok. Second ring. Hope's still there. I realize I'm basically holding my breath. Third ring. Well, this isn't over yet, maybe there's some lag time... Fourth ring. Fuck you. I shake my head. Fifth ring. I drop the receiver maybe too hard and let my hand down, which has been covering my other ear as I was trying to isolate myself from the chaos of the Real Rock Club's backstage. Fuck the phone and Jeff's smart answering machine, which picks up after just two rings whenever there are messages to listen to. Why doesn't she call? I openly asked her to do it. Did something happen? Does she regret our kisses? Or maybe she just can't remember the number... I'm such an ass, I should have written it down for her! Is she supposed to know it by heart only because she might like me? I retrieve the change and put it back into the payphone, only this time I dial another number, not mine, trying to beat anxiety to the punch.

"Hello?"

"Hey Meg, hi" thank god she's at home, I've been spending the whole day talking to myself or to our stupid intro message on the answering machine.

"Hi Eddie! What's up? You found me by the bell, I was about to leave to work to Roxy's" that's some good luck.

"All is good, thanks. We're... we're about to get on stage for the soundcheck, in half an hour more or less"

"Cool! Are the other dorks there with you now?"

"Uhm no, it's just me on the phone actually..."

"Oh yeah, I should have known, I can't hear Stone complaining in the background" Meg tries to hide her disappointment with a joke, she'd rather talk to someone else.

"And what about you? How's it going?" I ask her 'cause I don't wanna sound like the shitty guy who just calls her to ask her about her friend.

"Fine, usual stuff. Alright, what can I do for you?" she asks without wasting any time.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I doubt you called just to ask me how I am. What did you want to tell me?"

"I called you also to know how you are"

"Eddie"

"Nothing really, I was just wondering if you had news about Angie..."

"She'll be here in Seattle tomorrow in the afternoon, right?"

"Exactly. It's just... I put her on the bus this morning and I thought that maybe, you know, she called in the meantime"

"She did, actually she called me about half an hour ago"

"Uh"

"She's already in San Francisco, they stopped there for a while. She told me that they're perfectly following the schedule so she would be here by two o'clock tomorrow"

"I see. Well, good for her, right?" come on Eddie, don't take it bad, the most important thing is she's ok, isn't it? Maybe it was a very quick stop and a lot of people had to use the phone. Or maybe she doesn't wanna talk to you, asshole.

"Yep... But are you ok?"

"Sure, why shouldn't I?"

"I don't know, you seem... strange. Did something happen?" strange? More than usual?

"No, nothing! What was supposed to happen?"

"I don't know, you tell me"

"It's just that... We agreed she'd call to update me about her journey home but she didn't, so I was just a little worried, that's all"

"How can she call you if you're out playing?"

"I told her she could leave a message... the machine is in Seattle but I can listen to it from any place, you know?" maybe I should try to be less bitter.

"Well, you know how Angie is, maybe she didn't want to disturb"

"BUT I TOLD HER SHE WASN'T DISTURBING ME AT ALL!" I raise my voice a little too much, Meg stays silent for a long while "Ehm, sorry. Hehe"

"Relax Eddie... Maybe it's that or maybe she didn't have enough change to call both and since I have to go pick her up tomorrow, she had to call me "

"Uhm yeah, it can be..." actually I didn't think about that. I didn't even ask her if she had money enough to call. Non just for me, she might need it in general, in case of emergency! I'm a fucking irresponsible guy who leaves girs at the bus station.

"Or maybe you had a fight?"

"What?!No!"

"Or the opposite?" what's the opposite of fighting?

"Ok ok, if nothing happened you've got nothing to fear. She called me for convenience. She'll call you tomorrow, don't worry"

Nothing happened. Everything happened. A lot of stuff happened. Meg's right though, I must relax. I mean I kissed Angie twelve hours ago and I'm already freaking out. I'm not at the center of the world, it's not like everything necessarily revolves around me: she's travelling, she's tired, she called her roommate for a ride, she'll call me as well as soon as possible.

"I know. It's just... Well the journey is long. I was worried. And I feel kinda respinsible, if I hadn't told her the wrong dates of our tour she'd have taken a comfortable plane and would be at home right now" I try and put it on the road safety and other shit level. I hope she buys it.

"Come on Eddie, don't blame yourself. And by the way, I believe she didn't mind extending her holiday a little longer, you know"

"Oh... ok hehe, I hope so" I loved her extended holiday, it could as well last another week. That wouldn't be enough anyway, to take her to all the places I wanted to show her, the restaurant on the beach in Las Olas, the pool room at the Casbah, all the small pieces of my world I wanted to share with her. I just wished I had more time with her to share, even just hanging out in my car, talking and doing stupid stuff; just like when we were going back home from the night out at the Yates, I pulled out the tape to turn it to side B and Love reign o'er me by the Who started playing on the radio and she started singing at the top of her lungs. And even though she was simply destroying one of my favorite songs ever, I couldn't think about anything but how perfect the word love sounded when she said it. And if I still had doubts, it only took those five minutes of song to clear up any confusion: I love her and keep on falling in love again every time i see her, I talk to her on the phone or every time I'm just waiting to do one of these two things. And each time I look at her or talk to her for a minute I find a hundred new things to love.

"Yes, Eddie, trust me! Sorry, I gotta go now, Roxy'll kill me if I'm late"

"Oh sure, I mean, sorry for bothering you anyway..."

"You didn't bother me, don't worry. I'll tell Angie to call you as soon as she arrives, ok? Or even before if I manage to talk to her in the meantime" by now she must have understood I'm desperate.

"Thank you"

"You're welcome! And good luck for tonight"

"Thanks"

*************************************************************************************************************

"Fuckin' bastards" I curse loudly against the unknown assholes who decided to create a work of abstract art with ketchup, mayo and chewing gum on the seat I've been scrubbing for hours. My colleagues started churning out various techniques to solve the matter and the kitchen split in two groups, those who claimed I needed to use ice to dry out the gum and tear it off and the ones who thought I needed to warm it up to melt it. I'm the one who has to clean it anyway!

I hear the door ring and I'm about to take all my anger out on the next pain in the ass that has just entered, who might not be responsible for this disaster, but is still a dick who can't read the sign hanging on the glass door with CLOSED written on it.

"We're clo-" I look up and see a face that disappeared for a while and looks different now.

"Hey Meg"

"Since when do you have a beard?" it doesn't look bad on him.

"Oh hehe well, I've had it for a while" he smiles and scratches his chin, unusually covered with hair, like half of his face.

"Testing a new look?" I realize just now I'm still on all fours on the seat and immediately stand up.

"The test started casually, I'd say I turned sleaziness into a look"

"You're basically getting old inside that recording studio" I joke as he comes closer and suddenly my knees are shaking.

And now it seems clear to me that I must have a screw loose, there must be something wrong in me. 'Cause I've been crying for days over Mike not getting back with me, for his decision to stay single, the first decision he's ever taken since I first met him, who never knew what he wanted and now that he finally knows, he knows it's not me. And, I mean, I'm here mourning my dead relationship with my ex, then Matt comes in and it only takes him a couple of moves to turn me into jelly and... what's Mike's surname?

"Actually we're getting old in the rehearsing studio, technically we haven't started recording for the album yet"

"And what are you waiting for?"

"Hehe to polish the demo and clear our minds better"

"Considering what I heard, your minds seem already clear enough to me"

"I can't wait to record with Ben, I think he'll bring a breath of fresh air in the album"

"I agree. So? When will you start recording it? So I can estimate how much time will pass until I see you around again..."

"Soon, in Spring... Anyway, talking about this, I really need to talk to you, Meg"

"About the album?"

"Hehe no, about me disappearing. And other stuff"

"I see. Ok, shoot"

"Uhm no, not here. Maybe when you finish working. Can I drive you home?"

No. NO. No, Meg, you can't. You can't sleep with Matt tonight. If the first time meant fucking up, a second one would be fucking up cubed. You can't fuck him whenever you've got problems with Mike. Mike McCready! That's how he's called.

"Actually I came here by car"

"You got a car? Since when?" he asks sincerely surprised.

"Probably since you got your beard, more or less"

It's past midnight, Matt and I are sitting on the hood of my Impala talking about Ballard, Mookie's... ehm, Pearl Jam's tour and about how unbearable the nurse living at the second floor is, continuously passing each other a bottle of crappy red whine.

"Why don't we cut to the chase, Matt?" I tell him at some point, making myself clearer right away "What did you want to tell me?"

"Uh yes. Well... first of all I wanted to, you know, I feel I have to apologize"

"Apologize? For what?" whatever it is, I forgive you anyway.

"For my behaviour, how I treated you after what happened, the way I handled the whole... situation in general"

Code name: Situation.

"I thought we had already sorted it out. The situation" if you talked about something you'd totally want to do again in the next fifteen minutes, would you call it Situation?"

"Not really. I mean, we just pretended it hadn't happened" he shrugs.

"And wasn't it maybe the best thing to do?" I ask my rhetorical question and he'll surely answer No, then jump over me.

"Yes, but..."

What do you mean Yes?!

"... but no" ok, that's better.

"What do you mean?" I pretend not to understand and prepare myself to the next moves of the bearded angel. Of course I can't put out right away, that's obvious, I have to put some moral resistance at the beginning.

"That I was an asshole. I realized I was really cold to you, almost cynical, I don't want you to think that... well, that what we did..."

"That the situation"

"Hehe yeah, that the situation didn't matter to me or something"

"Oh no, Matt, don't worry"

"Ok, it was something reckless and unwise"

"Not wise at all"

"Terribly wrong"

"Sure" well, terribly is a little too much maybe?

"The most stupid mistake we could have done"

"Ok" something tells me we won't have sex tonight.

"But if I did it, it's because I wanted to in that moment and not just for fun, you know. I care about you"

"I know, it's the same for me"

"We made a mistake but I don't regret it, it was a nice thing between us, don't you think?"

"Yeah... really nice" maybe we'll have sex after all.

"I'm sorry I gave you a bad impression, if I treated you bad and avoided you, it's just I didn't know what to do, how to act.

Detatching seemed the best solution and being cold with you was the easiest way"

"It's alright, Matt, really, I understood that"

"And I'm also ready to tell Mike if you want to, I want to take resp-"

"NO! Ehm, I mean, that's not necessary. You know, it's not like he can't wait to talk to me and see me already, if he knew he'd be done with me. There's no need to make a mess for nothing, it won't happen again anyway, right?" ok, will it happen or not? I want answers.

"Oh my god, no, of course!" this answer sucks. Next one, please?

"Exactly, so I think it's better to leave things as they are" can somebody explain the sense of this conversation if it's not to take me to bed?

"I told April though" I feel an explanation coming.

"April?"

"Yeah, you know her, it's a friend of Stone's..."

"Who? The girl who plays the violin?"

"Viola!"

"Well, whatever it is, they look similar anyway. But why did you tell her about us? I had no idea you knew each other, I mean, I didn't know you were familiar with her"

"We weren't that close, then we got to know each other better"

"Are you dating April?"

"No!" ah ok, thank god "We went out together sometimes, you know, we're just at the beginning" thank god my ass.

"I see" beginning of what?

"The beginning of what I don't even know, hehe, anyway, we'll wait and see"

"And why in this beginning did you end up talking about me?"

"Oh well, we were talking about exes and past experiences and I talked about you. Without telling your name, obviously! And as I was telling her about the situation, April helped me understand, she opened my eyes. Thanks to her I realized I was an asshole"

"That's good"

"She told me I should have talked it out with you. And apologize" the girl is clever, for sure, she didn't want her man to have unfinished business with other girls and suggested him a nice peacemaking speech. And a closure speech.

"Wow, well, I only know her by sight but from what you say she seems a cool girl"

"She is" Matt's look is lost far away and I've never felt so out of place in my whole life.

*************************************************************************************************************

SIDE A

Can’t help falling in love (Elvis Presley)

I want to tell you (The Beatles)

You’re all I need to get by (Marvin Gaye and Tammy Terrell)

When you dance I can really love (Neil Young)

Can’t keep it in (Cat Stevens)

Two hearts (Bruce Springsteen)

SIDE B

I wanna be your boyfriend (Ramones)

You really got me (The Kinks)

Love you more (Buzzcocks)

Here comes my girl (Tom Petty)

Thank you (Led Zeppelin)

Don’t talk (put your head on my shoulder) (The Beach Boys)

I grab the piece of paper where I scribbled down the titles of the songs in Eddie's tape and I'm about to put it away when we're almost arrived. I didn't see the sign saying WELCOME TO SEATTLE, actually I've never seen it, neither the first time I set foot here or the number of times I traveled back and forth from my new town. So I could have missed it but maybe such sign doesn't even exist. I place the paper on the backpack I'm holding on my legs and I observe the creases created by folding and unfolding it everytime I took it and put it back in its case. I read my shaky handwriting due to street holes, too heavy breaking and unexpected words. The first song startled me because Elvis was honestly the last person I was expecting to hear among Eddie's favorites, for no reason in particular, I simply never associated him to Eddie, although since then I've been mentally going through various songs by The King, thinking about how they'd sound if he sang them. I was expecting the Beatles a little more and I guessed he'd have chosen a less known song. On the Motown sound of Marvin and Tammy my jaw literally dropped, and maybe my pen too as I was writing down, because that's one of my favorite songs ever and I wasn't expecting it at all. Neil Young and Springsteen were easier to predict, just like Ramones at the opening of side B, whereas Cat Stevens was another pleasant surprise. On the word got of the song by The Kinks my pen slipped a little because as I was smiling to myself, noticing that in that case Eddie had somehow replied to my tape by selecting a different tune of a band I had chosed too, I absentmindedly started to go through all the previous titles, reading them one by one, as if they formed a single sentence, a message and... Of course not, that's bullshit, it's just casual words. When I head Buzzcocks I thought maybe side B would be the punkest and heaviest part and I wrote the title in tiny letters; then Tom Petty came and I was just wondering when he'd have placed him, followed by Led Zeppeling, who were instead making me wonder why Eddie should thank me. I didn't do anything and maybe that's where all the mess started, 'cause I did nothing but being his friend and being close to him in certain situations and maybe he feels he owes me and maybe that's the reason he did the same. And he mistake this closeness for something else. So there are two possible alternatives: either he planned everything, tape and kisses, or the tape doesn't mean shit, songs are just random songs and he only kissed me because... I don't know, because he felt like doing it. Maybe he was stoned. It's not just acids that make him affectionate. While I was pondering on this, the last song by the Beach Boys, at the right moment, almost as if they could hear me, as if they listened to my inner ranting monologue and were asking me to shut up, just like somebody else shut me up a few hours earlier, without talking. In the corner of my eye I see the outline of the Kingdome dramatically entering my field of vision on the left, briefly taking my mind off useless thoughts. I fold the paper, take the cassette from the front pocket of the backpack and put it back in, then stuff everything in the back once again.

When I get off the bus I can't feel my butt anymore, I stretch out awkwardly and I can't believe I can finally unbend my legs and walk and I don't have to get on that bus anymore. When I cross the road and see Mag waving at me through her car window I'm almost sad: I'd gladly walk all the way back home.

"Then you'll have to tell me how the fuck you survived thirty hours on a fuckin' bus" that's my roommate's salutation as soon as I throw my backpack in the trunk, then close it and crawl on the backseat.

"I don't even know, hi to you too anyway"

"Hi Angie, welcome to my taxi cab, where do you wanna go?" she jokes about me sitting in the back.

"I wanna go home to die, because it was exactly thirty-two hours and I'm even working in the evening"

"Jesus, you hate yourself so much, why didn't you ask Roxy for another day off?" she says as if it was the easiest thing, as if she didn't work there as well and didn't know how things work there.

"Having this couple of days was already some kind of gift, I didn't want to push my luck" I yawn and keel over the backseat ready to sleep.

"YOU'RE NOT THINKING OF SLEEPING NOW?" Meg's imperative voice point blank makes me open my eyes wide right when I was starting to drool on the shirt of Morpheus.

"Why not?"

"Because you gotta tell me!"

"Tell you what?" I produce a scrunchie from out of nowhere and tie my hair.

"What d'you mean what? Everything! How was it in San Diego?"

"Good"

"Good?" she insists completely turning back to look at me.

"Yeah, it was alright. Shouldn't you look at the street?"

"Alright... and then?" she goes on and follows my advice turning back towards the traffic.

"And then nothing, it all went well"

"Hahaha yeah, you really think you can get away with this"

"I think you're so kind and gentle as to postpone this conversation to tomorrow"

"Sure babe, but give me some anticipation, tell me something!"

"Stone and Jeff made a bet with the other guys about wether one of us girls would have gone see them on tour and the losers performed as a Village People tribute band in a terrible 70s disco club" I tell her all in one breath and hope I shocked her enought to prevent her from asking any more questions.

"Did you dream all of this on the bus or here in the car, in the ten seconds you had your eyes closed?"

"Haha none of those, it really happened"

"Tell me you're kidding or tell me you have photographic evidence of this thing" she turns around again intermittently, trying to figure out from the look on my face if I'm joking or not.

"I'll tell you the second one"

"OH MY GOD, I GOTTA SEE THEM"

"Look forward, Meg!"

"You'll show them to me when we get home"

"If we get home"

"Ok, I'll behave... And what about the rest?" the Village People shock wasn't hard enough.

"It was great, the show was cool, half of the crowd were Ed's friends" I remain vague, as if I didn't know where she's going with this.

"Did you meet his friends? What are they like?" she doesn't insist, she probably decided to change her strategy and indulge me at the beginning to catch me out in another way.

"They were fun. And almost all surfers"

"Uhm interesting! And what was Eddie like?" I knew that.

"Oh he was good, he's becoming a real frontman, he's not as shy as he used to be"

"Good, great. And what about him, off the stage?" I really knew that.

"What do you mean?" I yawn again and rest my head against the window.

"Yeah, you know, how did it go with him?"

"Good"

"What the fuck does good mean?! Would you please be more specific?"

"Hey, calm down! Good, in the sense he saved my life by hosting me and so on. And he took me around to see places like a tourist, me and Dina who came from L.A.!"

"She made it in the end! Was she staying at Eddie's place too?"

"No, she only came over the day of the show, in the afternoon, then left the same evening. Well, more like in the night. Almost in the morning, really, after the beach party"

"And how did the beach party go?"

"Good"

"Angie, I swear to god..."

"Good, it was a nice party! There was music, drinks, company... at some point everybody went skinny dipping in the fuckin' freezing ocean" I try and come up with anecdotes about other people, maybe it'll work in the long run.

"And did they survive?"

"Barely, but yes. Needless to say I didn't participate"

"You don't say! What about Eddie?"

"He neither, he missed the fun because he felt he had to babysit me" I ruined the fun and let his friends know I'm some kind of amoeba.

"Yeah, I can imagine. Anyway you haven't answered yet..."

"No?"

"No"

"And what was the question?"

"Are you trying to exasperate me?" no, I'm just trying not to tell you shit.

"No! I'm only sleepy, I slept too little and bad"

"How did things go with Eddie? Did something... happen? Finally?" Meg tries to meet my eye in the rearview mirrow and I awkwardly avoid her look.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't know... you spent two days with him... the house was small..."

"So what?"

"Maybe you... slept together?"

"MEG!"

"What?! You already did, didn't you?"

"How many times do I have to tell you we only slept?"

"Oh but I know, I believe you, that's why I talked about just sleeping too"

"And it was an incident anyway"

"No incidents in San Diego"

"No" nothing, apart from the lips-on collision.

"Not even a nap on the couch?"

"No, Meg"

"A little kiss on the beach under the moonlight?"

"No" do I sound convincing enough?

"Cuddling at the park?"

"Nooo"

"A small pat on your ass at the disco?"

"Haha no! At least not from Eddie. Anyway we danced toge-"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN NOT FROM EDDIE?"

"That's a weird story. Anyway it's official: Eddie can't dance for shit even when he's sober"

"Ok, but I wanna know whose hand was it!"

"Mike Starr. Now that guy can dance"

"WHAAAAAAT?!"

"We danced just to have a laugh! Anyway he can dance for real, he told me he had taken lessons"

"Oh shit... he took ass-slapping lessons too?"

"It was an incident"

"Your life is punctuated by nice incidents, did you notice that?"

"Definitely less than the unpleasant ones, trust me"

"Anyway, you mean Eddie didn't make any move this time either? I can't believe it, he's a jerk"

"Or maybe he's just not into me, you know? You're obsessed with this"

"I see why you didn't call him"

"What do you mean?" I quickly sit up in an almost normal position. Maybe too quickly.

"Eddie called yesterday to know if I had heard anything from you, he was worried 'cause you had told him you'd call but you didn't. And now I can see why"

"But... shut up! I didn't call him because they had a show, I didn't want to bother him"

Fuck.

"Yet the guy was anxiously waiting for you to leave a message on his answering machine"

Fuck fuck fuck.

"I'll call him back later, before going to work"

"Why not now? After all you only have to tell him you're alive and good"

"Yeah, I'll see..."

"Now, let's go back to Mike Starr's hands, please"

"Meg, just shut up and drive, PLEASE"

I know why he called, it's evident: he wants to know if I'm arrived because he wants to call me. He wants to call me to talk about what happened last morning. He wants to talk about last morning to tell me it was a huge mistake and it won't happen again and he hopes this won't ruin our friendship. All things I already know myself so I'll spare him the struggle. The nap was a bad idea because I'm more tired than before, but the shower wakes me up enough for me to quickly get away from our apartment avoiding further questioning by Meg. I get on the car and I'm about to put Eddie's tape I brought with me in the car stereo. But in the end I change my mind, I put it away in the glove box with the other cassettes and turn on the radio.And I try to focus on the road and on Fleetwood Mac starting right then on the radio, but how is it I keep on hearing Depeche Mode and the touch of Eddie's fingertips on my wrists and the taste of his mouth? I'm so concentrated on driving that I'm basically on autopilot and when I find myself in the diner's parking lot I don't even know how I got there. I hold the wheel tight and butt my head lightly against it a couple of times, I don't know why, maybe trying to get Eddie out of my head literally. I guess an axe would work much better, after all it worked with Zeus and Athena. Once I'm at work there's no time to waste, a couple of minutes for my colleagues to welcome me back, a joke by Brian about my Californian mega-tan (cheeks and nosetip vaguely reddish) and I'm already serving people food. I don't mind working, at least I can distract myself and not think about anything else. The problem is I keep thinking all the same. At least until one of my tables is occupied by an old friend and that pain in the ass who sings in his band, maybe the only one who can make me forget about Eddie for five minutes. I mean the pain in the ass, not the old friend of course.

"HEY PURPLE RAIN!" the before mentioned asshole says hi with his usual smirk.

"Did Idaho go out of fashion?"

"Hi Angie"

"Hi Dave, how are you doing?"

"I'm trying to freshen up my repertoire" Kurt answers politely waiting for his turn.

"Alright, thanks. Even though I haven't bought a motorcycle yet. What about you? You look great, I like your hair!"

"Thank you. Anyway, before buying a motorbike you should release an album. And sell some copies"

"To release it we have to record it first, something we haven't started doing yet" strangely enough Kurt says something serious, normal and absolutely non sarcastic to me.

"And what are you waiting for?"

"We'll go to California in a month or so to record it. You already been there, right? Just come back from the land of the sun. By the way, how did it go?" Dave asks calmly, as much as Dave can be.

"What... how do you know I was in California?"

"Right, how do you know?" Cobain asks too, squinting at him.

"Well I came here yesterday and your colleague told me." he explains pointing at Brian, who never minds his own business, then he brings his hands forward as to defend himself "But I swear I'm not stalking you!"

"Also because in that case, I'd never lend myself to such bullshit" the blond guy adds.

"And there won't be any serenades or shit like that, I promise!"

"I told him if it happens again, he's out of the band"

"Uhm... but... to kick him out of the band he must be in the band... Have you heard Dave? It's official: YOU'RE IN THE BAND!"

"OH MY GOD! YEEEEAAAAH!" Dave high fives me and Kurt looks at us disgusted.

"I think you're in the wrong place, the open mic is at the comedy club on the other side of the road"

"Anyway... I came here 'cause I was looking for you"

"No way, really?" the singer jokes, then goes back reading the menu.

"I have to ask you something and I can assure you it's not what it seems" Dave claims defensively and how is it I've got the feeling it's exactly what it'll seem?

"Ok, shoot"

"Would you go out with me tomorrow night?"

I knew that.

#finally #thank god #pearl jam fanfiction #grunge fanfiction #eddie vedder fanfiction #eddie vedder #matt cameron #dave grohl #kurt cobain #pearl jam #nirvana #soundgarden #chapters

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