Level 4 - Thinker
Join Date: Dec 2002
Location: Pennsylvania, USA
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An original short story by me...Take a look!
I've been working on this short story for my Advanced Composition class, and I think you guys will enjoy it. First of all, let me say that if I find this story on ANY sight other than this one, or if anyone copies and pastes this to hand in for an English class, I will personally hunt you down and make sure you are never allowed to post on this forum again. I will get your teacher's e-mail address, and make sure you get an "F" for plagiarism. Anyway, enjoy the story. If you have any questions about it, suggestions, criticisms (constructive), or thoughts in general, feel free to post.
Story by Jonathan <no I’m not telling you my last name>
Draft #2
IN THE KEY OF FUSCHIA MINOR
Callow Records, Inc.
42 Willow Lane
San Francisco, CA 94116
October 24th, 2002
I was only 18 when I experienced a night I’ll never forget. Now I know what you’re thinking, “Is this guy living in a creative vacuum with his ‘night I’ll never forget’ trash? What the hell kind of opener is that?” but hear me out. It’s not every day you get to see a 19-year-old kid tripping out on who knows what and playing an old bass guitar chewing out a club full of hicks. Got your interest yet? Good.
Ten years ago, I wasn’t exactly in the best of shape. There was no degree hanging on my wall, that’s for sure. I always wanted to be a street performer, like the kind you see on the street corners in my hometown, good ol’ New York. Whether they were playing the sax or juggling china plates, they always had this “magic” about them, you know what I mean? They didn’t have much money, but they had soul. That’s what I wanted.
My dad thought otherwise. He was a colonel in the army, and “no son of his was gonna make a living wandering willy-nilly around New York tootin’ on a kazoo, no siree.” His son was going to military school; his son was gonna do his country proud. He just never listened to me,
never.
To make a long story short, I flew the coop in ‘92. It was just me, my guitar, and the greatest city on Earth. To make another long story short, I didn’t find any soul. I did find out that not everyone wanted to throw money into the guitar case of the kid playing Clapton. Being hungry really, really sucked. I had to get out of the city, away from the stares and the drugs and the booze. Oh, the booze. That’s another thing I found in New York. That unshaved homeless guy with the whiskey bottle in the paper bag that I always used to laugh at? Well, that turned out to be me. I managed to sober up for a couple of hours and hitchhiked as far as I could go. I ended up in a town up in northern New York halfway between civilization and the boondocks.
Unfortunately, it was all of the Big Apple that I hated and none of it that I loved.
I didn’t realize that, though, even when the asshole driving the Chevy shoved me out of his door and onto the cold, hard ground of reality. Hey, it wasn’t the best entrance I’d ever made, but it worked for the moment. I saw a sign in the distance. “Welcome to Weltlich, an
All-American Town,” it said. Weird name. Anyway, by that time, that gnawing urge for a drink was back. Hey, gimme some credit; I didn’t have a drink for five hours. I wandered up to the nearest bar; I didn’t have to walk very far to find it. The sign said “er.”
Gerodi’s Bar was much like all the other bars in
Weltlich, and, as a matter of fact, much like all the other bars
everywhere. Just imagine a bar on the wrong side of the
tracks in your town, pretend it’s dirtier and more run down
than it actually is, and you’ll have a good picture of Gerodi’s
in your mind. The pink neon sign on the front was written in
cursive; the lettering would have been more appropriately
used for words like “hookers” or “peepshows $.25." Only
the “E” and the “R” of “Gerodi’s” were still in working order,
and the “R” was on its last legs, flickering on and off every
once in a while.
The building looked fairly small from the outside,
with pea green stucco walls gradually crumbling. An old
blackened ivy plant resiliently climbed the walls. It seemed
to be mocking the exhaust fumes that constantly tried to kill
it, daring them to come closer. The narrow street over which
the bar loomed looked like something straight out of a
Charles Dickens novel.
Gerodi’s was fairly large on the inside. It was so
filled with smoke that it could have made a good set for a B-
rated horror movie, had the smoke been fog. It boasted a
small dance floor and a pathetic excuse for a stage.
Occasionally, the bar utilized this stage for karaokee nights,
during which some of the patrons would stumble around the
stage and “sing” in a drunken slur. Speaking of patrons,
Gerodi’s had more than its fair share of alcoholics, no-
hopers, sluts, dirtbags, and other fine upstanding citizens.
They crowded the bar stools, they milled about on the dance
floor, and they drank their problems away, only to be rudely
reminded of them by mind-numbing hangovers the next
morning.
A van several blocks away trundled along toward
Gerodi’s. It contained the members of “Etc.,” a curious band
that was truly a labor of love by its creators. They were on
the way to their next gig. “I don’t like the looks of this
place,” said Cameron, the band’s drummer.
Kevin, a grungy-looking fellow with a goatee and
spiky necklace who played guitar in all its forms,
replied, “Cameron, lighten up. If any guy gives you trouble,
you know you could kick his ass any day.”
Cameron stuck out her tongue and playfully
punched Kevin in the shoulder. “If you weren’t driving, I
would’ve hit you harder,” she retorted. Cameron stood about
5 feet, 4 inches, and was slightly plump, although not
unpleasantly so. Her black hair was done up in 2 braids
which hung over her crimson shirt, which reminded one of a
painter’s smock. “Hey Perrin!” she said. “Perrin, yoo-hoo,
anybody home?”
“Huh, whuh?” said the figure in the back of the
van as he snapped out of his daydream. It was a nice
daydream, one in which he died, went to heaven, and played
guitar with Jimi Hendrix to entertain the angels. Perrin had
been having that one a lot lately, and it sometimes took
him a while to be “rudely awakened,” as he liked to put it.
He had the manner of an absent-minded professor, a sort of
detached nervousness about him. His dirty-blonde hair stuck
out in all directions, and combined with the 4-day-old stubble
on his chin, it made him look as if he was pretending to be
older than his nineteen years, although that was not the
case.
Bubba, who was sort of a “jack of all trades” for
the band, couldn’t resist chiming in. Raised on the classics,
he played keyboard and violin and occasionally did
turntables. Looking at him, you’d think he was a bouncer,
with his shaved head and 215-pound frame, not a violin-
player. “I think Perrin was daydreaming about all the fiiiiiine
women he’s gonna meet at, uh...where are we goin’ again?”
“It’s called ‘Gerodi’s,’ and from what I’ve heard
about the place, I wouldn’t touch one of those bitches with a
ten-foot pole,” Perrin said, suppressing a laugh.
SLAP! Cameron’s hand struck Perrin’s
face. “Why, Perrin Mandar, do you kiss your mother with that
mouth of yours?” she said. The whole van exploded in
laughter. Even Perrin’s red, stinging face managed to contort
into a grin.
“Ah well,” sighed Kevin, after the laughter died
down. “This place has to be better than our last gig. I think
you all remember Timmy’s birthday party; am I correct?”
Perrin’s eyes narrowed into little slits. “Yeah, I
remember. Little Timmy cried to his dad that he didn’t like
us, and they replaced us with that retarded clown. What was
his name again?”
“Jesus, what got up your ass? Calm down, man,”
said Bubba. “And I believe his name was ‘Mr. Bubbles.’”
“I know, I know,” said Perrin. “I guess it was kind
of funny, now that I look back on it. It’s just that, I don’t
know, it’s like nobody realizes what we’re trying to do, ya
know? I see these manufactured, no-talent
corporate ‘musicians’ on TRL every single goddamn day. I’m
not asking for some huge record deal; I just want to get a
decent gig for once.”
As the van approached Gerodi’s, the members of
Etc. silently consoled themselves with the hope that this
would be a “decent gig for once.” Kevin found a parking
space, and the band quickly sized the place up. “Hey Perrin,
I think that whatever you heard about this place is probably
true,” Bubba said as his face crinkled up as if he’d smelled a
long-dead animal.
“Er,” said Kevin.
“Er what?” asked Cameron.
“Er. Just look at the sign.”
“Hey Kev, that was almost funny!” Perrin quipped.
“Perrin, shut up.”
A burly man in an apron, apparently the
bartender, ran out of the bar as fast as his thick legs would
carry him. “You guys better get the hell in there and play
something! That crowd’s gettin’ rough!” he shouted.
Cameron smirked. “Nice to meet you too,” she
whispered under her breath.
Etc. walked through the bar’s swinging doors and
was greeted by the musty aroma of sweat, body odor,
alcohol, and cigarette smoke. The crowd cheered; they
hadn’t had a live band in quite a while. The band’s hopes
lifted, even though the people on the dance floor didn’t
exactly look like music afficionados. Maybe the band
wouldn’t be replaced by a clown this time.
Since the crowd was beginning to grow impatient,
the band set up their equipment in merely ten minutes.
Perrin picked up his bass guitar, walked up to the beat-up old
microphone, and said, “Are you guys ready to rock?” The
crowd cheered yet again. Inebriated though they were, they
were playing into the palm of his hand. Perrin was getting
good vibes.
Etc. started off with a song they had recently
written, “Amputate My Heart.” Perrin began strumming a
slow, ominous bass line. Cameron came in with a light
tapping of the cymbals. This went on for about two and a
half minutes. Someone in the back of the crowd yelled, “Sing
the damn song already!” Etc. kept playing; they had thick
skin. Ghostly pipe organ chords from Bubba’s keyboard
began to waft through the bar like the thick smoke. The
rhythm of the song was finally established, and Kevin began
strumming the main melody on his synth guitar. Perrin’s
heavily distorted voice floated through the tinny speakers,
completing the transformation of the bar from a roach motel
to an eerie, beautiful symphony hall.
The people on the dance floor looked at each
other nervously. Their line of thinking went something like
this: they could not dance to the music or sing along;
therefore, their chances of getting laid were markedly
reduced.
Seven minutes and forty-five seconds later, Etc.
finished their song. The crowd wasn’t “ready to rock”
anymore. When Bubba picked up his violin and began the
opening notes of the next song, someone screamed, “Go
home!” Etc. noticed that one, but they let it slip by; the
crowd would come around soon, hopefully. As Perrin reached
the climax of the song, a gorgeous reflection on the meaning
of death, something whistled through the air. A beer bottle,
which missed Perrin by a fraction of an inch, fell on the stage
and spider-webbed into a thousand pieces of glass. Silence
descended on Gerodi’s for the first time in years.
Miraculously, no one was hurt. Two years of rage that had
been building up inside of Perrin, shaken up by countless
taunting crowds, bubbled forth. “WHO THE FUCK THREW
THAT?!” he screamed. No one answered. Cameron grabbed
Perrin’s arm.
“Perrin, come on. Let’s go. This is getting out of hand.”
“OUT OF HAND? OUT OF HAND? I’LL SHOW THESE FUCKERS
WHAT OUT OF HAND IS!!!”
Cameron motioned to the band. They grabbed what they
could carry in one trip and left. They all knew Perrin, and he
was simply out of control.
“You fucking Neanderthals!” Perrin shouted. He
pressed his face up to the microphone, practically putting it in
his mouth, snarling at the audience like an angry pitbull with
a chew toy. “Why the fuck did God even put you on this
earth? You’re a waste of fucking oxygen! Go home and
vomit in the fuckin’ toilet, if you even have one! HOPEFULLY
YOU’LL PASS OUT IN IT AND DROWN YOURSELVES!!! The
crowd recoiled. Although they were intoxicated beyond
belief, they heard the suddenly imposing man on stage loud
and clear. But Perrin Mandar wasn’tfinished with them yet.
“You should all be CASTRATED, so you’re
DIRTBAG SEED WON’T GET SPREAD AROUND THE EARTH
ANYMORE!!” Sweat ran down Perrin’s body, which was shaking
with unbridled fury; his breathing became heavy. Perrin was
rapidly wearing himself out.
“AND ANOTHER THING!” He was beginning to
wheeze. “And another, cough, and anoth... Aw, fuck it. Why
am I wasting my goddamn time?” Perrin stormed off the
stage and out the side door. Just before he left, he thought
he noticed a man with a full beard and a guitar strapped to
his back. Didn’t Kevin go home already? Kevin’s beard
wasn’t that big, was it? Everything was starting to bleed
together.
Perrin stumbled into the alleyway. He didn’t think
anyone from the bar was going to come after him and didn’t
care if they did. He gazed up at the stars, a million points of
white light. They stung Perrin’s eyes. He spread his arms
out, Christ-like, and collapsed on a heap of garbage. The
last thing he remembered before passing out was the colors
dancing in his mind. A purple flat soared by a turquoise
chord in the key of fuschia minor. Normally, at a time like
this, Perrin would be grabbing a pen and any scrap of paper
he could find to translate the visions in his mind’s eye into
notes and words, a medium everyone else could understand.
Right now, though, he was just too tired. At that moment, if
he could’ve bored a hole in the ground and crawled into it, he
would’ve. Perrin’s eyelids sank; everything was sooooo
hazy. His head slumped back and he remembered no more.
Well, there you have it. Quite a story, eh? I told you I wouldn’t disappoint. Anyway, you’re probably thinking, “Yeah, yeah, great story, but what’s the point?” I’m telling ya, these guys need a record deal. They need to get heard, goddammit! They won’t be the next radio hit, but they could still make you guys a lot of money. In that dive bar in Weltlich, I found soul.
Sincerely,
Randy Cunningham
Randall P. Cunningham
514 W. 42nd Street
New York, NY 10138
October 24th, 2002
The vice president of Calloway Records put down
the folded up piece of paper. “You know,” he said, “these
guys sound like something...different. Something this label
needs. And that guy, you know, the crazy one, he could be
the next big personality in rock.” A smirk found its way to his
face. “It’s too bad we’ll never find the poor schmuck! Ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha!”
“That’s why I like you Jim,” said the president,
between chuckles. “You always had a good sense of humor.
I’m up for some coffee. Starbucks sound good?”
“Yeah.”
“Good man. I’m buying.”
The president and the vice president, arm in arm,
like father and son, stepped onto the elevator, but not
before sharing a final guffaw.
In a small cubicle several floors below the
president’s office lurked a small figure. He sat, bleary-eyed,
staring at his computer monitor. His fingers hammered
across the keyboard like pistons in a finely tuned machine.
Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap. He concentrated hard on
the productivity charts, the projected sales graphs, and the
financial estimates for the next fiscal quarter. Tap tap tap
tap tap tap tap. Who knows? Maybe someday, he would get
his own office.
Every once in a while, the colors still swirled in his
head, but he quickly shoved them aside, which was becoming
easier to do by the day, and replaced them with sales figures
and numbers. Who knows? Maybe his new office would have
its own coffee maker, and maybe even a nice view. Tap tap
tap tap tap tap tap tap.
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