I've quit the novel Keep it Cool because I was feeling no more love for it; so I started this now too long ago instead. This is the story that Keep it Cool never would've been. A story of love, which is a rare thing for someone such as me to write about. Nevertheless, here is the prologue, and I'll post chapters as I finish them.
Prologue
I never can forget that face, her lips a vibrant pink the little light given from my lighter as she sat close to me, her green eyes lit up marvelously as she kept pestering me with a gaze that demanded my attention. I tried my best to ignore the gaze and finish lighting up my cigarette, desperate to center myself, find a little bit of gravity and get my feet under me. We were at the big festival that was located on the shore. The festival had been going on for two whole days now, and this was the finale night; the night where the best bands played, where the wildest things occurred, and this was the night that would hopefully be engraved in my mind for a very long time.
The guys, my comrades, were all drunk or getting there. Andrew had found a bottle of rum on the sand near a couple of vacant chairs, and he’d snatched it up, tucking it under his arm, smirking at me as he shrugged simply. “People should know better than to leave things like this lying around.”
He was right, of course. I hadn’t planned on drinking heavily, not that night. I was more concerned with hovering within the bubble of the moment; remaining on the inside, but not letting my senses get clogged with drunken rants, incoherent visions, confusion, and madness. These were things that had overtaken me before during nights such as this one, and I was determined to avoid any such nonsense. Tonight, my head was going to be clear, and hopefully, something good would come of it.
Every time I tried to focus on the peace of having a clear mind that night, she would turn my attention back onto her, nudging me as she spoke, her voice as soft as water trickling off of leaves during a rain. “We should go try and see the band Terminate.”
Soft her words might’ve been, they threw me sideways across the railing that I’d been leaning against, my thoughts elsewhere. “What?”
“I said, we should go see Terminate.” Those green eyes sparkled excitedly, and she licked her lips briefly. She looked like a fourteen year old party girl, dressed in a Misfits tee shirt, legs shooting out of a pair of cargo-shorts that were too large for her. Her skin was sunburned and it looked very, very painful. Yet she smiled through it, looking far younger than her claimed twenty years of age.
And why not? There was nothing wrong with how she acted; I had no issues with it whatsoever. It wasn’t that she was immature, nor was it the case that she was a naďve kid. These were not the reasons that I was bothered whenever she was around. The truth was greater in scope, and the revelation of such a truth was similar to needles being shoved under my fingernails. They say that the truth can hurt, and it did so, very much. Nevertheless, seeing her standing there, her eyes pleading with me to take her to the crowded stage, where most of the town was gathered for the show, I reluctantly agreed to do so.
“Let’s go.” I led the way, dodging past carefree individuals, past drunken fools, laughing older women, hiding behind faces of amusement when it was clear they abhorred our very presence. Even when we started to hit the thick crowd of younger ladies and gentlemen of our age, I could still sense the hostility in the air. Perhaps it was being directed at the occasional officer who passed by, glaring into the crowd, trying to find any excuse to haul some kid away on a ‘drunk-in-public’ charge. Every time an officer stole by, kids would look away, for drop a bottle under their foot, trying to get away with it.
I forced myself into the crowd, shouting loudly to be heard above the noise as the next band, this Terminate band, started to ready their instruments and prepare for their small show. No doubt only three or four songs, nothing extravagant. But this was a local band, apparently, and the crowd was basking in their presence, cheering loudly as the band waved at them from the stage. I could barely see, being doomed from birth to be a short man, having to move about in a shady way, always having people curse me for being small and shady-looking. I kept at it, however, apologizing to anyone who got in my way as I passed by. “Sorry, sorry. Just looking for a friend.” She followed behind me, still quiet, but the glow on her face suggested that she was getting pumped just standing in the crowd.
I knew nothing about Terminate, but from the moment they began to play, it became evident they were a hardcore band, very much like Norman Jean or Underoath. They were ready to go, and began to play a loud, blazing song that had the entire crowd shifting around, shoving each other viciously as the moshpit began. Terminate wasn’t the worst hardcore band I’d heard, and I wasn’t much on genre stereotypes; the music was loud, and the mood heavy with intensity. It was enough for me, and I began to keep my head tilted down, using my weight to keep myself from getting knocked over, crouching slightly whenever some moron came my way, throwing elbows like an NBA star gone insane.
Soon, however, the pit became no fun. After three songs of loud noise crushing my ears, along with a crowd of idiots who were trying to kill each other, my time in the moshpit became a survival trip. As soon as the third song had ended, I looked around for my female companion, only to realize that I had lost sight of her, and had no idea where she was. At first, I felt a triumphant feeling rise in my chest, only to be replaced with guilt as I turned around in a three-sixty, worried that she’d been getting slammed around too hard.
The final song came on, and everyone was getting into it. More people tried to take my head off, and I managed to keep them from doing so, sending them packing. It helped being an amateur boxer from the age of twelve, but it did very little for me when men over six feet tall started throwing punches. One landed on my cheek, hard, cracking against the bone, staggering me. The heavy noise halted abruptly, as I landed on the ground, stunned. Several pairs of rough hands hauled me up, one pair belonging to the guy who’d just hit me. He wore a mask of regret, and he mouthed sorry, but I couldn’t hear it. My ears were startled by the pause of the music, until the band’s keyboardist started to play a repeated three-note interlude, and everyone in the crowed either bowed their heads like it was a prayer, or hold their hands high. This must’ve been Terminate’s proudest, most emotional moment yet. I took the time to spin around frantically again for my female companion, shouting her name several times, knowing full well that she wouldn’t hear me.
Just when I was about to give up hope, she appeared beside me, unhurt, smiling happily. The band had begun to build up its sound, the drummer playing a soft snare and several cymbals. The guitarist was strumming gently, and suddenly, the world took on a different form. No longer was there a rage or hatred in the air, or suspicion. I could actually sense the air mold into something new, something purer. As my companion stepped closer to me, I took stock of her, trying to see if she’d been hit, but I saw no flaw in her sweet face, darkened by her time in the summer heat. Her smile spoke volumes about her, and for a moment, I wondered why I felt so uncomfortable around her, and wondered why I was treating her terribly, acting like a massive prick.
The answers, as always, would have to be gleaned from hindsight, gazing back into the past, discerning the intent behind every scene, every word, every moment. And here we go.
__________________ I'm so post-rock I shit sad birds
Chapter 1
Summertime; every morning waking up in a shell of pure, unadulterated sweat, due in no small part to the lack of air-conditioning in the small apartment. The machine had been broken for weeks, and nobody had bothered calling it in. The apartment itself wasn’t a rundown, mess-of-a-trash heap, but it wasn’t anything like home, either. It contained a plain living room, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a kitchen with sparse equipment needed for the daily rituals of cooking and cleaning. The living room was the largest room in the apartment, and could only hold a couch, a loveseat, a flat-screen television set, a bookcase, and nothing more.
The bedroom I was in, mine, was the smallest in the house. I had a mattress lying on the floor, a sheet thrown over it to avoid itchiness, a desk with my laptop, and an extraordinarily small closet that somehow managed to hold all of my clothes in a single, four-chest drawer. The room reeked of spilt alcohol, and I knew the moment I woke up what had happened. I could see the spill on the floor, smell it from across the room. Must’ve happened only moments ago, when I’d spun to knock my dog away from licking me across the face anymore. Somehow the can hadn’t been completely empty, taking flight and landed a few feet away, right in front of the door.
Sitting up, I started to reach for the can, when the door was flung open suddenly, the can sent flying again, right by my hand this time. My roommate and friend Andrew Wellington stood over me then, blinked when he saw the mess. “Jeeee-sus,” he said, his beady blue eyes taking it all in quickly. “You’re worse than my lil’ sister, man.”
“Shut up.”
“Well, better hurry up. We gotta get over there by eleven.” Andrew shoved his dark bangs over to one side of his face, anxious as I hopped to my feet, slipping into some decent clothing I used for situations such as this one. Job hunting had always been the bane of my existence, but I was used to it, by now. There came a time in every man’s life where job hunting eventually evolved into an instinct, rather than an obligation. Starting out, you were just a mere drifter, just gleaning what you could from the little jobs you could find, be it mowing the lawn for a neighbor, or getting a part-time job as a cashier at the local gas station. But as time continues its inevitable crawl, you find yourself slowly building up a reputation, either for good or ill, and you begin to learn the tricks of the trade; how to dress, how to sell yourself.
The marketing of self was something that had always bothered me, however. Even when Andrew and I quickly ate our breakfast and jumped into his red Cobalt, I felt a tension within my stomach. Sour and heavy, it dragged my mood down into the gutter. “What’s the point?” I even wondered aloud as we drove along towards our destination, Andrew always keeping his eyes on the road while I leaned halfway out the window, trying to stop thinking about smoking a cigarette before we arrived.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what’s the reason we gotta do this whole job thing, man? Why do we even bother?” I couldn’t explain it in the sense that I myself knew about job hunting. Andrew gave me a puzzled look and sighed.
“We get paid,” He answered solidly. “Cash pays the bills, keeps the roof over our heads. Cash gets us food, beer, and all things that are good in life.”
“And in our desperate attempt to get said cash, we sell ourselves like hookers,” I clenched my fists together tightly, the need for nicotine shooting through me with a sudden ravenous hunger I hadn’t expected. “Sell our souls, offer the boss a nice blowjob, just so that we can get the job in the first place. We degrade ourselves at their expense. We kiss up like it’s goin’ outta style.”
“Well, that’s life.” Andrew hadn’t truly been paying attention; not since we’d come to a stoplight, the driver in the lane beside us a gorgeous blonde, with several friends in the car. They were shooting glances at us, but I was in no mood for any kind of flirting. Andrew was so busy with them, once the light had turned green some fool behind us honked his horn, startling us badly. My temper got the better of me, and I was halfway to opening the door so that I could fling my empty coke can at the offender, but Andrew hit the pedal hard, sending me face-first into the seat, casting us into a hurtling race with the girls in the opposite lane, who were now at least ten yards ahead of us.
They turned at the next signal, and we came to yet another stop, Andrew smiling to himself, as if he’d just accomplished something that day. “I’m sorry dude. What were we talking about again?” he turned to me, but I still wanted to wallop the idiot who had honked at us in the first place. I kept craning my head, trying to see if I could spot the car, but failing to do so. I finally gave up and sighed.
“I can’t remember either.” I was forced to admit.
Andrew nodded slowly, and we coasted along for a little bit, just taking up our own thoughts, leaving the world as we delved into ourselves instead. I kept thinking about the job interview, and the manager I was scheduled to speak with. He had initially seemed like a cool guy the first time we’d met, when I’d come into the shop for an application, but a mere introduction meant nothing; things could always change as soon as the job was actually in my hands. The manager could’ve been a control freak, and I wouldn’t be able to take anything he said seriously. These worries, among others, such as the bills we needed to pay, ceaselessly assaulted me as we made haste to our destination; a small skate and surf shop on the strip.
I hardly ever surfed; Andrew was more into that and skateboarding, making him somewhat of an adrenaline junkie. He loved nothing more than to carve through a large wave, or to take a skateboard of his out on the town whenever he had free time to do so. “Clears my head.” was the only reason he’d give for why he did it. I couldn’t get anything else out of him, and he always left me baffled and confused about it all. As it were, regardless of my lack of knowledge in skateboards, I felt I knew enough that this interview would go smoothly enough. Andrew was feeling excited about it as well; he turned the radio station on, trying his best to sing to a Faith No More song that had come on, failing to hit the right pitch that Mike Patton’s voice was at.
“You know what we should do tonight if we get the job?” He said, turning the music down a tad.
“What’s that?”
“We should get the girls, and get hammered.”
“But we do that every night.” I laughed hard at the suggestion. “I don’t know about you, but I wanna take a break for a little bit man.”
“Take a break from what? What else would you wanna do?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged at him, and he rolled his eyes. “I just think we need to chill on the drinking a little bit - you especially. You’re getting’ worse about it man.”
“Nah, you’re just paranoid. You spend too many nights just sitting on the roof, writing or doing whatever it is that you’re doing up there,” he laughed in return. And then he glared at me suspiciously. “You’re not masturbating up there, are you?”
“What-? No!” he burst out laughing, and I cursed him. “Screw you!”
“I suspected as much,” he finished laughing, a chuckle trailing off silently as I clamped down harder on the urge to smoke, harnessing all of my willpower in order to succeed. It wouldn’t be long before we’d arrive.
__________________ I'm so post-rock I shit sad birds
The shop finally blew up in our windshield, and we parked outside. It was one of the larger buildings on the strip, two floors of clothes, surfing and skateboarding gear, and a multitude of guys and girls into these extreme sports, living for the moment, embracing the adrenaline of their trades. I’d hung with their type before. Good people, a little crazy, but far more tolerable than most of the kids who dwelled in town. The name of this particular shop was ‘Cruising for a Bruising,’ but most of the regulars that entered the shop referred to it as ‘the Cruise’ instead.
Once we had stepped inside, cool air conditioning flood over us, providing relief from the hot sun. Immediately, we were hemmed in by kids with torn clothing, tattoos running rampant on their skin. Images of punk or metal bands were everywhere, skulls abound, a few coffins, and naturally, surf boards or skateboards. Most kids in the shop wore their hair down long, or had shaven it all off. Andrew and I were two of the few exceptions in the shop; neither of us wore long hair or had shaven it. Neither of us were dressed like grunge-lovers or punks. Overdressed for the wrong occasion, and I could feel the many pairs of eyes attempting to stare me down as I waded through the shop, passing by racks of tee shirts and swimsuits. Municipal Waste was playing from tiny speakers all around, and despite my attire, I felt at home.
“Hey, you two!” Andrew and I were halted by a tall and broad man, who could’ve fit into the stereotypical surfing scene perfectly. He towered over the both of us easily, wearing a dark tee shirt that proclaimed in bloody letters ‘Ride or Die’ with a surfing logo below it. He bore a fu Manchu, and it leaped out in reddened stubble on his face. I felt a smile tear onto my face, and I couldn’t help it. Already I had a good feeling about this moment.
“Mr. Almazo?” Andrew grinned and held out his hand. “Remember me? Andrew Wellington. You guys sponsored me for the surfing tourney last year-”
“Oh yeah, oh yeah, I remember you,” he said as he shook Andrew’s hand, a smile breaking out onto his face as well. “You two came in here wanting to interview for a job, right?”
“Yeah.” Andrew nodded. I took the opportunity to hold out my own hand and introduce myself.
“I’m James Farrel.” Almazo was polite and to the point with us then, taking us to the back, where his office was. The music was dimmed then, and the moment he shut the door on the main room, the sound was completely cut off; all noise of conversation and music was gone, and I blinked, surprised for a moment. Almazo indicated that we should take our seats in the two chairs sitting in front of the small desk that was no doubt his. The desk was crammed with papers, legal crap, a computer that looked like it had come from the late nineties, with an old keyboard to boot. He sat down as soon as we did, studying the two of us, his dark eyes flicking back and forth before he spoke clearly.
“Well, I read your resumes,” he began calmly. “And I must say that it all looks good. Obviously,” he motioned to Andrew. “I know you well, and I appreciate the word-of-mouth you’ve been doing for the company since we sponsored you. And as for you, James,” he shrugged. “I can’t say much; worked in construction for two straight years, so I’m guessing you don’t mind rough work.”
“Not at all.” It wasn’t a lie. Physical labor was something I enjoyed, though only on the time I was working. If someone required my services for overtime, the gripes would eventually come.
“Well that’s fine by me; I mean, you won’t get that kind of work here; running up the cash register, customer service. It’s all standard stuff,” Almazo leaned back in his chair again, his eyes on me. “As it is, I’ve got a few job slots still open,” he said. “And I know I’d like you, Andrew.”
Andrew beamed confidently. There was a horrible moment where I could actually feel myself falling off of the edge of the cliff, and the plunge took what seemed to be an eternity to fulfill as finally Almazo rounded out his conclusion. “And James, well, I’d like to have you as well. I called your supervisor and he said you worked hard no matter what. I’ve gotta be honest though,” he sighed then, and his whole mood shifted in an instant. Scratching the back of his head, Almazo explained. “Business has been difficult lately. But I’m sure you know with times like these, jobs are hard to find. Money’s tight for everyone. When I hire someone, I wanna know if they’re gonna work hard and do everything that is necessary to ensure that the shop stays up in business.”
Andrew and I exchanged a glance on accident. Almazo didn’t seem to notice, now staring down at his desk. “I’m not begging for you help, guys, but I’d appreciate it if you could just do me a favor and really, really take this shop to the next level; you know, bring people in, raise attention, really starting moving gear out the door, and in a legal way, ya know?”
“We get you,” Andrew nodded his head slowly. “Yeah man, we can do it.”
Almazo’s eyes were now on me, and I piped up without hesitation. “We’ll get it done.”
__________________ I'm so post-rock I shit sad birds
-
Heading back into the main room, I felt triumph sweep through my whole body, bringing me into a grinning mess, high-fiving Andrew as we laughed about the recent success in our lives. “I’m gonna give some of the ladies a call tonight. You should call somebody. We’ll have some fun.” Andrew went outside then, trying to get a signal for his cell phone. I chose to remain within the Cruise for a few more moments, savoring victory, taking it all in smoothly. This was a new start to a chapter that was sorely in need of being rewritten. I took in the faces of everyone around me, the punks, the surfers, or the kids who dabbled in both. These were now friends, although they didn’t know it yet.
They laughed, blurting out jokes or wild stories, bragging about current events in their stories. Some of them spoke in a quieter tone about the weather, the waves, or what they were planning on doing for the summer. As I stood there, I could feel the vibes of peace surround me. I understood now that I was treading on holy ground; ground that would remain solid no matter what. This shop would become my sanctuary, a place I could hole up in when the world outside started to darken and dim, tearing lives asunder, creating havoc.
The joy of this took hold, and I grinned widely as I took the entire room. I had been almost completely ready to go when my eyes picked up a new face in the room; one I hadn’t noticed before. Like a beacon of light in the pitch black of night, the face stopped me as my hand rested against the door, arresting me entirely for a full moment.
A pretty girl leaned against the counter, dressed in the same manner as Almazo had been; a different tee shirt with a different slogan, but dressed very much like everyone else in the shop. Her eyes were as green as the waves that were no more than a few hundred yards away. They stabbed deep, causing a sudden loss of logic and coherency. What was I doing here, on my way out, when there was a pretty girl with a thin, freckled face that was just begging me with luscious eyes to stay for a while longer?
And why in grief’s name was my heart beating faster than usual, or my face taken on a red shade that was rarely ever there? I had no answer for these questions, and I wasn’t certain I wanted to know the answers then. I chose to smile politely and hold up a hand in a goodbye instead. She returned the smile with one of her own; and I was glad to have made such a wise decision. Her smile took me away from the loud ruckus in the shop for that moment, lifted me above it all, and made me forget about who I was, and who I had been. For that entire moment, James Farrel was a free man.
...end of chapter 1. Chapter two will come around eventually.
__________________ I'm so post-rock I shit sad birds
Got through the prologue as of right now, I'm very interested in this, Kruppo. I don't have time right now to read the rest, but I'll be back to continue later tonight.
The only problem I can see for the first part is the lack of character development. If I'm to be reading the thoughts of this character for the rest of a supposed novel, shouldn't I have much more knowledge as to who he is? Or perhaps that will be developed in a later part of the story.
Thanks for sharing this, I'll be sure to enjoy the rest of it (I can safely assume from my initial satisfaction in reading the prologue).
Got around to reading the other parts. I find some things are worded so they become a bit redundant in the details... this happens mostly in the beginning of the first chapter. I lost the feeling of a narration and almost took it in as a list of descriptive events that had happened instead of a flowing story. (Hard to explain what I mean, but I hope you can understand). This was mainly when the protagonist was waking, and the stuff about the spilled beer.
This issue faded as I read on and the story really picked up in terms of character development.
I'm very much so anticipating the second chapter, Kruppo, so get to posting!
I like it. I know its only the first chapter so far, but it really sounds just like Keep it Cool. Its a guy who likes to be alone, somewhat pessimistic, impulsive(perhaps anger issues?), smokes, and is surrounded by friends who aren't like him at all - ones who just want to party and drink. He sees a girl for one fleeting moment, and is then completely in love with her. You also take some of the wording a little far for somewhat mundane sentiments, for example:
'I understood now that I was treading on holy ground; ground that would remain solid no matter what. This shop would become my sanctuary, a place I could hole up in when the world outside started to darken and dim, tearing lives asunder, creating havoc.'
I know he just got the job and hes feeling good, but why is he suddenly so passionate about a surf shop if he doesn't really surf? And why such dark imagery about the world darkening, peoples lives being torn 'asunder', and havoc? Is this guy a particularly dark character who sees the world this way? This just stuck out to me as unnatural and it didn't really fit the situation or the character's thoughts with such little character development. This line too:
'Her smile took me away from the loud ruckus in the shop for that moment, lifted me above it all, and made me forget about who I was, and who I had been. For that entire moment, James Farrel was a free man.'
Its just too much, I think. All she did was smile at him. Save the powerful feelings like these for after he has interacted with this girl. You're setting it up just like in Keep it Cool. How long before she starts dating his friend and then James pounces on her and kisses her at a party?
