story
The night crawls, with slow city traffic as everyone wraps up to head home. As I look down the street, I grip the handles of that uncomfortable yet familiar white plastic of a Chinese takeout bag. The cool night breeze is refreshing, maybe if it wasn't for the sickly sweet smell of gasoline in the air, and the polluted city sky. Cars pass by, headlights beaming, and the impersonal windshield glass never lets me see the disappointed, tired faces of the drivers. I can just imagine a father swirling around their now cold coffee as they sit in traffic waiting for the light to turn green. Wanting to get home to their kids but knowing his wife back at home isn't too happy that he took overtime again. At least that's what society makes me think.
I take out my phone and check the Public Metro app. Route 124 is 4 minutes away. Four minutes late. I sigh, putting my phone back into my pocket and grabbing my wallet. I'm so damn ready to get home and eat, my stomach is growling. This waiting is unbearable. The skin under my clothes, no, the muscles under my skin just so desperately want to move. I tap my feet as I wait, just something to get that itch out. It doesn't really help, though.
The bus's tires hiss as they decompress, lowering the front of the bus. I wait in line to get on, and I notice that the girl in front of me has a Sorry Ghost button. Neat band in the indie scene. It'd be awkward to ask about it, though, I haven't even listened to their songs more than a few times on random occasions. As it comes up to my turn, and that girl finds her seat, I look the driver in the eye, tired, dead eyes, he probably has had a long shift of driving, just waiting to get home to finally sleep. I put the cash in after a few tries with one hand. The fare machine beeps and prints out a ticket. I hastily grab it and find a seat. I sit in the first empty seat, happens to be priority seating. I really just don't care, I'll get up if I have to. If an old lady is out in the city at this hour and they need a seat, I'll gently give them a smile. Maybe I would, I mean I'd try.
The bus rises, and as the brakes turn off, it begins moving. I set the takeout, the now only warm food, in my lap and lean my head against the window, shoulders uncomfortably leaning on the metal, and face pressed against to cool glass. I watch as everything passes by and we get further away from downtown, yet I still feel so stuck.
As we near Kenley, I tug the yellow cord until it gives, and the bus chimes. I stand up and lurch as momentum throws me forward when the bus stops. The tires hiss as the doors open, and I hop off in a slow jog through the night air. Theoretically, I could transfer over to the 60, but I really can't be bothered since it's only a few blocks. I can run faster than it'll take to wait for the bus.
It's a stupid game, really: Jogging through the sidewalk at night with a bag of takeout in hand. Passing by all the monotonous but lived-in houses, and boring-colored cars that have their own history. I can just imagine how that blue car got a dent on the left of its bumper. I can just picture an old man rocking on his rocking chair on the porch of that white house as he watches his grandchildren play out in the small front lawn. As quickly as I think of these things, the images fade away as I jog. I turn left on 16th, and finally come up to my apartment.
I wheeze for breath, and my lungs feel so hot and so good. I'm not the most athletic person, to say the least. I look up, and the Route 60 bus stop taunts me. I'd get pissy if I didn't choose this, cause I know the next bus will arrive in more than half an hour. After a moment under the streetlight to catch my breath, I walk through the parking lot. My legs burn after walking up the flights of stone slab stairs, and I fumble through my pocket to get my keys. With one hand, I try to shove the key in the hole, but I miss and drop it.
"Oh fuck me," I hiss, every muscle in my body about to explode like a spring under too much tension. I bend down to grab my keys, resisting the urge to throw my takeout at the wall and claw at my skin.
I breathe. Like it fucking helps.
As I attempt again to put the key in the hole, my hands are shaking. Trying to grip my key harder feels uncomfortably wrong. The hell is wrong with me? I try to shove the key in. It meagly scratches the metal keyhole. I fumble again. Jesus Christ again? My eyes feel hot, and I'm about to cry. "Just get the fuck in there, bitch," I plead, my voice wobbling and quiet.
Then it finally, finally, listens. It goes in, and I weakly twist the key and unlock the door. I sigh, everything decompressing. As I take out my key and turn my doorknob to let myself in, everything inside me feels so small. My muscles feel like a child ashamed that they made a mistake.
I don't even turn the light on. I just close the door behind me and lock it, set my takeout on the counter. I crawl up into bed in the dark, illuminated only by the streetlight through my dusty blinds. I curl up in a fetal position, hugging my shark plushie. The only comfort I have since my buddy died. Aren't I supposed to fucking like this pain? Why the hell does it hurt?
Tears don't stream down my cheeks. I'm too weak for that. Just my eyes watering, hot, as I drift to sleep.
The buzzing gripped me. As I stared at my popcorn ceiling, the light hum of distant streetlights through the window grew and grew. The sounds enveloped me until I saw them. Was the buzzing like static? No, there was resonance, not pure white noise. The resonating frequencies of the incandescent bulbs, like white strings on a spectrogram. But the darkness is what enveloped me. I thought I closed my eyes. Maybe I did.
I think I did. But when I woke, the buzzing didn't get quieter. The low-pass filter got removed, actually, but the reverb turned endless. Far sounds came back an eternity later. I'm not sure if I got off my feet from the sticky? wet? damp? carpet, or if I was always standing. Wasn't I lying down?
The yellow was a sickening color. It couldn't have been real. Felt more like a camera's sensor malfunctioning, the color balance so off it turned everything sickly vibrant yet pale. Or maybe like an old film print that yellowed over time. It wasn't natural.
The air was still, too. An odd temperature that I couldn't feel. If I had been unable to breathe, then maybe it would have felt more like there was no air at all. I took my first step, and I definitely passed through air though. That way that oxygen likes to angrily push back at you as you walk through it.
I felt small, I think. I liked how that felt, but I was scared. Didn't feel anxious. Just scared. When I walked through room after room, I was scared that I would find something. Or was I scared that I wouldn't find something? Scared to be alone? No, I've always been alone.
The entire time, it was only me and my thoughts. But I didn't think. I just observed with a blissful anxiety. A stillness that didn't bring me regret. A pure experience.
I wake up sweaty, though not suddenly. I open my eyes slowly, and, just for a moment, take it in. I take my phone out of my pocket to check the time. 0623, a few minutes before my alarm. Okay, sure. I toss my phone onto my bed and flinch as it nearly hits the wall.
I sit up, leaning forward slightly. Everything is so quiet. So still. The yellow light of dawn, though not that yellow, glows in beams through my blinds, illuminating the room. The takeout just where I left it, my bass on its stand, clothes strewn about the floor. Everything in perfect order.
I stand up, grab a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and the rest from the clean pile. Just what I need to get through the day. I walk into the bathroom and flick the light on. It makes a light thump. Plastic gently slapping against plastic. I love the sound the light switch makes. I go to turn the shower water on. 30% this time. I deserve more, but to fucks with what I deserve or don't.
Making sure to first take my keys and wallet out of my pants, I take off my clothes, throwing them on the bathroom floor, and skooching it to the door with my foot.
Now the part I dread.
I take a breath and step into the shower. The water is bitterly, angrily cold. My whole body flinches, and I gasp. Immediately, I start shivering. It hurts, the cold droplets making my skin contract into goosebumps. I quickly go through the requirements of a shower: scrubbing with soap, shampoo, and conditioner, washing my face. As soon as I finish, I shut off the water even though it's no longer feeling so bad.
"Aahh," I gasp, the relief of it being over is overwhelming. I grab my towel to dry myself and I can't help but smile. An unfiltered reflex to say that I like it.
After getting dressed, I grab my phone and open up the takeout. I take one of the chopsticks and break it apart. Picking up a piece of horribly Americanized orange chicken, I take a bite, immediately regretting it. It's cold, stringy, and disgusting. Obviously, who am I kidding? I put the piece back into the box, then pick it up and bring it over to the microwave. I shove it in the 'warm box' for a minute.
As I wait, I check my phone, humming a tune from a Five Iron Frenzy song I can't remember the name of. I got a text from Arly: "Can you make it to a practice at 9 pm?"
I respond, "Can I drop off my bass over to your place before I go to work? I get off my shift at 08 and I don't have the time to haul it all over the city."
I stare awkwardly at my phone as nothing happens. Arly sent this yesterday, of course she's going to take a while to respond. The microwave alarm beeps, and I jump, nearly dropping my phone. My heart races, the hell am I scared of? The microwave goes off again, the four steady beeps, then a pause. I push the it open, and grab the box of orange chicken.
Knowing the classic "ice on inside, lava hot on outside", I mix around the chicken a bit before grabbing a piece to take a bite. The temperature is disgustingly mixed, as expected. A mediocre temperature. It doesn't taste all that good either. Like sure, I chose this food, but Chinese takeout isn't ever that good. Now going to an actual Chinese restaurant, that's a different story. And a different luxury I can't afford.
After a few minutes of eating, silently scrolling through my phone, Arly responds to me text: "Why my place?"
I set down my chopsticks and respond: "It's easier to get it to your place for me. On the way to work. And you know I don't trust Jordan with my stuff."
She texts back: "Uhm, sure? That should be fine. Do you need me to just give you a ride?"
I scoff: "Don't worry about it, if it's not a bother for you, then it's not a bother for me."
Arly swiftly ends the conversation: "Yep, it's fine. Cya."
I sigh, then pick up my chopsticks to continue eating the measly breakfast that was supposed to be yesterday's dinner.
I pick up my bass and throw the thick leather strap over my head. The weight gently hangs on my shoulder as I lean over to push on the amp. It turns on with a pop and crackle, then a steady hum. Excitement makes me shiver, cold suddenly pulsing through my body. The little crack and buzzing as I adjust the 1/4in is something I love. To hells with it being annoying, it's familiar. Unreliable but trustworthy, like an old childhood friend who played pranks on you but still had your back. Though I really should get a new cable, but it works.
I stomp on my Darkglass Alpha/Omega pedal, and lightly pluck at the E string. I turn the drive up and set it to omega. A nice, heavy sound. I flip on the growl and turn off the bite. I test out the tone with a noodle, just a simple lick. I'm met with a smooth, grungy overdrive, a deep and muted sound.
I could practice scales, sure. I should. More than definitely, I should turn on a metronome. I don't. It's fine. I just want to get lost in the music. Oh, yeah, I know one way to get lost in the music.
I reach to the nut of my bass, and untie the satin blindfold. It's black, soft, and cold to the touch. I take it and wrap it over my eyes. I pull the right end over the left, and tighten it until it hugs at my eyes, then the left over the right for a reef knot.
One common issue that bands have while performing is looking down at the frets. I love how it feels to be free from those frets, though. Free to play, free to think. That freedom that only comes from repression. As I start playing, that feeling is the only thing I can think of.
Through the noodling, an hour quickly passes. The present feels like a standstill as I just take in the soft melodrama of bass, yet I look back and can hardly think of it taking more than a few seconds. I hate how good it feels to lose time like this. It's weird, a light fluttery feeling in my chest, but the ethereal weightlessness of being free is almost haunting.
I lightly take off my blindfold and tie it back on the nut of my bass. Moody light cascading through the blinds glows, and I gently take it in. My vision is blurred from the comforting pressure of the satin, and it'll take a minute or so before going back to normal. Adjusting back to reality is the best part: when I'm back here, but not hurting.
Getting up, I turn off my amp with a gentle click, then collapse to silence. I methodically unplug my bass and take off the strap, then pack everything into the case. Amp in one hand, bass on my back, I open my front door. I glare at the sunlight, but the cold air is refreshing. I take a big breath, the last time I'll be at peace today. Time to head to Arly's.
The fare machine beeps as it prints out my ticket, I grab it, then lug my amp with me over to a seat in the middle of the bus. Taking the 60 will eventually get me to Arly's. The brakes release, and we begin to sway forward. Instead of looking out the window, I simply watch the handles sway as the bus moves. I watch as someone gets on or off at each stop. An old man waddling off, holding his aching back in one hand, a cane in the other. A single mother dragging her daughter on, awkwardly smiling as she gives instructions.
A man gets on the bus, his clothes dirty and worn down. I tense as he sits next to me so close our legs graze, plopping down dad style: legs sprawled, no sense of personal space, reaching his arms out on the backs of the seat, and of course giving out a loud sigh. I grip my amp tightly, glancing towards him but making sure to avoid staring. He looks angry, maybe tired or disgruntled. He shifts and scans me up and down. I skooch closer to the window so we're not touching. After staring at me shamelessly for too long, he lets out a grunt, "Ya play guitar?"
My muscles start locking, and my chest gets hot. "Oh, uhm, this is actually a bass."
His voice gets harsh, and I start to feel my every breath. "So a fuggin' bass guitar, yeah?" Why is he so angry? I feel like if I say the wrong thing, he's gonna try to grab me or hit me. Neither pleasant.
"Yeeahh?" I question, my voice rising defensively.
"What scene?"
"Alternative rock. Kinda sometimes, uh, experimental." I'm starting to get sweaty. I adjust my grip on my amp and wipe my palms on my pants before hugging my amp tighter.
He mumbles, "Band?" I haven't made eye contact the entire time.
"Nothing Yet." Maybe he's drunk. Or high out of his mind. Or he just sees me as an easy target. I don't get how guys like these always manage to sniff out weakness; cause hell, I sure feel weak right now. I reach over and fumble, attempting to quickly try to tug the yellow cord, failing. My face grows hot and flustered. I try again, and the bus chimes. As I get up, I hastily add, "This is my stop."
I stumble through the aisle as the bus lurches, nearly tripping over someone's bag and another person's foot as I hop off the bus. I sigh and shiver, lightly hugging myself with my one free hand. There's no world where I would have waited just another few seconds with that creep to get off the right stop.
The bus hisses as it pulls away. I grip my phone from the outside of the pocket, then let go. I should probably let Arly know I'm a few blocks away. I'll give it a minute.
Walking a few extra blocks and up that 15% slope is a nightmare: my fingers are tense as I switch my amp between hands, my shoulders hurt as my bass digs into them, my legs burn as I walk. Still better than being on the bus with that guy, though.
My phone buzzes. Arly responded: "Yeah I'm home. Let yourself in, I left the door unlocked." Damn, she really has that much trust in me? That's nice.
I come up to Arly's distinct red apartment, luckily even on the first floor. I twist the knob to her door and push it open. Soft LEDs dimly illuminate the room in a muted pink. I take a step inside, setting down my amp and taking my bass off my back. I take a breath, it's always calm in here. Not like my place, but just as safe from the outside world.
I walk in more, leaving the door ajar behind me, and see Arly sprawled out on her couch, half asleep on her phone. She glances at me and blinks, proceeding to go back to doing whatever it is on her phone. Posters of various artists line her walls, even drawings of these cartoon fox and wolf guys. Her strange taste never fails to amuse me. It's undeniably and unapologetically her: I don't know a single other person who would have a shrine just to these characters.
Music is lightly playing, and I can't tell which of the artists it is that she's endlessly gone on about before, maybe, what was it, Ivycomb? Not sure, all the pop-y music sounds the same to me, though this one has that over-produced sound with a boring bassline. Root notes with a generic synth bass. And of course, what I hate the most: no real instruments except for the blatantly autotuned vocals. It just screams pop, that's for sure. If I told Arly it felt a bit impersonal, she'd personally kick my ass, though.
Arly sets her phone down on the floor, her arm awkwardly hanging off the couch. "Yeah, you can just leave your stuff at the door."
"Cool." I glance around her room once more. I thought she worked today?
"Girl, I can tell what you're thinking," she starts with a grin, slipping into her usual mockery, "'what have you been up to?', 'Why aren't you working?', 's'my day off, genius." She chuckles.
I sigh. I mean, she wasn't wrong. "Please don't call me 'girl'."
"Oh right, sorry," she says, her smile going away, "I forgot you didn't like that. My bad, Rowrow."
"It's… fine," I trail off, quickly losing eye contact. "Aaanyways, you'll be able to take my stuff to Brendan's, right?"
Arly gets up and pats out some of the wrinkles in her clothes. "Yep yep," she chimes as she walks over to her desk and searches through her knick-knacks. "There it is!" She exclaims, grabbing a turquoise pin.
"What's that?" I ask.
"A pin so that nobody misgenders you," she answers flatly, pinning it on my shirt, "not even me."
She smiles. I do too. "Thanks." This warm feeling is hard to describe with words. It just feels good.
"Now get off, your eminence," she says, pushing me out the door, "somebody has their shift soon."
I hate the drudgery of work. I hate that I can't remember what I did. I hate that same-y buzzing of the fluorescent lights that just never goddamn stops all day. But thank fuck my shift is over, my heart is racing just to think of playing with the band. It's funny how dead I felt, the only times my face brightened up were when any of my coworkers mentioned the pin Arly gave me. I reach towards the pin. It was pretty cool of her to give it to me. I make my way out into the open, beneath the high-rises in downtown.
Time to hit the 80 and get to Brendan's.
This time, the ride goes by uneventfully. Nobody coming up to me, I just watch out the window as the bus passes car after car, advert after advert, street after street. A calming repetition in the chaos, everything happens, but only once. I can imagine the time spent designing some of those hideous ads, being forced to make something just to please your boss, not your own artistic freedom. It's impersonal: to be given a task from a money-hungry exec and be expected to do it without question, no matter how poorly thought out it was. I hate the thought of limiting my freedom. I'll never let us sign onto a label that'll turn us into a robotic, soulless band that's contracted their life away. It seems too often that it happens to bands with a frontwoman. My only hope is that it doesn't happen to us. But with the thoughts that nobody sees me for who I am, I don't have much power to stop it.
Approaching Brendan's house, it somehow always has that pristine white paint. I guess being a homeowner, or well, having money, makes a difference. I can already hear the drumming. It echoes in muted reverberations through the neighborhood. I think I recognize the song, though I only know because it's one of Jordan's favorites. I open the door: Arly's singing, Jordan's playing guitar, and Brendan's drumming, all as per usual.
"I thought you died alone"
"A long, long time ago"
Oh no, not me
I never lost control
"Oh, hi Rowrow!" Arly chimes, she looks at me and smiles, "I see you're still wearing that pin, huh?"
"Yep." I can't help but smile. "And you all are playing that one Ni-"
"Don't you fuckin' say Nirvana, bitch." Jordan rolls her eyes and walks over to me. Giving me a few light, playful punches to the stomach, "You know it's David Bowie, you ass." I chuckle with this almost uncomfortably warm feeling. Sometimes I can't help but realize how lucky I am.
I raise my hands behind my head in playful defeat, "I'm sorry Jordan," I say, with the classic sound of pretending to be scared, "don't call the Music Police."
"You mean the Karma Police?" Brendan exclaims, jumping up from his drumset and stomping over to me and Jordan. "I heard there's someone that buzzes like a fridge and they're like a detuned radio."
"No, it's not me, officer!" I plead, "I swear!"
We all pause for a moment before laughing together. Every time it's like this, and I've never hated it. I mean, we've come a long way since we started. Arly gives a sinister grin, pointing over to my bass and amp, "Your stuff's over there, by the way."
I walk over, a little nervous to think of what Arly might have done this time. All three of them watch me as I unzip the case to my bass. First, I check the blindfold; it's still there. Then I scan the body of the bass, "Oh, you didn't," I mutter as I see a drawing taped on with blue masking tape. It's a silly little drawing of a white cat, fox, thing? Guy? Person?
"Ha! You like kissing boys, don't you?"
"Oh fuck you, I'm not gay!" I laugh.
Jordan hops in with a deep voice, "Are you sure?"
"Yes!" I exclaim, a little flustered but distinctly not angry. I stumble on my words, "w-whatever, let's just get practice started."
"Yeah, yeah," Arly says, watching as I plug in my gear. Jordan plays with her pedals until she dials in a 'scrangly' tone. Brendan is messing with his sample pad, getting some classic 808 e-drums on the side of his acoustic kit.
As I stop on my pedal, I chirp, "Kay, I'm ready." Gonna keep the same tone as I did with my noodling earlier today. Should be a nice contrast to Jordan's softer guitar tone. As Jordan and Arly start with the guitar riff, I feel a little rising anxiety, just an uncomfortable feeling in my chest. I look at my blindfold, wishing to put it on, then close my eyes as I take the lead of the groove.
Arly begins to sing:
I walked away
Out in the pouring rain
Clouds blocked the sun
streetlights glow
Like a naive child
I thought I could throw
My life away
Just for an escape
I take a breath as we get to the fun part. The chorus, inspired by MK Ultra. All of us play in sync, Brendan hitting his drums as hard as he can, Jordan and Arly vigorously picking their strings, and me calmly plucking my strings.
Alone I had learned
That life isn't fair
Something always burned
The smoke still in the air
Arly holds out that last 'air' for the next four bars as we continue. Going into the first riff, distinctly the hard part for me, I mess up a few times, relying on Brendan to keep time. My breathing gets heavy. The descending line at the end manages to prove that I haven't practiced my scales enough. I shakily breathe as we go back into the next verse.
I hold my breath
I can hardly breathe
Why so soon?
I know where I'll be
like a naive child
I thought I could show
That I was strong
That I wouldn't die
Going into the simple pre-bridge riff, I manage to hold out the melody. Arly misses a note, hitting a flat. Though it's only fair, I can tell she's prepping for the final chorus.
Was I ready to go?
What did I really know?
I tense, readying for the chorus. Arly takes a big breath.
Alone I had learned
That life isn't fair
Something always burned
The smoke still in the air
Our playing goes to half time, all of us in sync while Arly belts the high notes.
Nothing will
Move me back there
I have changed
Nothing will
Make me want
To cry again
She holds out the 'again' by herself, as we then go into the outro riff, just repeating the final chorus without vocals. All of us in sync, all of us playing as one, all of us making it a climax. I close my eyes once more as I play the dissonant chord to close the song. The kind of dissonance that's unsettling but absolute, the kind that says it's over.
Sweating a bit, Brendan yells, "Hell yeah! That was awesome!"
Arly laughs out a "fuck yeah" while reaching for her waterbottle. "I missed some of those notes so bad though."
Jordan hugs Arly and smiles, "You did great!" She takes a breath, "C'mon, you killed it in the final chorus."
Next to Brendan, I mutter, "Thanks for saving me there in that first riff."
"Yeah, you got it, dude. You did good, though." He replies. "Maybe we should practice that part more? Playing the full song's fun, but we need to lock in the parts that we don't got."
Brendan calling me 'dude' is a little uncomfortable. I wipe the sweat off my hands on my pants. No reason to comment about it, I don't want to ruin the mood again. "Good idea."
"Y'all heard that?" Brendan calls to Jordan and Arly. The two of them look at us, still holding each other. That closeness is enviable. "We're gonna practice the first riff until we get it down."
"Kay," they respond.
"You sure you don't need a ride?" Arly asks me as we pack up our gear.
"Yeah," I mumble.
"Are you suuuure?" Arly pesters, clearly just wanting to give me a ride. I can tell she cares, but by God is it annoying sometimes.
"Y'know what? Fine," I sigh.
"Nice!" Arly smiles. She turns over to Jordan, "We're gonna give Rowan a ride."
"Okay," Jordan responds, not looking up from her guitar case as she closes it. "Works for me."
Arly picks up her guitar and amp and hauls them out the door. "Follow me," she grunts, "You'll have to put your stuff next to you."
I quietly oblige, slipping on my bass on my back like a backpack, and picking up my amp. Jordan follows, and Brendan trails behind. The night sky is calm and starless, and a gentle cold tugs at Jordan's skirt. As Arly opens the trunk to toss her gear in, I take mine in the back seat, gently setting everything in place.
"Y'all better make it home safe," Brendan calls out, standing at the doorway. He cheers, "That was a good practice, we're so close to finishing!"
"Ha! Yeah, we're Nothing Yet, that's for sure." I reply with a weird sense of warm unease. As most people have long since winded down for the night, there's just us four. Us out in the sea of other bands, and no matter how much I love this, I can't tell if we'll be the ones to swim.
"C'mon, we've had a couple gigs," Jordan replies, "don't fuckin' doubt us! We're Nothing Yet, bound on a track to something."
We wave goodbye to Brendan as Arly pulls out of his driveway. Arly's phone automatically connects to Bluetooth, and it begins playing halfway into a song aptly titled Top 10 Things To Do Before You Die.
None of us talk, we just let the song play, not quiet but just before I'd consider it loud.
I've tried so many times
But I can't do anything right
Maybe there is an easier way
I'll go search up a guide online
I lean my head against the window, squished up against my bass on the other side. Arly and Jordan chat aimlessly, but I don't pay attention. I just watch as we drive through the city. The drive is calm. Slow.
My eyes defocus, and I get lost in thought. Lights become blurry, and so does my attention. I just feel so distant, inescapably so. If I could just have that energy to join the conversation, I would, but I'm too exhausted to scale that wall.
Eventually, the car comes to a full stop. Arly turns around to look at me, and asks, "You good, Rowrow?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, just a bit tired." I look at the dashboard clock, "It is 23, after all." I weakly push the door open and yank my bass and amp out of the car. "Thanks for the ride, Arly."
"And you were the one who didn't want the ride. It wasn't so bad, now was it?" She smiles, "Of course, I'm happy to help."
"Cya Rowan," Jordan salutes as I stand up and close the door.
"Bye, Jordan, Arly."
"Bye-bye!" Arly says as she takes off the brakes and drives away. I watch the taillights as they go off into the distance and turn away. I sigh and slump my shoulders.
After leaning my bass carefully against the corner and setting my amp down, I start to undress, taking off my sweaty clothes. I haphazardly toss it all into the dirty pile, fishing out my phone, keys, and wallet. No matter how cold my apartment is, it's never cold enough. Just getting goosebumps isn't enough.
I sit on my bed and lean back, collapsing. I grab my shark plushie and hug it, the soft fur gentle against my skin. The way it feels in my arms and on my chest is comforting. Reminds me of my Buddy. I give it one tight squeeze before letting go. I'm exhausted, but not tired. I want to do something since it's only 23, but I can't.
I reach over next to my pillow and grab my black velvet blindfold. It's as soft to the touch as my plushie, if not more so, and it's a heavy fabric too. Perfect for sleeping. Better than any sleep mask. With a gentle reef knot, I tie it around my head until no light leaks in.
Then I lay there, for a short, or maybe long, time.
It kind of just felt like the lights turned on. It was dark, then it wasn't. Sounds. So many sounds, they grew louder in a crescendo, a subtle transitional riser from the verse to the chorus. When I came to my senses, or maybe just realized what I was experiencing, I got to explore these strange, unnaturally yellow rooms again.
But with a crackle and pop, like my 1/4in fighting me as I adjust it restlessly, I got moved from one place to the next. From the office rooms to a grungy parking garage. Like where Rob Scallon recorded Rain. I really did feel like I was in the Des Plaines Library parking garage near Chicago. Honestly, that's how this all felt to me: like calm, clean guitar, playing soothing arpeggiated chords, with a simple delay pedal to add a layer of complex syncopation, and lush, real reverb.
I wasn't scared, but maybe I should have been.
It didn't take long to explore those cold and grungy, wet, and sometimes even foggy corridors before I found someone. They were a bit strange. It felt like I was walking with a faulty tape. Something didn't feel right but nothing did, and I never thought twice.
When we were asked to draw blood, I didn't ask questions. When they killed this person, I didn't ask questions. They talked on and on, but I could only hear their voices. They were scared? concerned? Maybe they were even pitying me?
The only thing I remembered them saying was, "What you're experiencing is normal." So I guess it was.
My eyes open, and it feels like the clicking of slides. I was talking to these people, then suddenly I was lying on my bed. Only then did I process the fact that it was a dream, and all the internal logic of it quickly broke down. Why wouldn't I have even questioned that someone got murdered next to me? I blink, steadily coming back to my senses. My velvet blindfold wraps loosely around my neck, and blood puddles around my nose.
Fuck me. Seeing the blood, my heart starts to race. I groggily rise and stumble as I search for the nearest tissue or paper towel. I find my box of Kleenex near my bed and shove a tissue up my nose. I let out a long exhale through my mouth. I guess I'll have to do laundry today.
I shiver as the adrenaline of a sudden bloody nose wears off, standing without clothes in a cold apartment isn't that pleasant. In fact, it's quite awkward, so I sluggishly grab some clothes and pull them on, choosing what's comfortable.
Hissing, I clear off my bed and rip off the black sheets. The upside to having black sheets is that they never stain, which I'm quite grateful for, since I don't have to put in extra work to get out blood. The downside is being repeatedly called emo all the goddamn time. I don't really care all that much, I mean, I'm not like Jordan, with her black thigh highs and scratched nail polish. As I shove my sheets and dirty clothes into a trash bag, I start to get lost in thought. Doing menial tasks with no other stimulation does that.
Before I know it, I'm on the bus with a trash bag of dirty clothes in hand, ticket haphazardly shoved into my left pocket. I look at the next stop sign to see St. Louise street, and immediately recognize that I'm on Route 114. I sigh, thank God it's the right route. I don't know what I'd fucking do if I mindlessly went on the 320 to work. Besides the fact that I'd be getting there hours early, I can just hear Jimmy cussing me out, "yeah, thanks for bringing your fucking maggot-filled laundry, you retarded asshole. Get out of here, you bitch." My heart races at the thought, and I shrivel up in my seat.