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smackenzieAnother fucking dream, and when did he suddenly become aware of what was a dream and what was real? But here he is standing on a sidewalk he knows he's never seen in his waking hours, but he's digging in his pocket for his keys because no one's home to let him in the house and what's he going to do, break in? While he's trying to find his keys a guy walks past him talking on a cell phone, "I'm going to be in Ann Arbor tomorrow," he says. "So if you need me I'll be there doing what I do best."
Laurie wonders what the guy's the best at, and then the guy has turned the corner and Laurie hears tires screeching and someone yelling "Get out of the road, asshole!" and he wonders if the guy with the cell wandered off the sidewalk, but he's found his keys and maybe he should go inside now.
Seven steps up to the front porch, two steps across to the screen door, two and a half steps from the front door to the bottom step of the stairs up to the second floor, and he's never counted those stairs, because every time he does he gets a different number.
He can hear someone blasting the Distillers as he reaches the second floor landing, Brody Armstrong's hoarse boyish voice filling the hallway, but she's not an Armstrong any more, is she, she and Tim called it quits and now she's Brody Dalle, and why does Laurie care anyway? Rancid was never his thing, more Danny's kind of music, or Marshall, but Marshall's very old school in his punk and if you get him started he'll bend your ear for six hours about the glory days of left coast musical anarchy.
Now he's inside the apartment, he's home and it smells weird and a little cold, like he left a window open, cold and damp and they said it was going to rain, didn't they? Gunther's sitting on the edge of the tub in the bathroom, holding the shower curtain twisted into a rope in his hands so it sprawls all across the floor like a plastic snake, and "Why'd you do it?" Laurie asks him, and Gunther shrugs.
"The album was going to be shit," he says calmly, "I didn't want to put you all through that. You'd have a black stain on your record."
"It's just rock criticism," Laurie says, sitting on the toilet seat. "It's not like anyone's going to remember in ten years. But you lost your chance to make it good." Gunther just shrugs again.
"Did you sing for me?"
"Yeah, I sounded like shit. You should've remembered how I sing."
"You'll get a label deal out of that," Gunther says, looking down at his shower curtain snake. "Did you channel Leonard?"
Laurie is about to say Leonard's not dead, you are, but he can hear the Distillers again, no, not Brody after all but Joan Jett, younger and not as raspy and it's "Cherry Bomb," the Runaways, Laurie lost his virginity to this song, and because this is a dream he remembers a bleach-blonde girl named Darlene, and maybe if she'd been a better lay he might have stuck with girls. Gunther's talking to him, he can tell because the boy's lips are moving but Laurie can't hear a word now because all he can hear is Joan's jailbait scream rising through the floor or through the pipes and who the hell listens to their music that loud?
"They always do that," Gunther says clearly over the noise. "It'll pass."
"Everything does," Laurie says as Joan's voice fades away and all he can hear now is a carrying guitar wail, lingering in the air like someone's dying breath. His guitar, maybe, Leonard's guitar or Jeff Buckley's, someone's anyway, but not his after all because he doesn't have his with him, he left it at the cemetery on top of the grave, his well-loved Les Paul placed on top of the dirt like an offering, and "Why me?" he asks Gunther, who starts coiling the plastic around his hands, rolling his wrists in circles like an old lady winding her yarn.
"You want help with that?" Laurie asks, bending down to roll the twisted plastic from his end.
"I think I've got it," Gunther says. "Got everything under control. Parrish said you'd do a good job for me," and of course that's when Laurie wakes up.
words: 749
total words: 53,167
Laurie wonders what the guy's the best at, and then the guy has turned the corner and Laurie hears tires screeching and someone yelling "Get out of the road, asshole!" and he wonders if the guy with the cell wandered off the sidewalk, but he's found his keys and maybe he should go inside now.
Seven steps up to the front porch, two steps across to the screen door, two and a half steps from the front door to the bottom step of the stairs up to the second floor, and he's never counted those stairs, because every time he does he gets a different number.
He can hear someone blasting the Distillers as he reaches the second floor landing, Brody Armstrong's hoarse boyish voice filling the hallway, but she's not an Armstrong any more, is she, she and Tim called it quits and now she's Brody Dalle, and why does Laurie care anyway? Rancid was never his thing, more Danny's kind of music, or Marshall, but Marshall's very old school in his punk and if you get him started he'll bend your ear for six hours about the glory days of left coast musical anarchy.
Now he's inside the apartment, he's home and it smells weird and a little cold, like he left a window open, cold and damp and they said it was going to rain, didn't they? Gunther's sitting on the edge of the tub in the bathroom, holding the shower curtain twisted into a rope in his hands so it sprawls all across the floor like a plastic snake, and "Why'd you do it?" Laurie asks him, and Gunther shrugs.
"The album was going to be shit," he says calmly, "I didn't want to put you all through that. You'd have a black stain on your record."
"It's just rock criticism," Laurie says, sitting on the toilet seat. "It's not like anyone's going to remember in ten years. But you lost your chance to make it good." Gunther just shrugs again.
"Did you sing for me?"
"Yeah, I sounded like shit. You should've remembered how I sing."
"You'll get a label deal out of that," Gunther says, looking down at his shower curtain snake. "Did you channel Leonard?"
Laurie is about to say Leonard's not dead, you are, but he can hear the Distillers again, no, not Brody after all but Joan Jett, younger and not as raspy and it's "Cherry Bomb," the Runaways, Laurie lost his virginity to this song, and because this is a dream he remembers a bleach-blonde girl named Darlene, and maybe if she'd been a better lay he might have stuck with girls. Gunther's talking to him, he can tell because the boy's lips are moving but Laurie can't hear a word now because all he can hear is Joan's jailbait scream rising through the floor or through the pipes and who the hell listens to their music that loud?
"They always do that," Gunther says clearly over the noise. "It'll pass."
"Everything does," Laurie says as Joan's voice fades away and all he can hear now is a carrying guitar wail, lingering in the air like someone's dying breath. His guitar, maybe, Leonard's guitar or Jeff Buckley's, someone's anyway, but not his after all because he doesn't have his with him, he left it at the cemetery on top of the grave, his well-loved Les Paul placed on top of the dirt like an offering, and "Why me?" he asks Gunther, who starts coiling the plastic around his hands, rolling his wrists in circles like an old lady winding her yarn.
"You want help with that?" Laurie asks, bending down to roll the twisted plastic from his end.
"I think I've got it," Gunther says. "Got everything under control. Parrish said you'd do a good job for me," and of course that's when Laurie wakes up.
words: 749
total words: 53,167
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Date: 2003-11-27 08:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-30 06:59 pm (UTC)