Nothing Special
The garage was messy from last night’s jam session. Pat, Emma, and Louie were sitting on plastic foldout chairs, waking and baking.
Pat took a small sip from his water bottle, trying to hold back the urge to cough. As his throat cleared up, he spoke through mild hacks, “So how do you guys think last night went?”
It took a moment for the other two to comprehend what Pat had said. Louie nodded and muttered, “I think it was alright. Fen needs to slow down just a bit, though.”
Emma nodded and concurred. “Yeah. It’s like she isn’t playing with the group, just alongside us. Her rhythm’s off because she wants to be in her own little world.”
Pat took another sip from his water, and replied, “Well when she’s that good at guitar, it’s no surprise she would get that kinda mentality of thinking she’s the front of the-”
“But she’s not the front,” Louie interjected as he took the joint from Emma. “You are. You got the voice, you play guitar and keyboard something fierce, and you got the lyrics, man.”
Louie took a hit from the joint, and handed it to Pat, who slowly leaned over to grab it.
“You’re right,” he said as he held the joint between his fingers, staring at it, “I just don’t wanna get mad at her and make her feel like shit. I’ll talk to her later.”
Pat took a long drag from the joint, nearly finishing it off. He sucked the smoke into his lungs, and let it sit for a moment, before he blew it all out in one smooth motion. The garage only grew more hazy with smoke. As he zoned back into the conversation, he heard Emma speaking.
“And at least Omar has been doing good with his bass. He’s a fast learner, I’m proud of him.”
Louie smiled, “Yeah, I can’t wait for us to be able to perform our own songs instead of just playing other people’s stuff.”
“Speaking of which,” Emma said as she took the roach from Pat. “When are you gonna start writing those songs?”
Pat licked his lips, and stuttered out, “Oh, uh, I don’t know. I mean, eventually I will, I just, um, haven’t had the surge of creativity I’ve needed.”
Louie laughed, “Well you better get that surge soon, everyone’s getting impatient. I’m gonna head out. I’ve gotta go study for BioChem.”
Louie stood up and headed into the house as he gathered his things, and Pat and Emma waved him goodbye. As he stepped out the door, Emma smoked the last bit of the joint. She tossed the roach away and turned to Pat.
Through coughs, she asked, “So, for real, what’s been going on? You’ve been working on this shit for like two weeks now, but you haven’t written anything. What’s up?”
Pat let out a sigh. “I don’t know, Em, just, I feel like I haven’t found the right thing to write about.”
Emma just laughed. “What do you mean ‘the right thing?’ just write from the heart.”
He shook his head. “It’s not that easy. I need to say something, you know? You should never write something that isn’t true, you can’t write bullshit.”
“Seriously?” She groaned, “That old shit spewed by Harken? Mister ‘being famous is giving in to the man’ is who you’re gonna listen to?”
“God, you don’t get it, Em, this isn’t just about having fun to me, the stuff I write isn’t just for shits and giggles. I write for the art. I write for the meaning.”
“Jesus, Pat, give it a rest. We’re a bunch of nobodies, college kids who just wanna have fun. We aren’t indie arthouse punks.”
He gave a sharp exhale. “That’s not the point.”
“I don’t give a damn about the point, none of us do. We wanted to do this band because it would be fun, not to spew whatever bullshit you wanna shout about, as if you even have anything to say. I wish you would cut the fucking rebel without a cause act. Just settle down and have some fucking fun for once, instead of clawing at some deseperate attempt to turn your perfect little suburban life into a punk opera. You aren’t some desperate rebel with a sob story, you’re a perfect little posterboy for suburbia.”
The two sat in awkward silence. Suddenly their high wasn’t as fun as it was a moment ago.
“I’m gonna go,” Emma spoke softly. “Me and Frea are supposed to meet for breakfast, and the munchies just hit me like a truck.”
“There’s some cereal bars on the island in the kitchen if you need something to tide you over for a bit.”
“I’ll be fine, thanks though.” Emma strolled out.
Pat silently sat in his chair, and listened as Emma cranked up her car and drove off. Once she was gone, he shot up from his seat and screamed as he sprinted over to his guitar. He grabbed it by the neck and started smashing it on the floor, sending shards of wood, resin, and metal all around the garage, breaking up the smoke. He threw it across the room, then stormed outside.
He laid in the grass, sprawled out, and looked up at the clouds. He began to drift off, and decided to spend the day thinking of lyrics, ones that mattered.
Marilyn walked through the door to her office, tired, not ready for the day. She didn’t even have time to make coffee before she had to run for the bus.
The sleep was still in her eyes, even after the twenty minute bus ride it took her to get here from her apartment. She slammed the door behind her, and stretched out her entire body as he shouted out a yawn. She rubbed her eyes, and leaned her back against the door.
“God, Alina was right,” she muttered to herself. “I should have drank more water.”
She pushed off the door and walked to the coffee machine set up on top of her filing cabinet. She opened up her coffee jar, and poured two spoonfuls of ground coffee into the filter. She grabbed her favorite mug from her desk, a blue mug with the words ‘world’s worst teacher’ written on it, a white elephant gift she got last christmas. She wasn’t even a teacher.
She put the mug into the machine, then grabbed a bottle of water from the pack that sat under her desk.
Only four bottles left, I need to buy more soon.
She opened the bottle, and poured about half of it into the machine. She chugged the last half of the bottle as she hit the ‘start’ button on the machine. Once the bottle was emptied, she gasped. Just chugging that water made her feel a good bit better. She wouldn’t be fully awake until she drank that coffee though.
She stared intently at the machine, listening to the whirring and gurgling, impatiently waiting for the coffee to finish. Her eyes began to droop, and she nearly passed out, before the machine let out two pleasant beeps that made her shoot awake. She snatched the mug from the machine, and opened up her bag of sugar. She poured in one spoonful, mixed up the cup, then closed the sugar and coffee containers and sat down in her chair to finally enjoy her coffee.
She held it to her nose, and gave it a nice, long, sniff. The smell sent a rush of happiness through her mind. She blew on the coffee, cooling it down, before taking a small sip from the mug. Delicious as always.
She sat her mug down on her desk and turned on her computer. The familiar bootup jingle played, and it filled her with dread. Anytime she heard that jingle, it reminded her of work.
As the login screen opened up, she typed in her username, ‘mary.johannes,’ then her password, ‘STUPIDpasswordFUCKYOU10!’ Her spreadsheets tried to boot up automatically, but she ignored them to jump straight into her music player. She scrolled through her playlists.
Not playlist one, definitely not spicy time playlist, big blue reds is a bit too hyper, there’s my good morning playlist!
She clicked play on the playlist titled ‘i need coffee’ and a soft chorus of piano and stringed instruments began to play. Marilyn took in a deep breath, and smiled as she relaxed into her chair. She grabbed her coffee, and slowly sipped it, bit by bit.
Reclined back, listening to the music, her mood was slowly starting to brighten up. About five minutes passed of relaxation before a soft knocking came at her door, and her mood dropped again as she sighed.
The door opened up, and Vince peeked in, “Heya Marilyn! How’s your morning going?”
She groaned, “What a week…” as she stared at him with a mean glare.
Vince got a bit of an awkward look on his face. “It’s, uh, Monday, Marilyn.”
“I’m aware,” she muttered. “Not the point.”
Vince was quiet for a second. “I see. Well, um, I hate to get on your back this early in the morning, but Janine said she needs-”
“Shut up Vince,” she whimpered as she pointed to her mug.
Vince watched silently as she took a big gulp from her coffee, and finally finished it.
“There,” she said, her eyes just slightly clearer. “Now you can tell me what the wicked bitch wants.”
Vince chuckled a bit. “Nothing serious, she just got a voicemail from Kenny Hardings, he needs to get his renter’s insurance updated because he renewed his lease, so she wanted to make sure you reached out and took care of it.”
“Oh my god,” she muttered as she sat her mug down and rubbed her face. “And she can’t take care of this herself, why?”
Vince just shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry Marilyn, I’m just the messenger. I think she has some paperwork she has to fill out for a field trip her daughter is going on.”
“Well that bitch should take care of it off the clock like the rest of us do.”
“Do you want me to tell her that?”
“No!” Marilyn shouted, suddenly shocked awake. “God, no, I’ll take care of it, it’s fine, it’s not that big of a deal. Just, give me a minute to wake up a bit, having a rough morning.”
Vince smirked, “Go a bit too hard on the booze, birthday girl?”
She chuckled, “Yeah, I might’ve. Just a bit though.”
“Well hey, if you need some aspirin, I can bring you some.”
Marilyn shook her head, “I appreciate it, but I took some as I was leaving this morning.”
“Good to hear,” he said as he looked at his watch. “Alright well I’ve gotta go write up Max. He’s late again today, and says he’s stuck in traffic on the bridge. The bossman is still angry, though, so write him up, I must.”
“Aw, come on, Ralph knows he’s been struggling with his night classes, he should really cut the kid some slack.”
Vince nodded, “I told him that, but he insisted. ‘Can’t be too loose with the new hire,’ he said. I’ll talk to you later!”
“See ya, Vince!” She shouted as Vince walked off and shut her door behind him. As soon as the door clicked shut, she spun her chair around and opened up her window blinds. She looked over the skyline of the city, and gazed at the sunrise. She still had a good ten minutes before the office would get into work mode, so she could enjoy the amber skies for a bit.
She slowly woke up, but something didn’t feel right. This wasn’t her bed, it was too soft. She pried her eyes open to see a very unfamiliar ceiling, then looked beside her, and saw a man asleep next to her.
Wait, Dane? Why am I in his bed? Did I sleep here last night?
Then, she realized she was naked, and all the memories from last night came rushing back. She jumped out of the bed, scouring around the room, trying to find her clothes. She threw them on and rushed to the bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror.
Oh my god what is wrong with me, I slept with him, that’s Gerard’s best friend. Fuck, oh my god what the hell is wrong with me?
Her stomach began to grow heavy, and she felt as if she would vomit. Tears began to flood her eyes, and it took everything in her to not scream.
This isn’t me, I would never do something like this. I don’t behave like this.
She curled up on the floor and rocked around, crying and whimpering. Her mind flooded with thoughts of Gerard, how she had betrayed him and his trust. She wondered how she would tell him what she had done? How could she even say it?
The more she thought, the worse her crying got.
A knock came to the bathroom door, “Hey, Lindsey, are you okay? You jumped out of bed so quickly, are you feeling sick? You did drink a lot. Can I get you anything?”
She barely even listened to his words, and all she did in reply was shout “Leave me alone, please, just go away!”
There was silence for a moment. “I’m sorry, Lindsey, about this.”
“Fuck you! Just leave me alone. You’re a fucking scumbag. Just go away.”
Dane didn’t reply, but Lindsey didn’t hear him walk away. She lashed out at him, but merely as a distraction from herself. She knew she was just as much in the wrong as he was, but she wanted at least a moment to focus on something that wasn’t her.
She sobbed relentlessly, and spiraled into thoughts about how in one fell swoop she may have ruined her life.
The wind was brutal, that high above the water. She sat on the far end of a beam jutting out from the bridge, looking down at the cold river far below her. The air was filled with a cacophony of honking cars, drivers that were unaware of what was happening.
A group of people shouted from the road, all the standard platitudes she had heard so many times in life.
“Just come back, whatever’s down there, it’s not worth it!” One shouted. Another pleaded, “There is so much to live for, even if you don’t know it.”
“Someone somewhere loves you, don’t leave them like this,” a voice cried out, a statement that enraged her. She had heard that so many times, but she knew it wasn’t true. Nobody loved her, and the only people who did were dead or halfway across the globe. She had nobody.
She shot a glance back towards the road, at the dozen strangers who crowded the road, blocking traffic, trying to get her to come back.
“Fuck you,” she cried, tears streaming from her eyes. “Don’t you talk to me like you know my life. You don’t know me, none of you do. You don’t know what I’ve had to deal with. Not a single one of you knows anything about me.”
The people went silent for a moment, but the cars continued to honk. Then, one voice shouted out, “I’d like to.”
She made eye contact with an older looking man, dark skin and graying hair, clean shaven face. He stepped out from the crowd, and got right up to the edge of the bridge, only a foot away from her.
“Tell me your name, miss.”
She stared at him, confused a bit. “India,” she shouted over the roaring wind.
The old man nodded, “My name is Steven, Steven Brennon. Could I come sit with you?”
She stared at him with a great amount of confusion. “Um, I, I guess so.”
“Thank you so much Miss India.” He spoke as he slowly climbed over the railing and walked out to sit next to her. “How old are you, Miss India?”
“16,” she answered.
“16?” He said, a bit astonished. “You go to school?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Where at?” He asked, the tone of his voice expressing sincerity. India could tell this wasn’t some act. He really cared.
“Fullgrace High,” she said as she pointed towards the center of the city. “It’s right over there.”
“Fullgrace, huh? My son went there back when he was your age, you know? I heard it can be rough sometimes. You got school issues?”
“Kinda,” she said. “I do well in classes, but I don’t have any friends. Everyone just bullies me because I’m ugly.”
“Oh now that is some bullshit,” he said with an angry tone, it reminded her of her grandpa. “You wanna know a little secret? Every high schooler is ugly. Ain’t a one of them pretty, no matter what they think. They’re all zitty, greasy, pubescent little sleazeballs. They only bully you cause deep down they know they’re ugly inside, and want to take that out on you so they can ignore their problems.”
India had heard this same sentiment before, but something about Steven’s tone conveyed he was genuine. He wasn’t just making stuff up to make her feel better. He was telling the truth. “I… guess so.”
“You wanna know something about me, Miss India?” Steven said as he sat his hand on her shoulder. “I’m a bit of a dinosaur, old ass geezer. My grandkids think I’m old enough to be friends with Christ almighty himself. I was a kid, once, though. When I was a kid, just a bit older than you, I sat here, on this very bridge, just on the other side, and I thought about jumping.”
“Why?”
“Cause I thought living was pointless,” he said with the bluntness of a wrecking ball. “I remember my daddy telling me how bad the world was to folks like him and me, how the cops would beat us, throw us in jail over nothing, how people would turn their noses up at us, and businesses would reject us from even entering their doors. I wanted to fall off the bridge, give up.”
The two were silent, just staring at the sun rising over the river. “Why didn’t you?” India questioned him.
Steven chuckled. “I don’t know. I remember feeling like someone had put their hand on my shoulder, but nobody was there. It was like some ghost I didn’t know was trying to comfort me. It’s been about 60 years since then, and you wanna know what I’ve learned since then?”
“What?”
“Life gets better if you fight for it. There’s a hell of a lot of downhills in life. Sometimes you gotta build your own stairs to climb back up. If I had given up that day, I never would have met my wife, never would have had my amazing kids or grandkids. Miss India, I know you probably have it hard. A youngster like you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. Life can be so much better, though, so do me a favor, why don’t you get up from here, and come back onto the bridge with me?”
That smell… eggs, bacon, sausage. Oh, and I can smell garlic toast.
Priscilla slowly opened her eyes, and slowly adjusted her eyes to the morning light shining in through the window. She slowly got up, and from the foot of the bed she heard a quiet little “mew.” As she turned, she saw her cat, Bean, strolling over.
“Why good morning, kitty! Did you sleep well?” She said as she picked up Bean and snuggled him. He purred and rubbed his face against hers.
“Okay baby, I get it, now mama’s gotta get up.” She sat Bean down on the bed and stood up. She grabbed her purple robe off the hook on the wall, and threw it on before walking out into the hall. The further she walked through the hall, the stronger the smell of breakfast got.
As she entered the kitchen, she saw Sammy at the stove, frying an egg. She whistled at him and chuckled, “Good morning good looking, what’s got you up so early?”
He turned around and said, “Ah, dammit, you weren’t supposed to wake up until I finished cooking.”
“Well it smells too good for me to stay asleep.”
Sammy laughed and said, “I guess that’s a good sign.”
“So, Sammy, why are you up so early?”
Sammy lightly tossed the pan and flipped the egg over, catching it perfectly. “Do you know what today is?”
Priscilla gave him an amazed laugh. “Wow, you’re better at that than I expected. What day is it?”
Sammy grinned from ear to ear. He slid the egg out of the pan and onto a plate before cracking open another egg and putting it in the other’s place. “On this day, thirty years ago, I met you in the park while you were walking your dad’s dog. You were so beautiful that I couldn’t help but approach you.”
Priscilla shook her head with a great smile. “Yes, yes, and I thought you were a total weirdo, approaching some random girl you didn’t know with a bullshit excuse about not knowing what was around town just so you could talk to me.”
Sammy burst out with laughter. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”
“It sure did,” Priscilla replied as she walked over and planted a kiss on his cheek. “And you decided to make me some surprise breakfast to celebrate the occasion?”
“Oh I did more than that,” he said, his grin somehow getting even wider. “Look on the counter under the fruit bowl, would you?”
Priscilla began to wonder in anticipation what Sammy could have possibly put under the fruit bowl. As she lifted it up, she saw two cruise tickets to the Bahamas.
“No,” she said with a gasp. “You didn’t!”
“I sure did,” he said with a cheery tune. “Pack your bags, we’re leaving tomorrow morning.”
The waiting room was boring, as usual. Cody sat in the chair in the corner, and glanced around the room. He was trying to use his phone less, spend less time online, but boy did that make waiting rooms a lot more boring. Sure, there was a corner that had toys in it for the kids, but he was a full grown man. He would look like an idiot playing with that stuff.
There were a couple of other people in the room, but they were all busy reading books or scrolling on their phones. He didn’t want to interrupt anyone, especially strangers.
He looked at the table at the center of the room, covered with a couple of magazines. One had a picture of some celebrity on it. Cody could have sworn he had seen the guy in some movie, but he couldn’t put his finger on where. There was a pink one under it, mostly covered up, but the headline ‘8 must know tricks for pleasing your husband’ was barely visible. Another read ‘will this affect his run for office?’
How does anyone read that shit? Bunch of lame tabloid nonsense. Can’t people just be satisfied with their own lives without digging their noses into other people’s?
He looked to his left and saw an older man filling out a sudoku puzzle. Cody had never understood sudoku. He understood the appeal of crosswords and word searches and the like, but sudoku stepped way too close to mathematics for him to ever consider it any kind of fun.
He glanced up at the muted tv that hung in the corner, which played the local news station. Cody had never been one to keep up with the news. He simply saw a couple of old farts in some council arguing about stuff he knew nothing about.
“Mister Nguyen,” the receptionist said. “Doctor Gordonson will see you now.”
Finally.
Cody stood up and followed the receptionist to a room. “There’s a gown on the bed there, if you’ll just change out of your clothes and put on the gown. Doctor Gordonson will be here in just a minute.”
“Thank you,” Cody said with a smile.
The gown was his least favorite part of these checkups. He hated taking his clothes off anywhere that wasn’t home. Still, it had to be done. He took everything off, threw on the gown, and sat on the bed. About a minute passed before the door opened.
“Heya Mister Nguyen, how are you doing?” Doctor Gordonson asked as he cheerily walked into the room.
“Eh, not too bad, I’m worried though.”
“I heard,” the doctor said, sitting down on his stool. “What seems to be ailing you?”
“I’m not completely sure, but I have a good guess. For a good couple of weeks now I’ve had this sore in my mouth, right here on the inside of my left cheek, towards the back, and no matter what I do it won’t go away. Sometimes my tongue feels a bit fuzzy, numb, it’s hard to swallow sometimes, too.”
Doctor Gordonson nodded his head, “I see. Considering your family history, I wouldn’t be too surprised if that was mouth cancer.”
“Exactly,” Cody replied, his foot shaking anxiously. “That’s why I came to you.”
The doctor nodded. “I understand. Well, I’ll go ahead and take a look at it, see the sore for my own eyes. Then we can talk about some more conclusive detection methods. Let’s hope for the best.”
Doctor Gordonson wheeled his stool carefully towards the table at the side of the room and grabbed his otoscope. Cody shut his eyes tight. In only a moment, he had said a thousand prayers in his head.
Liam sat at his desk, zoned out from the lecture he was attending. While his professor spoke about the history of postmodernist artworks, he doodled in his notebook, scribbling through the margins and creating wild shapes, unorganized, messy.
What would he draw next? He never knew. He felt his pen flow across the page like a surfboard on a great wave, and his hand rode it. His art was natural, un-composed. He watched it intently, paying attention to each and every line, shape, and dot he made, but he never controlled his hand, so he felt.
He watched his hand loop around, creating a series of chaotic scribbles. His mind felt clear, focusing entirely on this doodle. He couldn’t care less about what Professor Rutledge was talking about.
Then, he jolted back into reality as Cade slapped his shoulder.
“Hey,” Cade whispered. “Pay attention you idiot. This is why you failed last semester. Come on, we have our midterm in just a week.”
“Fine,” Liam muttered as he looked to the front of the class.
“I’m sure you all would recognize Andy Warhol,” Professor Rutledge spoke. “He created many recognizable works, like these pictures of Campbell’s soup cans, and this painting, titled ‘Orange Prince.’”
“Alright, and your total will be $14.67,” Saph said in their typical customer service voice.
“Sick,” the woman replied, sounding exhausted. She scanned her card on the register, and paid for the food.
With a clicking and whirring, the receipt slid out of the printer. Saph handed her the receipt and said, “Your food will be out in just a minute. You have a fantastic morning.”
She simply snorted and mumbled, “I will once this hangover goes away.”
Saph gave a bit of a chuckle as the woman walked away. She glanced at the clock on her register, 8:57.
Nearly there, just gotta survive three more minutes.
As if a kind of cruel joke, right at that moment a man came storming in with a fire in his eyes. He stomped up to the register, and stood over Saph in as much of an intimidating manner as possible.
“Good morning sir, how can I help you?”
The man stared daggers at her, and said through gritted teeth. “I went through the drive through earlier and asked for a sausage egg and cheese biscuit, but I got bacon instead of sausage.”
Oh great, he just looks like a fucking blast.
“I am so sorry sir, we can get that taken care of real quick. Would you like a replacement biscuit?”
He just scoffed. “Well I’m not hungry anymore so no, I don’t want another shitty fucking biscuit from you morons who can’t even make a biscuit right.”
Not hungry? Don’t tell me he ate the damn biscuit knowing it wasn’t what he ordered. Wait, no, this asshat better not have just eaten his biscuit then came back to get a refund on a biscuit with nothing wrong with it.
Saph kept her calm as best she could. “I am so sorry sir. If you would like, we can give you a refund, we’ll just need you to provide us your receipt and the biscuit we gave you.”
The man looked offended. “Why the hell do I have to do that? Do you not trust your customers or something? I just want a refund for the stupid biscuit. Why can’t you just give it to me?”
“I’m sorry sir, it’s just our refund policy that we can’t make any refund like that unless you can provide your receipt, otherwise we can’t verify that you purchased anything.”
“Well, doesn't your computer store that kind of stuff?”
Still maintaining a fake tone of sympathy. “Sadly, our system isn’t able to save orders older than 15 minutes, so unless you made the order very recently, we can’t verify that.”
He clenched his teeth and shouted out, “This is bullshit. I wanna speak to your manager.”
There it is.
“Of course, sir, I’m very sorry I couldn’t help you out. I’ll have my manager in just one second.”
Saph walked off, and as soon as they turned away from the man, they gritted their teeth and groaned. They passed through the kitchen and stormed to Mister Fane’s office. They gave the door a short knock, and walked in.
Mister Fane, without looking up from his computer, said, “What’s up?”
“Hey, Mister Fane, we got an angry customer out here, wants to talk to you.”
He sighed. “Great. What’s he mad about?”
“He said he ordered a sausage egg and cheese, but got a bacon egg and cheese. I told him we could get him a refund if he gave us the biscuit and the receipt, but he refused to. He said he wants a refund, not a replacement, because he isn’t hungry anymore, so I think he’s full of shit and just ate the biscuit.”
He groaned, and got up from his desk. The two walked back to the cash register, where the guy was angrily tapping his foot. He grunted out, “What took you assholes so long?”
Mister Fane immediately took an apologetic tone. “I’m so sorry sir, we’ll go ahead and get your refund processed. Saph, ring up a sausage egg and cheese biscuit and give him a refund for the full price.”
Saph couldn’t help but give him a look of astonishment. “What?”
“What he said,” the guy shouted, “Was for you to get me a new biscuit you little bitch.”
Saph couldn’t hide the resentment on their face as they rang up the biscuit. $8.23.
$8.23. This man called me names and started this whole scene over eight fucking dollars.
They took eight dollar bills, two dimes, and three pennies out of the drawer. “Here you go sir, sorry for the inconvenience.” They didn’t even try to maintain their customer service voice.
The man snatched the money from her and just let out an angered “ugh,” before storming out of the restaurant.
“What the fuck was that?” Saph asked once the man had left.
“Watch your mouth. I just didn’t wanna deal with it, giving him the money is easier than arguing.”
“I know that,” they replied. “He insulted me, called me a bitch right in front of you, and you just didn’t acknowledge it.”
“I didn’t wanna make the situation worse than it already was. As for you, I’m writing you up. You can’t talk to customers like that, no matter how rude they are.”
Saph just gawked at him. They didn’t know how to respond. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No, I’m not kidding. You know you can’t act like that.”
“He barges in here, calls me names and curses up a storm, insults you, causes a scene in front of customers and the staff, and you write me up?”
“Yeah, Saph, that’s the rules.”
Saph took off their hat and threw it at him. “Fuck you. I’m so fucking sick of this. I’m out, fuck this job. You’ll miss me when the lunch rushes come and you don’t have me to help you. Eat my fucking ass!”
They stomped out of the restaurant and screamed at the top of their lungs as they ran back to their car.
Jesse stood at the corner of Oak and Green Street, anxiously shivering. He had hyped himself up for this, but now he was having doubts.
Can I really do this? I mean, I do need this. Fuck, man, how did I get here? I can’t just back out now. I can’t get any food if I don't do this. It’ll never happen again, I just need to survive the next couple weeks, long enough to start a job and live to see my first paycheck. C’mon, you got this.
God but I don’t want to do this. Shit, this isn’t right. No, I have to do it. Besides, it’s not like I’m hurting anyone. Sure, I’ll scare the shit out of the cashier, but it’s not their money I’m taking, it’s some corpo-rat fuck I’m stealing from. Hoo, come on, I need to do this, I can’t just keep stalling.
He tied a tee shirt around his face, put on his sunglasses, and pulled up his jacket hood. His hands were deep in his jacket pocket, right hand gripping his piece tight like a vice. He shook a bit in his place, and took some deep breaths before he finally worked up the courage to stroll up toward the Quikee Convenience Stor.
The door played a sound of a digital doorbell as he walked in, and the cashier yawned as he spoke, “Good morning sir, how can I help you?”
Jesse approached the cashier and put his hand, obscured in his jacket, on the counter. “Stay calm,” he whispered. “I don’t wanna hurt you, I just need all the cash in the register.”
The cashier got a lump in his throat, and froze as he realized what was happening. Jesse looked at his nametag, which read ‘Gary F.’
“Gary,” Jesse whispered, “I know I’m scaring you, but I wanna be in and out of here quickly. I just need you to cooperate with me, okay?”
Gary just nodded his head, his breath unsteady, he gasped out, “Y-yeah, I got it.”
He vibrated like he had caught a bad cold as he ejected the tray from the register. Jesse put a small gray satchel on the counter, and pointed at it. Gary carefully started loading the money from the register into the bag. About fifteen seconds later, Gary muttered out, “Um, the register’s empty, it was only about $80, I-I hope that’s fine.”
“Yep,” Jesse said, biting his lip. “That’s fine. I appreciate you cooperating. I hope the rest of your day goes better than this, I’m sorry.”
Without waiting for a response, he jogged out, trying not to look like he was in too much of a hurry.
Fuck, fuck, shit man I can’t believe I did that. What’s wrong with me? I shouldn’t have needed to do that. I wish I didn’t need to do that. Never again, never. I swear it. At least I can eat.
It was late at night, and Pat sat alone in his bedroom. His house had been empty all day long, but instead of partying, or screwing around, or anything to take advantage of the privacy, he spent all day pacing in circles, thinking, humming, playing around with his guitar, saying random words.
He had done some alright work, but nothing that really popped for him. He had written some okay lyrics, but he didn’t just want okay. He needed something that would punch him in the gut, something that mattered. He had enough of the standard stuff, this one was going to be special.
His mind swirled with chords, keys, ways to play the emotions he wanted.
If I can get a good emotion from the music, the words might come naturally to me. I want to start simple, work my way up from there. Let’s start with acoustic.
He grabbed the acoustic guitar from the corner and sat down on his bed. He strummed a couple chords with his fingers, but nothing that rang true with him. One after another, he rearranged his fingers on the fretboard, changed which strings he plucked and which ones he didn’t. For almost ten minutes he continued to mess around with the guitar before finally something felt right.
He strummed the strings, and they played a chord that sounded almost mournful. It was ever so slightly discordant, but he could fix that with a tuning. The chord was there, he had found the emotion he needed.
He fiddled around and found a chord progression that fit together with the emotion. It was bouncy, but nevertheless still full of dread. He repeated the chord a couple of times, getting used to the feeling of it. He played it a few times smoothly, then played it a bit more staccato. The staccato sounded more fitting, it added a tone of anger to the mourning.
Pat continued strumming out the chords over and over, thinking the tone through, letting it envelope him. Soon, the words finally began to flow forth.
“Whenever I pick up that pen,
All I can write with is blood.
My friends say it’s nothing but pretentious bullshit,
That I shouldn’t write all that crud.”
That sounded fine, a bit self centered though. How do I expand that to be a bit more broad? Less focused on the self, more focused on the world.
“All our roads are paved in crimson,
We’re all born in a bloodbath.
Though we blind ourselves to the horror of the world,
We travel all on the same path.”
I guess this is where the bridge would go?
“Why hide your eyes from the pain?
Why simply cover the drain?
Don’t let our efforts be all in vain,
We know art’s for the insane.
I hope one day when I pick up that pen,
That my words won’t be blood stains.”
Pat kept playing the chords, repeating them as he tried to think of words. Suddenly, he had hit a blank. He needed a chorus, something to drive the song home. He had it all lined up, all he needed was the perfect touchdown. He strummed, and strummed, but alas, nothing came to mind.
Come on, it’s not that hard, I’ve done this before, I’ve been doing it all day. I just need to sing for the world, just say what the people need to hear. I want to teach love, compassion, why can’t I get it? There are infinite words, but for some reason I can't reach them. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I just finish the damn song?
As anger overtook him, his hand began to strum faster, the rhythm getting quicker. Then he changed his key to be higher. Now he was improvising, playing wildly, no set structure to the tune.
He began to speak, his words following the cadence of the song, but he wasn’t singing any notes, just speaking in rhythm, as if reciting poetry that had little to no meter.
“Every day there are thousands of people like me, people who talk like me, sing like me, work like me, and suffer like me. They ache as I do, cry as I do, scream as I do.”
His speech turned into shouts.
“I feel anger just as they do. I feel sorrow just as they do. I feel agony just as they do. Does that make my pain any less painful? They tell me to calm down, but this machine is fueled by rage, an anger that ignites like gasoline. I am just one voice among millions but does that mean I don’t deserve to be seen? I smoke my green and dream of a world where I can control my scene, make life more than just routine. The forgotten, don’t let them stay unseen. Don’t let our dreams mean nothing, just because we’re nothing special.”
As he ran out of breath to scream, he threw out one final strum of the chords. His room went silent. He couldn’t hear anything but the wind outside. He laid his guitar down on his bed and stepped over to his desk. He pulled out a notebook, and decided to write down all the lyrics he had created. At the top of the page, in red ink, he wrote, “Nothing Special.”