[the following is a book i'm trying to write. input is appreciated.]
[[warning! may contain language and drug usage!]]
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There are thousands of well-known bands across the world, and millions that are either local specialties or known to a small cult-like fan base. As many as there are, famous or not, they break apart everyday. Of course, everyone knows that the producers and musicians and singers go through a rough time of it when this happens. However, there are others affected too. Families, fans, groupies, roadies and other assorted staff.
To a non-widely known band called Rich Gargoyle Paradox I was a little of everything as far as non-considered affectees go. They called me Noir and I was the eyes and ears, knowing the ins and outs of what broke up Rich Gargoyle Paradox. And now, as the remnants of the Paradox lay to rest a dear friend, I remember.
Vincent threw his notebook across the living room of the small apartment. Albeit, the distance hadn’t been very far; but the frustration was still evident.
“What the hell else rhymes with screen?!” he cried, having already used dream, gleam and keen.
“Bean,” I supplied helpfully. A smirk twisted my mouth, as I knew that wasn’t the sort of lyric Vincent would have in his precious song notebook.
“Bean? Really, sis? Really?” he said, voice heavy with sarcasm, running a hand through his ash-blonde almost brown hair.
Vincent, my brother, looked to Christoph who sat on the floor, his baby in his lap. Christoph stroked the guitar’s bare neck as he restrung it. He said nothing. Vincent got this way when he wrote. We were used to his tantrums.
I heard Montague in the hallway through the paper-thin walls before I saw him. His deep voice rumbled. He stuck his head in the door, his smooth dark head gleaming. He looked at Christoph and then me, before his gaze rested on the quite agitated Vincent.
“Hey, Lord Rathbone,” Montague greeted Vincent, a bright smile breaking up his dark skin. Vincent scowled in response. When he wrote, Montague called him ‘Lord’ because of his “delicate temperaments.” Christoph gave him a smile and they bumped fists even as Montague plopped down next to me.
“Is my apartment some sort of hangout?” Vincent barked.
“You sound like some crotchety 80-year-old dude.” I snickered.
Christoph set his guitar aside and looked up at Vincent.
“Aren’t we practicing today?” He said, his smooth voice diffusing some of the tension.
“Where’s Arden if you’re practicing?” I asked to no one in particular.
“That pretty boy piss-off is always late,” Vincent snapped.
Christoph turned to me.
“I think he had a date.”
This also brought curses from Vincent. Montague shook his head, patting my arm as if to say
‘Sorry you have to deal with this guy 24/7’ His ebony skin was even darker against my own creamy flesh.
“Does it really matter where Arden is if we don’t even have a full band?”
Christoph’s question resurrected an issue the band as a whole had been worrying about for some time. Lead guitar: they had one of those, namely, Vincent. Drummer was present in Montague, their singer was AWOL at the moment, but he always returned. The other bits, like rhythm guitar, keyboard and backing vocals were handled by Christoph. The only thing missing was a bassist. They needed a bassist.
A long silence greeted his question.
Christoph began to tune his strings by ear, breaking the null void of conversation he had created. He had a talent for this. Montague pulled a rumpled paperback out of his pocket, the picture and words on the cover indecipherable. He read quickly, flipping a page before too long, his eyes seeming to examine each and every letter.
“Well ,” I sighed, “As fun as this is, I have grocery shopping to do,”
I pulled on a black pair of worn-out knee high boots. The zipper was rusty and hard to unzip once zipped in the first place, so I was always having to wriggle them up my legs to wear them. In addition, I grabbed Vincent’s holey camouflage coat from the back of a chair. I headed out into the hall as a conversation about Gibson versus Fender began behind me. Our apartment was shabby and tiny, even the hallway ceiling adorned with water stains with matching threadbare carpet and peeling wallpaper. Even being as crappy as it was, even with the refrigerator being so old it was a color called Avocado, Vincent and I still had trouble paying for it. I dug into Vincent’s jacket pocket, making sure I had a pair of keys with me. I confirmed the presence of the keys and then frowned. I extracted a pack of cigarettes, the top ripped open and only a few missing. I sighed. He was supposed to have quit a month or two ago.
“Stupid,” I muttered, exiting the apartment building. The air was brisk, and the wind played with my silver blonde hair, splaying it across my eyes, and other strands finding their way into my mouth. I found a metal trashcan close by and deposited the cigarettes inside it promptly.
I followed my age-old grocery shopping ritual to the mark. It occurred every 3rd and 17th day of the month. Sometimes it happened on other days, if we ran out of food or ran into a larger sum of money, though it was nearly always the 3rd and 17th. Even with our money pooled, Vincent and I couldn’t afford much. I went to a small locally owned bakery, where the people who worked there knew me. Sometimes the owner was even in. Jurie, the owner, usually gave me something extra if he was there. He knew how hard I worked to keep a roof over my brother’s head while he followed his rock star dreams. Jim’s kindness wasn’t exclusive to me, however. He helped out others in the area. Quite a few single mothers, other poor people. I scoped out the bakery and, disappointed, saw no sign of Jurie. A pity because Vincent and I were partial to the banana bread. I bought two day-old loaves of wheat bread and a package of bagels. Vincent complained about the wheat bread. But it was healthier for him and often cheaper. I smiled to the cashier, who usually was working on the 3rd and 17th. Then I migrated a few streets over, to a small grocery store to buy our other necessities, namely butter, eggs, milk, and bologna. I noticed some extra money in my pocket, so I sprang for cookies, chips, and some pickles. The pickles were a bit selfish. They were dill and Vincent liked sweet pickles. Though not everything had to be about my brother. I could indulge. Besides, Christoph would help polish off the jar too. The cookies and chips would be gone soon enough. I paid quickly and picked up my Grocery chain label emblazoned paper bags. There were only three bags. Plus the bag with bread. Such a meager amount of food. Though it helped that we ate cheap Chinese or Mongolian rather a lot. I sighed, following the latter part of my grocery shopping ritual.
I walked a few blocks down, ducking into a cheap coffee place with tacky decorations. A taxidermy-ed moose head hung over the door, It’s glassy eyes surveying It’s Caffeine-Induced subjects. I got a small coffee. I had no liking for the taste so I drowned it in creamer and sugar. The frothy concoctions were too expensive for my blood, though I figured I’d like them. Regardless of Vincent’s disdain. Though I figured he only had a penchant for black coffee from all his hangovers. I also bought myself a plain glazed donut, selfishly indulging again today. Vincent would’ve said something stupid had he seen the donut. Something like, “That’ll go straight to your ass.” I sipped the coffee slowly, letting it warm me from the inside out. I didn’t take too much time between sips, however. I hated the bitter taste the coffee left in my mouth. In the background I was aware of murmured conversations and some typing. I finished off my coffee, savoring the first bite of sugary-sweet donut. The background faded as I mostly listened to my own thoughts. I needed another job. Two wasn’t enough. It would have to be a late job. Maybe a coffee shop. I’d had enough of working at clubs and bars. The bouncy music gave me a headache.
Something made me turn to my left. My eyes, bi-colored; blue on the left and green on the right, met the gray eyes of a blonde boy. His golden hair was darker than my own, but not as dark as Vincent’s. It fell past his shoulders. For a moment I was unsure of his gender, thoughts of transsexuals also crossing my mind. His slender fingers held a bow. For a string instrument. A cello or something since it was so large. Then he bent and opened his case, extracting a dark lacquered bass. A orchestral bass. Not an electric. He looked young, maybe around Vincent’s age. Though not as old as Christoph’s 23 years. He turned fully toward me, and I confirmed my original thoughts of his being male. But his features made me think of Lord of the Rings. He looked positively Elven. His features were nearly fine enough to be a girl’s. But the shape of his jaw and the defined look of his chin and brow definitely were male. I glanced away quickly. We’d made eye contact too long, and I didn’t want to seem as though I was staring. Out of the corner of my eye I watched him a moment. He stared at me a moment more. Then his attention turned back to his instrument, his long hands curling about the neck, much like Christoph’s did, lovingly. I dismissed him. He was just another coffee shop ’musician’ looking for some praise about his nonexistent musical ’ability’ and some quick cash.
I devoured the rest of my donut quickly, hoping to leave before he could ask me why I was staring. I gathered my trash together, and got up, throwing it in a wastebasket. I headed back to my table to gather my groceries. And then--
He played.
I sat down hard in my seat, amazed.
I didn’t know much about music, but I knew with absolute certainty he was the best bassist, maybe musician, I’d ever heard.
I stared at his fine features as he played. His thin lips and his golden hair. He wove a net around me with pure music, chaining me to my seat. To my amazement, no one else in the coffee shop seemed to notice. Then the bass sang again and I stopped paying attention to anything but the music.
The notes and rhythms and pitches swirled around me, entrapping me into a net made out of beautiful sound. As suddenly as the net trapped me, it vanished. I exhaled a breath I hadn’t known I had been holding. I looked at him, and he at me. It wasn’t some magical romantic trite thing where our eyes met and I knew deep in my soul he was my soul mate. Those things don’t happen in real life. The truth of the matter was, I was surprised. I had pegged him completely wrong. He looked calmly back, then he looked around behind him, as though he hadn’t thought that I was looking at him in the first place. Seeing no one in his immediate vicinity his gaze returned to me for a moment. He glanced down quickly, a blush coloring his cheeks. He quickly replaced the bass, settling the bow into the case on top, like it was some sort of odd wingless moth, drawn to the lacquer. I was taken aback again as he lugged the no-doubt heavy bass to the door.
