Without the Hook - 1B (+ Commentary)
Disclaimer: Four Brothers and certain characters belong to Paramount Pictures, Di Bonaventura Pictures, et al., respectively. No profit is gained from this writing-only, hopefully, enjoyment.
***
"We Weren't Spared"
Discussing the Media Rumor Mill, the Definition of Morbidity, and the Meaning in Music with this year's hottest act. Plus, a Sneak Peek at the Band's Future?
By Michael Frerichs
Or, I showcase my ability to reproduce Rolling Stone articles with imaginary bands.
In the months preceding the release of their greatest hits collection, We Spares' record sales soared. Big Ones, the band's recent compilation album, amassed such a huge amount of pre-release buzz among vocal fans online and even more vocal critics that sales of the band's previous three albums in turn reached record highs. The band's most recent two full-length albums even achieved platinum status, just in the last month alone.
We Spares' recent, record-breaking success isn't entirely out of left field, however. Prior to the release of Big Ones, the band's previous full-length album, the self-titled We Spares, held the top spot as both their best debut and best-selling record to date. We Spares was also a massive critical success, hailed as the quartet's finest outing yet, and garnering three Grammy nominations last year. So it is that this month, amidst still skyrocketing sales of their Big Ones, and with notables in the music community having recently "out-ed" themselves as We Spares fans in the now infamous viral video campaign by Virgin records, this interviewer sat down with three of the four men behind the now wildly popular, and wildly respected, music.
Q. So my first question is probably the most obvious: where's Mitch Mooney?
Mitch Mooney = Andrew Garfield
[Laughter]
Jack Mercer: [To Randy Jinds] Told you.
Of course, Jack = Garrett Hedlund
Randy Jinds: He's got a DJ-ing gig up in the city tonight. Busy, busy, so we told him to just skip this [interview].
Randy = James McAvoy
Q. Does that happen a lot?
JM: Mitch is pretty high in demand right now, so unless we're in the studio or, you know, getting ready to do some shows, we don't see much of him.
Kevin Izer-Donaldson: F**ker's the Invisible Man.
And Kevin = Giovanni Ribisi
[Laughter]
Q. Is that a permanent sort of understanding? There have been a number of rumors floating around that he's on his way out of the band.
JM: Was that last one a question?
[Jinds and Izer-Donaldson laugh, but Mercer just smiles.]
Q. Okay, question: Are any of the rumors that Mooney's at odds with certain members of the band true?
RJ: Nope, not at all.
KI-D: Media just stirring sh** up again, is what it sounds like.
Q. Jack, is that your opinion, too? You and Mooney often express differing opinions in interviews.
JM: I've got no problems whatsoever with Mitch, never have. He's a huge part of this band. We fight and bicker, but, sh**, that's just how we f**king interact. There's no big rift or whatever.
Q. With the greatest hits album, you also released a re-mastered copy of one of the band's earliest songs [the album's first track, "Cigarette Case"]. It features a recording of Jack singing. Can you explain the process that went into creating that song?
Canon for this 'verse, "Cigarette Case" is actually the very first song Jack and Randy played and worked on together-all the way back in Chicago when they, and Randy's asshole of a first cousin, were competing in a battle of the bands. They won of course because Jack + Randy = Unstoppable, asshole first cousins notwithstanding.
RJ: Like, the technical aspects?
Q. Yes, things like: Where did the audio copy of the vocals come from? How long did it take to perfect the song? But also, what was the emotional impact of working on it? Did hearing it bring back any memories? Anything you'd be willing to share.
RJ: [Turns to Mercer and Izer-Donaldson] Well, don't know about you guys, but I nearly had a stroke when I first heard it again.
JM: [To me] One of Kevin's old girlfriends had the original.
RJ: Oh, yeah! Good ol' Micki.
Micki! Named after the cheerleader in high school my brother briefly dated who was so out of his league but incredibly nice all the same. She was pretty much a goddess and really nice to dorky wee!me.
KI-D: Yeah, she'd taped some stuff for us way back when, and then she moved, and wanted to get rid of them, so she called me up, asked if I wanted them or what.
Q. Did you all listen to the recordings together, or how did the idea strike to re-do "Cigarette Case"?
KI-D: Well, I listened to them first-well, the first few-but then I brought them over. [He turns to Mercer and Izer-Donaldson.] We ate take-out and, like, chilled, didn't we?
RJ: [Nodding] Yeah, made a night out of it. [Looks to Mercer] Think you were high.
[Jinds and Izer-Donaldson laugh. Mercer nods.]
JM: Probably.
Q. So working with those copies of old songs-what was that like?
JM: It was like bringing the dead back to life again.
RJ: [To Mercer] Wow, that's not morbid at all.
JM: Well, it's true. [He pauses.] Besides, I'm not dead, so does that still count as morbid?
RJ: You're the one who said "dead," dude.
JM: I was going more for "ironic," I think. [To me] "Cigarette Case" didn't used to have anything like the meaning it does now, personally, I mean. Now, though, it's like the figurehead for everything back then.
RJ: The, uh, culmination.
JM: Yeah, yeah, exactly. In retrospect, that song's amazing, like a Van Gogh or something. Back then, though, I don't think anyone listening really cared about it. I mean, it meant a lot to me, and maybe Rands [Jinds] and the guys by extension, you know, but not- not just the casual listener. 'Course, we played only f**king clubs and bars back then, nothing like the stuff we do now, so the audience has changed a lot, too.
RJ: No nice studios, either. No stadiums.
KI-D: No groupies.
[Laughter]
Q. Jack, you're on record as saying you can't sing anymore. How has that changed the direction of the band over the years? How does that affect you personally?
I mean, any interviewer worth their salt would have to ask that question because it is such a huge deal in terms of the band's direction/history, but also-Jesus, how do you think it's affected him?! "Oh, well, Mike, I'm just fine with it, honestly. To tell ya the truth, it's a big relief! Who wouldn't want to be the victim of a violent attack, sustain a series of debilitating injuries, only to then find out their chosen career path is significantly narrowed in addition to suffering chronic, residual pain, both physically and mentally? It's a real blast, Mike!"
Instead, Jack proves he's Evelyn's son and not Bobby's clone by saying:
JM: The guys are my voice now, my singing voice, anyway. The guitar's always gonna be, like, the direct line. It was before, even, more so than me singing the words ever was. But now I mostly write for their [the band's] strengths, for each [guy]'s, you know, specific sound or what they're most comfortable with. Or- or sometimes, I'll just f**k with them too, make them work at it, challenge them. Cos I can't, because I can't stretch that way myself, not anymore really. Someone has to. And, I mean, I do a song or two every once in awhile, something specific that I know I can do. There've been at least a couple [songs] on, like, the last, what? [Mercer turns to Jinds and Izer-Donaldson.] Two albums?
RJ: [Nodding] Yeah. Yeah, it was two, because on [Fading] Light, remember we were going to-- there were those lyrics for "Dead Doctors Don't Lie" [the instrumental ninth track on that album] that you were going to do, but it didn't-
JM: [Interrupting RJ] Yeah, yeah, I couldn't do it. And it sucks. It- it really f**king sucks, but that's- that's just the way it is now. So, you know, I can write like that, for myself, sometimes. And those songs, they turned out all right. I worked it, I think, but that's a different kind of challenge. [Mercer shakes his head.] It's a stupid thing, honestly, but I still f**king do it. It's like, every time in the studio, I get that itch to switch booths or whatever, you know, to put on that singing cap. And when it gets to the point where I just- that's when I bring in a song and tell the guys that-
RJ: [Interrupting Mercer] He'll come in with, like, his head down, and just hold out sheets with all this music on it, and then point to a section and ask, 'What do you think?'
I figure in the article spread in the magazine, Randy's line above was the big, blown-up quote on page three. It's got that insider, slightly voyeuristic ring to it, I think.
KI-D: I always say it's dumb.
[Laughter]
JM: Yeah, Kev [Izer-Donaldson] always tries to f**king axe it right off the bat, but Randy plays along.
RJ: [Shrugging] It's worth a shot, right? What do you always say? [He turns to Mercer.] 'This is our work. Music's supposed to be hard. It's supposed to hurt.'
Also headcanon, Jack and Randy are extremely quotable-Jack, just naturally, and Randy because he often directly quotes or inadvertently models his own responses in interviews after Jack's. Kevin, however, is an interviewer's nightmare, and Mitch is pretty much never there because he seriously dislikes the press.
Q. Is that true? Do you believe that?
JM: You know, I do. Music's supposed to be a process and all that, but it's also something you should look forward to and- and constantly be thinking about. It's not just procedure, like the law or surgery. Art's like that, too, I think, and writing, and dancing, but only in certain, uh, disciplines or styles, you know? I guess what I'm trying to say is that when making music, the real creating side of it, when that starts to really turn into, I don't know, just a habit or whatever, then that's a sign that something needs to change. I have to challenge myself. I need that. I think that's how we find the best- in everything, in all ways. If you work for something, you're always going to appreciate it more. And if you appreciate something so much, if you love it, if it's really a part of you, an extension, you know, then that's going to come through to people. Because music without anything behind it, without, you know, soul or heart or f**king emotion, that's just trash. It's meaningless trash, and people hearing it can always tell. Well, most of the time they can tell. [Here Mercer smiles, and then clears his throat.] Obviously, not everyone agrees with me, which is why the market's filled with sh** all about banging, but that's- to me, that's not real music. What we [the band] do means something, means a lot to all of us, and most of us can't do anything else. This is it.
Q. What about you? Could you do something else?
JM: [Smiling] You mean like a 9 to 5 at the Post Office? Oh, I tried that. I did do sh** like that for awhile. We all did. But it was always just about scraping by. I mean, I graduated from high school and everything, but there was never even the thought of going to college. [Mercer laughs, and then coughs.] So, uh, yeah. But, you know, I probably could have done the office thing if I'd wanted to, or, like, stuck with it. I'm good with people, I guess. Or at least people think I'm good with people. [Jinds and Izer-Donaldson laugh.] I mean, I'd be bored as f**k, but I could have done it. Not now, though, or anything. This [the band] has ruined me for anything like that now. There's no going back. I'm house broken. [Mercer smiles again.]
I have this mental image of Jack waiting tables and being decent at it but one time too many sneaking out back into the alley to smoke and scribble down song notes and getting caught and fired for it.
RJ: Personally, I know I'm sh** at everything else. I tried some, too, I guess, but it wasn't like I'd ever have a career. This is the only thing I've ever felt that I'm, like, any good at.
Headcanon says Randy has a green thumb and worked years on a landscaping crew and likely would've pursued that if he hadn't met Jack in Chicago that night.
KI-D: Yeah, what they said.
Kevin was a roadie and a junkie and probably would've wound up dead in a pool of his own vomit, if not for this persistent, nagging, (underage), wannabe, Brit-punk named Mitch having essentially saved his life several times over the course of a year until it finally took and Kevin checked himself into rehab. If Jack and Randy are actually Jack&Randy, soulmates, then Mitch and Kevin are Mitch-and-Kevin, hetero life-mates. There are stories there, man.
[Laughter, with Mercer again coughing heavily]
Q. I can't help but notice your coughing. Is your health still a serious issue?
Again, Mike-the-interviewer, seriously? But, can't blame the guy. Inquiring minds (and demanding editors) want to know.
JM: [Shaking his head] No, well, I guess it sort of is. [He clears his throat.] I'm going to be like this for the rest of my life, so that's pretty serious, right? [He pauses.] But it's not, like, going to kill me or anything. If I suffocate or something, which isn't a real, uh, concern, then, yeah, it'd be serious, but-
RJ: [Cutting JM off] It's just the amount of air, or lack of it. That's why he can't sing.
JM: [Nods] Yeah, what he said.
[Jinds and Izer-Donaldson laugh again, but Mercer only smiles. His face is still red from coughing.]
Q. Not to sound like a broken record here, guys, but-
RJ: [Laughing] Ha! Good one, man!
Who doesn't like music puns, I ask you?
Q. Right. There's also been some speculation recently that the re-worked version of "Cigarette Case" is actually just the first of many old We Spares' songs to get a "make-over." Is there any truth to this? Can fans look forward to more re-mastered songs?
[Mercer clears his throat.]
RJ: Well. . .
[There's a long silence.]
Q. Anything at all, just to set the record straight one way or the other.
KI-D: Well, yeah, I guess. [He looks to Mercer specifically.] That's what I recorded the other day, wasn't it? Stuff for "Got Nuffin"?
Which, yes, is me attributing the Spoon song below to my imaginary band. So, what?
RJ: [To me] Uh, yeah, we're in the process of sort of-fiddling with things. I don't know about the release of them, or anything like that, but I'd love to just hammer those [songs] out. They deserve it.
JM: We're working on it.
Q. Just out of curiosity, how many songs are we talking here? A few?
[Izer-Donaldson starts laughing, and Jinds hits him on the arm.]
JM: More. There're a few different sets Micki got. Some of the quality's crap, but most of it's workable.
RJ: I think there's, like, 15 songs. [Turns to Mercer] Right?
JM: [To me] 18, total. But we'll see how many we put out. It's not-- they're not really the, uh, most fun things to work on, if you know what I mean.
Q. Certainly understandable. And, on a personal note, as a fan let me just say: any music from you guys is appreciated, old, new, borrowed or blue. It's been a real honor, guys.
RJ: Hey, same here. You know you've hit the big time when you guys come calling.
KI-D: Yeah, thanks, man. It wasn't painful at all.
[Laughter]
[At this point, Jinds and Izer-Donaldson stand and each shakes my hand. Only when both have started to leave the room does Mercer also stand up. He too shakes my hand, and then smiles.]
Q. Thank you for sitting down with me.
JM: Oh, the sitting was real fun. It was the talking I wasn't too fond of.
[Mercer then pats me on the arm and walks to the door, nodding back at me before leaving.]
Cos Jack's just cool to everyone he meets, but he's a wreck to those who know and love him.
***
When Jackie spaces out on the couch and eventually dozes off cos of the medications, Bobby sneaks over and cleans up around him. He takes the half-full plate of food and glass of orange juice the kid didn't finish into the kitchen, and then he starts untangling the laptop from the nest Jackie makes of the couch every day. The power cord's wrapped around the kid's ankle and Bobby has to bite his lip to keep from snorting out loud at the sight. Kid isn't really a light sleeper during the day, so it's unlikely he'll wake up, no matter how much noise Bobby makes near him. But then, Jack never really sleeps a full night through, either, so the kid still definitely needs any rest he can get.
No love for the dark, our Jackie. Too much hiding as a youngster.
So Bobby holds his breath and gently lifts up the kid's leg to unwind the laptop's power cord. Once, twice, three to the right, and the cord's free. Bobby pulls it back and drops it carefully to the floor. Then, he straightens out the leg of Jackie's sweats and sets his leg back down on the couch. Restless sleeper, that's what Ma called Jackie, and it's a fact. Kid always rolls and turns and tosses until he's one big cocoon of blankets and bedding. Bobby straightens the blanket and gently puts Jackie's arms back up on his chest now, but in 20 minutes or less the kid's gonna be all turned around again. Most times, Kid only seems to wake up cos he's in danger of fuckin' suffocation, having flailed his way under and around so many times while conked out. Bobby's fuckin' shocked the kid even manages to get any sleep at all, the amount of moving he does every time.
I always view Jack as someone who has nightmares he doesn't remember. And they're not loud. We're not talking night terrors or screaming or even thrashing. Instead, he has trouble falling asleep and staying asleep and thus leans more towards insomnia, which is why a majority of the songs are finished at insane hours of the night and emailed to Mitch, who just shakes his head at seeing 5 new messages from Jack when he logs on to his computer around 8 in the morning.
***
First time he sees it, he's puking his guts up into a well-placed trashcan. He'd been mid-stagger on his way home to his apartment after a night out with some of the guys on his demo crew, when the liquor started staging a revolt against his stomach. Next, he's bent double and trying not to throw up anymore because sticking his head over that trashcan to throw up is even worse than the throwing up itself. By the stench coming off that trashcan, Bobby's not the first guy tonight to lose his dinner in there.
Thus begins Bobby's downward spiral. I wrote out a whole timeline of milestones in the boys' lives, just to cement their respective ages and get the interplay right. Pretty soon, within a year of this event described below, Bobby fucks up majorly and goes away to prison for six years. So, not a good time.
So, when he's stabilized a bit, hopefully enough to get home to his shitty one-bedroom, but also thankfully one-bathroom apartment, Bobby unbends himself, wobbles a bit before getting his equilibrium back, and then for some reason looks around. Going by the nearby street sign, he's only three blocks away from his $500 shit heap, and he's standing right in front of a pawn shop window. Compasses are displayed on little risers, and some boots, shoes, a few purses, and coats-no weapons of any kind, of course-and then hanging from the sides, strung up, is quite the assortment of used musical instruments.
Bobby runs his eyes over the last group, stopping on the third instrument from the left. "Huh," he huffs to himself, finding that interesting and important for some reason. He files that away for later, though, and taking a slow, deep breath, recommences staggering home.
Two months later, he goes home to Ma's for what he was told was a "special dinner, Bobby" and what in fact turns out to be Jerry and his witchy girlfriend Camille dropping the bomb that they're engaged and planning on getting married in the summer. Everything goes silent for a full five seconds, and then Ma's saying, "Congratulations!" and Angel and Bobby are fucking laughing hysterically, and Jack's just staring at them all like they're strangers and he's not sure if whatever the hell they're infected with is contagious or not.
Jack's thinking, "What's a wedding? People actually get married? I thought that was only on TV."
"Don't you have anything to say to your brother?" Ma lightly bites out in that voice of hers that means she knows he was already past hammered before he even got here and she's going to have a word with him about it very, very soon.
"Yeah, Jer," Bobby says, holding up his beer in a mock toast. Angel hoists up his glass, too, biting his lip cos he knows as well as everyone does that Bobby's got something planned. So, he goes for it. "Congratulations!" he cries out, cheerfully adding with a grin, "It's your funeral, you poor fucking bastard!"
In the heavy silence that follows, the only sounds are Bobby leaning over and clinking his beer against Angel's glass of water, and someone sighing.
Bobby shows up hammered to the engagement party the next week (and later to Jackie's birthday party, too), but he's already Inside by the time the actual wedding day rolls around, a fact for which just about everyone is thankful because Bobby? Totally would've actively tried to ruin that shit. Camille likely would have stabbed him in the face with her bouquet five minutes into the ceremony.
Camille ends up storming out in a fit of rage not five minutes later, Jerry hot on her trail with apology after apology tripping from his mouth. He still manages to spare a few seconds on his way out, though, in an attempt to glare Bobby to death. Angel, meanwhile, wastes no time begging off to go hang out with his "friends," the majority of whom are really nothing but hoodlums with the long records to prove it. Angel's heading down a path Bobby knows only too well leads nowhere good, but damn if anything he's said has made a bit of difference. Hard for him to lead by example when his own life is rapidly sliding into the gutter.
That leaves Ma, Bobby, and Jack. Eventually, Jackie quietly gets up from the table and spends some time stacking and gathering all the dirty dishes together. Kid then slinks off into the kitchen with them and starts washing up. Bobby finishes his beer, and when he's done he reaches over and snags Jerry's barely touched one. Ma's just sitting there, staring at him, and he's somehow simultaneously calmer than he's ever been and about one hair away from ripping into her and just laying it all bare.
It takes Bobby four swallows to empty Jerry's beer, and just as he's set the bottle down on the table, Ma says real quietly, "I don't know why you're doing what you're doing, Bobby, but you need to put an end to it right now."
Because she'd never, ever, ever admit it, but Bobby's always kind of been Evelyn's favorite. He's her oldest, after all, and kind of reminds her a wee bit of her old flame Doug.
He looks over at her, and she's-Ma's pissed. He'd been expecting disappointment, but her cheeks are red and her mouth's just a compressed straight line cutting across her face. And now Bobby's not calm or angry.
He's just back to floundering.
He turns his head away from her, and then they just sit there for a long time. Over the sound of water running in the kitchen, he can hear Jack humming and sometimes singing a word or two.
As though she knows what his focus is on, Ma suddenly says, "It's his birthday in a few weeks." It's too loud somehow. He's startled into looking over at her again.
"Huh?" he asks, frowning.
"Your brother," she snaps out, still really angry at Bobby apparently. "Jack. His birthday is in less than three weeks and we're going to have a little party for him. And you are going to be here."
Bobby scoffs. "Yeah, if I don't have to work- "
"It'll be at night, Bobby, and don't you take that tone with me, kid. I say there's a party, and Jackie's brothers are damn well going to be there, you hear me?" She eyes him for a moment, and Bobby's pissed and drunk and fucking screwing up every little thing in his life, but he's not stupid. He keeps his mouth shut and drops his eyes to the table and just focuses on breathing in and out.
You do not sass Evelyn, and you definitely do not attempt to out-sass her.
Then one of Ma's hands comes into view and she's grabbing his right hand in hers and squeezing it-hard. He obligingly looks up, and it's to the sight of her with tears in her eyes.
"A present," she whispers abruptly, her mouth snapping shut over the 't' like it's hinged too tight and can't stay open long. Bobby doesn't even know what he's feeling, and he can't say what she is, either, but just going by looks alone-yeah, that's it right there.
Now you fucking get it, he thinks. Now you get what I'm dealing with on a daily basis here.
But Bobby just nods, and Evelyn squeezes his hand again, and then they're both quiet once more. The whole house would be quiet if it weren't for Jack. He's singing something about wishing it would rain, and suddenly Bobby knows just the thing, remembers it.
The next day, after work and before the bars, Bobby walks down three blocks and goes into that pawn shop on the corner. He walks up to the guy at the counter, and when he's acknowledged with a suspicious frown and a quick nod, Bobby points up to the front of the store, at the window, third from the left.
"How much for that guitar?" he asks, pointing with one hand and pulling out his wallet with the other.
Because of course Bobby bought Jack his first guitar. Is this not canon?
***
Tuesday, just after Bobby finishes cleaning the plates from breakfast and is about to start in on the glasses, the phone rings. Then it rings again, and he has to make the snap decision of whether or not to answer the damn thing. As he's wiping his hands off on his jeans and reaching for the phone itself, he kinda mentally prepares himself for that lawyer Mom was "seeing," or some stupid domestic thing Jerry wants him to help with, or someone from the hospital needing to discuss payment plans on Jackie's hospital bills.
"Mercers," Bobby grumps out.
"Uh, yeah. . . " a quiet voice says, and Bobby frowns. It's a guy on the other end-young, too, it sounds like.
"Who is this?" Bobby demands. "Spit it out, or I'm hanging up right now." He resists adding on any curses just in case it turns out to be someone calling for Mom again-as three days ago that was the fucking case and had led to what would go down in his book as one of the most awkward conversations of his life-but he is so not in the fucking mood for any more jackass, gangster wannabes today.
"Uh, is- I'm calling for Jack?" the guy stutters out. Sounds nervous, and while any call for Jack from some young-sounding dick pings on Bobby's radar, he takes some joy in the fact that he's already cowed said dick.
"Who is this?" Bobby repeats slowly and carefully, only now wondering, like a moron, if this isn't one of Sweet's goons calling to stir shit back up again.
"Randy!" the guy says quickly. "It's Randy, from the band? I'm in the band with Jack," he adds, still with that nervousness all through his voice. But then it's like that broke the dam, and suddenly the guy just starts rattling all this stuff off. "I don't know if you know that. I mean, I assume you're one of his, uh, brothers? Is he there? Cos I can just, like, leave a message or something, if he's not. It's- it's not urgent. I'm just trying to see if he's, you know, okay or whatever. I mean, not okay, you know, cos his mom just- uh, but just-cos I haven't heard anything from him in awhile and the other guys are getting kind of- but that's, you know, understandable and all."
Poor Randy. He is in for one helluva rude awakening. Jack owes him all the blowjobs.
Bobby catches himself snorting aloud when the guy finally screeches to a verbal halt. "Yeah, Randy, was it?" he asks, knowing full well he's right but cheerfully giving in to the urge to just fuck with this guy a little more. Dude made it too easy, already flaking out before Bobby'd even really started yanking his chain.
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, it's Randy. Randy Jinds?"
"Well, Randy, Jackie can't in fact come to the phone right now, but he is here." Bobby hesitates for a few seconds but then decides it can't really hurt anything if he asks. "You his friend then, too, or just some asshole riding his coattails?"
"Wha?" the guy squawks in reply, and Bobby smiles. "No, man," Randy says, and some of that pansy-ass tone has left his voice, "it's not even like that. Jack and me, we've been around for years now. Since Chicago. He's my best friend in the world. I'm not-riding his coattails. We're like partners!"
Someone mention foreshadowing?
Now, at this moment, Bobby's seriously torn between laughing and making another crack about Jackie and his boyfriend, or cutting the dude a break and backing off. A little. Fact is, Jack's just in the other room, zoning out on morning shows as his good stuff starts kicking in. Then it occurs to Bobby that maybe a good way to solve this is to just take the ancient cordless into the living room and stick it in Jackie's doped up face, watch the kid slur his words and confusedly try to figure out what's going on. That'd be the real test of whether or not this Randy is telling the truth. Jack can't lie for shit most of the time, and Bobby'd found out the other day that him stoned out of his mind dropped those odds down to impossible. Bobby'd caught him trying to light up on the porch, and shithead had seriously tried to play it off as him just "getting some fresh air"-while he'd still been retardedly flicking the fucking lighter and with the cigarette literally hanging out of his mouth. Yeah, Jackie's a real brain trust these days.
Funnily enough, "retardedly" isn't actually a word. Go figure.
"Well, that's a fucking relief," Bobby finally says sarcastically. He gets up from where he'd been leaning against the wall and turns around to head into the living room. "Tell you what, lemme just go in and see how Princess is doing. If he's awake, then I'll let you talk to him. How's that sound, Randall?"
"Uh- uh, that sounds fine."
"Peachy," Bobby says, stopping when he gets to the couch and Jack. Shaking his head, Bobby snaps his fingers in front of the kid's face a couple times to get his attention. It works, but takes three seconds too long. Jackie slowly lifts his head up from where it's been resting on his hand, and then his eyes follow a moment later. Bobby grins.
"Huh?" Jack asks, his eyes fucking glazed as shit.
Another of my top five favorite lines in this fic. Two swears in one sentence is always a classic.
"Phone for you, Princess," Bobby tells him, shoving the receiver into his face. "It's the President."
My dad always used to say that: "It's the President." It never got old.
Jack frowns, but when he makes no move to take the phone, Bobby sighs and literally bends down to mold the kid's hand around it and then drags it up to his ear.
"Fuck you, Bobby," Kid mutters, as Bobby arranges his hand on the receiver. ". . . 're so full of shit."
"Christ, your mouth is foul when you're high," he says, stepping back to see if Jackie'll still hang onto the phone if Bobby isn't hanging onto it right along with him. "That any way to talk to your sweet nurse?"
Jack's got the phone right next to his mouth, and it looks like it might stay put for awhile. He's still frowning at Bobby, but it's pretty dazed and probably more from confusion than any anger or whatever.
"Crap-fuckin' deal," Jackie slurs out, his voice still rough in a way Bobby's starting to think is gonna be permanent. " . . . not even nice to me. Ass."
Bobby laughs, then points to the phone. "Says he's in your band. Randy? That sound familiar?"
The frown of confusion slowly changes into something else, some expression Bobby doesn't know the right name for. He looks-not happy, not scared, but something. Nervous? Bobby studies Jackie a little.
Yeah, that's him nervous. Huh. Good thing to know, he figures. Although, that isn't really boding too well for fuckin' Randy in Bobby's book.
"Randy?" Jackie whispers, and if it isn't exactly said into the phone, it's at least close enough to count.
Bobby can't hear what the guy says in response, and much as he wants to listen in, he doesn't. At first. No, Bobby unbends himself from leaning over Jack and goes back into the kitchen. There, he leans against the counter for a moment, then cranes back to look into the living room again, before finally just going back to cleaning the dishes. Jack's voice is either real quiet and being drowned out by the running water, or else he isn't saying anything, cos Bobby can't hear a word.
Dishes done, Bobby turns off the tap. Then he goes over to the fridge and, at barely past ten in the morning, grabs himself a beer. Twisting the cap off, he slowly makes his way over to the doorway, looking in on Jackie again.
Bobby's not too proud to admit he's trying to eavesdrop. Sometimes it's the only way to get the truth, especially in this family.
Pretty sure Bobby never even gave Randy the "If You Hurt Him. . . " speech cos poor Rands was already justifiably terrified of pissing off Jack's brothers. I imagine awkward get-togethers where Bobby and Angel just let loose all these horrifying stories of the shit they got into, and Jerry and Jack just shake their heads, as Randy's quaking in his boots and trying desperately not to let it show-cos you know those Mercers can smell fear, right? And of course Randy doesn't want to wimp out in front of Jack. . .
" . . .don't know," Jack's saying. "Gonna-gonna stay here. For awhile." Then he's quiet for a bit, and Bobby figures that means Randy's talking over the line. "Yeah," Jack whispers a moment later, "whatever. Whatever you gotta d- " He stops suddenly, like Randy interrupted him. Bobby frowns, taking another swallow of the beer and looking closely at how Jackie's acting.
And right now Randy is still trying to figure out what the hell has happened to Jack, while Jackie's misinterpreting Randy's concern as a gentle "firing" from the band cos even now-Jack knows his voice is pretty much toast. So, later, when Randy shows up unannounced on their doorstep, that's really kind of the beginning, and of course it's when he's high and moody, of Jack falling for Randy. Rands of course doesn't know it yet, but he's already gone.
Sad, now. He isn't crying or anything like that, but Bobby knows Jackie. That's the kid's fucking depressed face, different from his crying face altogether. This one is more like Jack's trying not to care, when it just makes it that much more obvious that he cares a whole helluva lot. It's the same one Jackie'd always used to have, back when Bobby would catch the little bastards around the neighborhood messing with him and saying shit things about him within earshot, or like when he had come up to see Bobby that one time in the joint, or at the lawyer's downtown fucking last week when he'd been looking at those adoption papers Mom had kept.
Bobby wonders if that shitty poker face of Jackie's fooled anybody up in New York. He wonders as he swallows down some more beer if fuckin' Randy would've seen through Jack's act if he'd been here, and not just talking to the kid on the phone.
And the sad answer to that is, probably he wouldn't, no, not for another few years because Jack has a tendency to play it that close to the chest. Randy has to work very hard for a very long time to make it inside Jack's walls. I don't think any other scenario would be the least bit realistic.
***
And now it's time for a timestamp within the fic itself! How lazy/awesome is that?
Jack's name is flashing on the caller ID, and without a second thought Bobby's dropping his bag right by the front door so he can get the cell open that much faster with both hands.
Cos by this point, Bobby's playing for the Red Wings.
"Hey," the kid says, and it's not as worn down sounding as it usually is, "you home yet?"
"Just barely," Bobby answers, turning on the porch and dropping down into one of the chairs by the windows. "How 'bout you, shithead? What's going on out there in La-La Land? Bang any hot metrosexuals lately?"
It's like he's got a sixth sense for busting his brothers' balls, or something!
He's met with silence, and Bobby starts to wonder if maybe he fucked up and cracked that joke at a really bad time or something, and then suddenly the line's full of the sound of Jack's rough laughter, which of course quickly takes a turn for coughing after only a few seconds.
"Jack?" Bobby asks, and then he repeats it, shouting, "Jack! What the fuck?"
More hacking but it grows distant, like the kid's moving away from the phone. And then, Bobby catches a familiar voice asking at first in the background, but by the last word, right up next to the speaker, "What's so goddamn funny? Jack, wha- why are you giving this to me?"
"Randall, what the fuck is going on?" Bobby asks in his coldest voice, partly cos he is a little worried about Jackie, always is with that awful coughing he does now almost constantly, but mostly because he just likes messing with Randy. It's even more fun than ragging on Jackie, as far as that goes.
"Uh, Bobby?" the guy eventually asks. Jack can still be heard in the background, but the coughing doesn't sound quite as bad as it did a few seconds ago. "What'd you say to him?"
"Nothing!" Bobby instantly snaps. "Just the usual shit. I made a crack about him getting some male-tail and then suddenly he's literally coughing up a lun- what are you laughing at?!"
But Randy, the fucker, just keeps on laughing from when he'd started halfway through Bobby's response, and eventually Bobby simply hangs up on the retards.
A few months later, when Bobby's farther out west with the team and can make a pit-stop to see his brother in L.A. after the game, he finds out why the two of them had been laughing.
Randy even summons up the stones to say to Bobby deadpan, "FYI, we prefer 'dandy' over metrosexual." And then Bobby's suddenly sitting front row center for the Jack&Randy Tongue Festival.
I for one would fork over quite a bit of cash for tickets to that festival. Mmmmm.
He doesn't return to L.A. for three years, excluding his two-day stint when Jack insists he show up for his big 30th birthday party, cos at least when Jackie and Wonder Boy are forced to come to Detroit to see him they keep the making out in front of everyone to a minimum.
Detroit's finally good for something.
Detroit, specifically Evelyn's house = Cockblock Central. Jack and Randy always book a hotel room when visiting.
And thus ends part one. This was fun, right?
***
***
"We Weren't Spared"
Discussing the Media Rumor Mill, the Definition of Morbidity, and the Meaning in Music with this year's hottest act. Plus, a Sneak Peek at the Band's Future?
By Michael Frerichs
Or, I showcase my ability to reproduce Rolling Stone articles with imaginary bands.
In the months preceding the release of their greatest hits collection, We Spares' record sales soared. Big Ones, the band's recent compilation album, amassed such a huge amount of pre-release buzz among vocal fans online and even more vocal critics that sales of the band's previous three albums in turn reached record highs. The band's most recent two full-length albums even achieved platinum status, just in the last month alone.
We Spares' recent, record-breaking success isn't entirely out of left field, however. Prior to the release of Big Ones, the band's previous full-length album, the self-titled We Spares, held the top spot as both their best debut and best-selling record to date. We Spares was also a massive critical success, hailed as the quartet's finest outing yet, and garnering three Grammy nominations last year. So it is that this month, amidst still skyrocketing sales of their Big Ones, and with notables in the music community having recently "out-ed" themselves as We Spares fans in the now infamous viral video campaign by Virgin records, this interviewer sat down with three of the four men behind the now wildly popular, and wildly respected, music.
Q. So my first question is probably the most obvious: where's Mitch Mooney?
Mitch Mooney = Andrew Garfield
[Laughter]
Jack Mercer: [To Randy Jinds] Told you.
Of course, Jack = Garrett Hedlund
Randy Jinds: He's got a DJ-ing gig up in the city tonight. Busy, busy, so we told him to just skip this [interview].
Randy = James McAvoy
Q. Does that happen a lot?
JM: Mitch is pretty high in demand right now, so unless we're in the studio or, you know, getting ready to do some shows, we don't see much of him.
Kevin Izer-Donaldson: F**ker's the Invisible Man.
And Kevin = Giovanni Ribisi
[Laughter]
Q. Is that a permanent sort of understanding? There have been a number of rumors floating around that he's on his way out of the band.
JM: Was that last one a question?
[Jinds and Izer-Donaldson laugh, but Mercer just smiles.]
Q. Okay, question: Are any of the rumors that Mooney's at odds with certain members of the band true?
RJ: Nope, not at all.
KI-D: Media just stirring sh** up again, is what it sounds like.
Q. Jack, is that your opinion, too? You and Mooney often express differing opinions in interviews.
JM: I've got no problems whatsoever with Mitch, never have. He's a huge part of this band. We fight and bicker, but, sh**, that's just how we f**king interact. There's no big rift or whatever.
Q. With the greatest hits album, you also released a re-mastered copy of one of the band's earliest songs [the album's first track, "Cigarette Case"]. It features a recording of Jack singing. Can you explain the process that went into creating that song?
Canon for this 'verse, "Cigarette Case" is actually the very first song Jack and Randy played and worked on together-all the way back in Chicago when they, and Randy's asshole of a first cousin, were competing in a battle of the bands. They won of course because Jack + Randy = Unstoppable, asshole first cousins notwithstanding.
RJ: Like, the technical aspects?
Q. Yes, things like: Where did the audio copy of the vocals come from? How long did it take to perfect the song? But also, what was the emotional impact of working on it? Did hearing it bring back any memories? Anything you'd be willing to share.
RJ: [Turns to Mercer and Izer-Donaldson] Well, don't know about you guys, but I nearly had a stroke when I first heard it again.
JM: [To me] One of Kevin's old girlfriends had the original.
RJ: Oh, yeah! Good ol' Micki.
Micki! Named after the cheerleader in high school my brother briefly dated who was so out of his league but incredibly nice all the same. She was pretty much a goddess and really nice to dorky wee!me.
KI-D: Yeah, she'd taped some stuff for us way back when, and then she moved, and wanted to get rid of them, so she called me up, asked if I wanted them or what.
Q. Did you all listen to the recordings together, or how did the idea strike to re-do "Cigarette Case"?
KI-D: Well, I listened to them first-well, the first few-but then I brought them over. [He turns to Mercer and Izer-Donaldson.] We ate take-out and, like, chilled, didn't we?
RJ: [Nodding] Yeah, made a night out of it. [Looks to Mercer] Think you were high.
[Jinds and Izer-Donaldson laugh. Mercer nods.]
JM: Probably.
Q. So working with those copies of old songs-what was that like?
JM: It was like bringing the dead back to life again.
RJ: [To Mercer] Wow, that's not morbid at all.
JM: Well, it's true. [He pauses.] Besides, I'm not dead, so does that still count as morbid?
RJ: You're the one who said "dead," dude.
JM: I was going more for "ironic," I think. [To me] "Cigarette Case" didn't used to have anything like the meaning it does now, personally, I mean. Now, though, it's like the figurehead for everything back then.
RJ: The, uh, culmination.
JM: Yeah, yeah, exactly. In retrospect, that song's amazing, like a Van Gogh or something. Back then, though, I don't think anyone listening really cared about it. I mean, it meant a lot to me, and maybe Rands [Jinds] and the guys by extension, you know, but not- not just the casual listener. 'Course, we played only f**king clubs and bars back then, nothing like the stuff we do now, so the audience has changed a lot, too.
RJ: No nice studios, either. No stadiums.
KI-D: No groupies.
[Laughter]
Q. Jack, you're on record as saying you can't sing anymore. How has that changed the direction of the band over the years? How does that affect you personally?
I mean, any interviewer worth their salt would have to ask that question because it is such a huge deal in terms of the band's direction/history, but also-Jesus, how do you think it's affected him?! "Oh, well, Mike, I'm just fine with it, honestly. To tell ya the truth, it's a big relief! Who wouldn't want to be the victim of a violent attack, sustain a series of debilitating injuries, only to then find out their chosen career path is significantly narrowed in addition to suffering chronic, residual pain, both physically and mentally? It's a real blast, Mike!"
Instead, Jack proves he's Evelyn's son and not Bobby's clone by saying:
JM: The guys are my voice now, my singing voice, anyway. The guitar's always gonna be, like, the direct line. It was before, even, more so than me singing the words ever was. But now I mostly write for their [the band's] strengths, for each [guy]'s, you know, specific sound or what they're most comfortable with. Or- or sometimes, I'll just f**k with them too, make them work at it, challenge them. Cos I can't, because I can't stretch that way myself, not anymore really. Someone has to. And, I mean, I do a song or two every once in awhile, something specific that I know I can do. There've been at least a couple [songs] on, like, the last, what? [Mercer turns to Jinds and Izer-Donaldson.] Two albums?
RJ: [Nodding] Yeah. Yeah, it was two, because on [Fading] Light, remember we were going to-- there were those lyrics for "Dead Doctors Don't Lie" [the instrumental ninth track on that album] that you were going to do, but it didn't-
JM: [Interrupting RJ] Yeah, yeah, I couldn't do it. And it sucks. It- it really f**king sucks, but that's- that's just the way it is now. So, you know, I can write like that, for myself, sometimes. And those songs, they turned out all right. I worked it, I think, but that's a different kind of challenge. [Mercer shakes his head.] It's a stupid thing, honestly, but I still f**king do it. It's like, every time in the studio, I get that itch to switch booths or whatever, you know, to put on that singing cap. And when it gets to the point where I just- that's when I bring in a song and tell the guys that-
RJ: [Interrupting Mercer] He'll come in with, like, his head down, and just hold out sheets with all this music on it, and then point to a section and ask, 'What do you think?'
I figure in the article spread in the magazine, Randy's line above was the big, blown-up quote on page three. It's got that insider, slightly voyeuristic ring to it, I think.
KI-D: I always say it's dumb.
[Laughter]
JM: Yeah, Kev [Izer-Donaldson] always tries to f**king axe it right off the bat, but Randy plays along.
RJ: [Shrugging] It's worth a shot, right? What do you always say? [He turns to Mercer.] 'This is our work. Music's supposed to be hard. It's supposed to hurt.'
Also headcanon, Jack and Randy are extremely quotable-Jack, just naturally, and Randy because he often directly quotes or inadvertently models his own responses in interviews after Jack's. Kevin, however, is an interviewer's nightmare, and Mitch is pretty much never there because he seriously dislikes the press.
Q. Is that true? Do you believe that?
JM: You know, I do. Music's supposed to be a process and all that, but it's also something you should look forward to and- and constantly be thinking about. It's not just procedure, like the law or surgery. Art's like that, too, I think, and writing, and dancing, but only in certain, uh, disciplines or styles, you know? I guess what I'm trying to say is that when making music, the real creating side of it, when that starts to really turn into, I don't know, just a habit or whatever, then that's a sign that something needs to change. I have to challenge myself. I need that. I think that's how we find the best- in everything, in all ways. If you work for something, you're always going to appreciate it more. And if you appreciate something so much, if you love it, if it's really a part of you, an extension, you know, then that's going to come through to people. Because music without anything behind it, without, you know, soul or heart or f**king emotion, that's just trash. It's meaningless trash, and people hearing it can always tell. Well, most of the time they can tell. [Here Mercer smiles, and then clears his throat.] Obviously, not everyone agrees with me, which is why the market's filled with sh** all about banging, but that's- to me, that's not real music. What we [the band] do means something, means a lot to all of us, and most of us can't do anything else. This is it.
Q. What about you? Could you do something else?
JM: [Smiling] You mean like a 9 to 5 at the Post Office? Oh, I tried that. I did do sh** like that for awhile. We all did. But it was always just about scraping by. I mean, I graduated from high school and everything, but there was never even the thought of going to college. [Mercer laughs, and then coughs.] So, uh, yeah. But, you know, I probably could have done the office thing if I'd wanted to, or, like, stuck with it. I'm good with people, I guess. Or at least people think I'm good with people. [Jinds and Izer-Donaldson laugh.] I mean, I'd be bored as f**k, but I could have done it. Not now, though, or anything. This [the band] has ruined me for anything like that now. There's no going back. I'm house broken. [Mercer smiles again.]
I have this mental image of Jack waiting tables and being decent at it but one time too many sneaking out back into the alley to smoke and scribble down song notes and getting caught and fired for it.
RJ: Personally, I know I'm sh** at everything else. I tried some, too, I guess, but it wasn't like I'd ever have a career. This is the only thing I've ever felt that I'm, like, any good at.
Headcanon says Randy has a green thumb and worked years on a landscaping crew and likely would've pursued that if he hadn't met Jack in Chicago that night.
KI-D: Yeah, what they said.
Kevin was a roadie and a junkie and probably would've wound up dead in a pool of his own vomit, if not for this persistent, nagging, (underage), wannabe, Brit-punk named Mitch having essentially saved his life several times over the course of a year until it finally took and Kevin checked himself into rehab. If Jack and Randy are actually Jack&Randy, soulmates, then Mitch and Kevin are Mitch-and-Kevin, hetero life-mates. There are stories there, man.
[Laughter, with Mercer again coughing heavily]
Q. I can't help but notice your coughing. Is your health still a serious issue?
Again, Mike-the-interviewer, seriously? But, can't blame the guy. Inquiring minds (and demanding editors) want to know.
JM: [Shaking his head] No, well, I guess it sort of is. [He clears his throat.] I'm going to be like this for the rest of my life, so that's pretty serious, right? [He pauses.] But it's not, like, going to kill me or anything. If I suffocate or something, which isn't a real, uh, concern, then, yeah, it'd be serious, but-
RJ: [Cutting JM off] It's just the amount of air, or lack of it. That's why he can't sing.
JM: [Nods] Yeah, what he said.
[Jinds and Izer-Donaldson laugh again, but Mercer only smiles. His face is still red from coughing.]
Q. Not to sound like a broken record here, guys, but-
RJ: [Laughing] Ha! Good one, man!
Who doesn't like music puns, I ask you?
Q. Right. There's also been some speculation recently that the re-worked version of "Cigarette Case" is actually just the first of many old We Spares' songs to get a "make-over." Is there any truth to this? Can fans look forward to more re-mastered songs?
[Mercer clears his throat.]
RJ: Well. . .
[There's a long silence.]
Q. Anything at all, just to set the record straight one way or the other.
KI-D: Well, yeah, I guess. [He looks to Mercer specifically.] That's what I recorded the other day, wasn't it? Stuff for "Got Nuffin"?
Which, yes, is me attributing the Spoon song below to my imaginary band. So, what?
Click to viewRJ: [To me] Uh, yeah, we're in the process of sort of-fiddling with things. I don't know about the release of them, or anything like that, but I'd love to just hammer those [songs] out. They deserve it.
JM: We're working on it.
Q. Just out of curiosity, how many songs are we talking here? A few?
[Izer-Donaldson starts laughing, and Jinds hits him on the arm.]
JM: More. There're a few different sets Micki got. Some of the quality's crap, but most of it's workable.
RJ: I think there's, like, 15 songs. [Turns to Mercer] Right?
JM: [To me] 18, total. But we'll see how many we put out. It's not-- they're not really the, uh, most fun things to work on, if you know what I mean.
Q. Certainly understandable. And, on a personal note, as a fan let me just say: any music from you guys is appreciated, old, new, borrowed or blue. It's been a real honor, guys.
RJ: Hey, same here. You know you've hit the big time when you guys come calling.
KI-D: Yeah, thanks, man. It wasn't painful at all.
[Laughter]
[At this point, Jinds and Izer-Donaldson stand and each shakes my hand. Only when both have started to leave the room does Mercer also stand up. He too shakes my hand, and then smiles.]
Q. Thank you for sitting down with me.
JM: Oh, the sitting was real fun. It was the talking I wasn't too fond of.
[Mercer then pats me on the arm and walks to the door, nodding back at me before leaving.]
Cos Jack's just cool to everyone he meets, but he's a wreck to those who know and love him.
***
When Jackie spaces out on the couch and eventually dozes off cos of the medications, Bobby sneaks over and cleans up around him. He takes the half-full plate of food and glass of orange juice the kid didn't finish into the kitchen, and then he starts untangling the laptop from the nest Jackie makes of the couch every day. The power cord's wrapped around the kid's ankle and Bobby has to bite his lip to keep from snorting out loud at the sight. Kid isn't really a light sleeper during the day, so it's unlikely he'll wake up, no matter how much noise Bobby makes near him. But then, Jack never really sleeps a full night through, either, so the kid still definitely needs any rest he can get.
No love for the dark, our Jackie. Too much hiding as a youngster.
So Bobby holds his breath and gently lifts up the kid's leg to unwind the laptop's power cord. Once, twice, three to the right, and the cord's free. Bobby pulls it back and drops it carefully to the floor. Then, he straightens out the leg of Jackie's sweats and sets his leg back down on the couch. Restless sleeper, that's what Ma called Jackie, and it's a fact. Kid always rolls and turns and tosses until he's one big cocoon of blankets and bedding. Bobby straightens the blanket and gently puts Jackie's arms back up on his chest now, but in 20 minutes or less the kid's gonna be all turned around again. Most times, Kid only seems to wake up cos he's in danger of fuckin' suffocation, having flailed his way under and around so many times while conked out. Bobby's fuckin' shocked the kid even manages to get any sleep at all, the amount of moving he does every time.
I always view Jack as someone who has nightmares he doesn't remember. And they're not loud. We're not talking night terrors or screaming or even thrashing. Instead, he has trouble falling asleep and staying asleep and thus leans more towards insomnia, which is why a majority of the songs are finished at insane hours of the night and emailed to Mitch, who just shakes his head at seeing 5 new messages from Jack when he logs on to his computer around 8 in the morning.
***
First time he sees it, he's puking his guts up into a well-placed trashcan. He'd been mid-stagger on his way home to his apartment after a night out with some of the guys on his demo crew, when the liquor started staging a revolt against his stomach. Next, he's bent double and trying not to throw up anymore because sticking his head over that trashcan to throw up is even worse than the throwing up itself. By the stench coming off that trashcan, Bobby's not the first guy tonight to lose his dinner in there.
Thus begins Bobby's downward spiral. I wrote out a whole timeline of milestones in the boys' lives, just to cement their respective ages and get the interplay right. Pretty soon, within a year of this event described below, Bobby fucks up majorly and goes away to prison for six years. So, not a good time.
So, when he's stabilized a bit, hopefully enough to get home to his shitty one-bedroom, but also thankfully one-bathroom apartment, Bobby unbends himself, wobbles a bit before getting his equilibrium back, and then for some reason looks around. Going by the nearby street sign, he's only three blocks away from his $500 shit heap, and he's standing right in front of a pawn shop window. Compasses are displayed on little risers, and some boots, shoes, a few purses, and coats-no weapons of any kind, of course-and then hanging from the sides, strung up, is quite the assortment of used musical instruments.
Bobby runs his eyes over the last group, stopping on the third instrument from the left. "Huh," he huffs to himself, finding that interesting and important for some reason. He files that away for later, though, and taking a slow, deep breath, recommences staggering home.
Two months later, he goes home to Ma's for what he was told was a "special dinner, Bobby" and what in fact turns out to be Jerry and his witchy girlfriend Camille dropping the bomb that they're engaged and planning on getting married in the summer. Everything goes silent for a full five seconds, and then Ma's saying, "Congratulations!" and Angel and Bobby are fucking laughing hysterically, and Jack's just staring at them all like they're strangers and he's not sure if whatever the hell they're infected with is contagious or not.
Jack's thinking, "What's a wedding? People actually get married? I thought that was only on TV."
"Don't you have anything to say to your brother?" Ma lightly bites out in that voice of hers that means she knows he was already past hammered before he even got here and she's going to have a word with him about it very, very soon.
"Yeah, Jer," Bobby says, holding up his beer in a mock toast. Angel hoists up his glass, too, biting his lip cos he knows as well as everyone does that Bobby's got something planned. So, he goes for it. "Congratulations!" he cries out, cheerfully adding with a grin, "It's your funeral, you poor fucking bastard!"
In the heavy silence that follows, the only sounds are Bobby leaning over and clinking his beer against Angel's glass of water, and someone sighing.
Bobby shows up hammered to the engagement party the next week (and later to Jackie's birthday party, too), but he's already Inside by the time the actual wedding day rolls around, a fact for which just about everyone is thankful because Bobby? Totally would've actively tried to ruin that shit. Camille likely would have stabbed him in the face with her bouquet five minutes into the ceremony.
Camille ends up storming out in a fit of rage not five minutes later, Jerry hot on her trail with apology after apology tripping from his mouth. He still manages to spare a few seconds on his way out, though, in an attempt to glare Bobby to death. Angel, meanwhile, wastes no time begging off to go hang out with his "friends," the majority of whom are really nothing but hoodlums with the long records to prove it. Angel's heading down a path Bobby knows only too well leads nowhere good, but damn if anything he's said has made a bit of difference. Hard for him to lead by example when his own life is rapidly sliding into the gutter.
That leaves Ma, Bobby, and Jack. Eventually, Jackie quietly gets up from the table and spends some time stacking and gathering all the dirty dishes together. Kid then slinks off into the kitchen with them and starts washing up. Bobby finishes his beer, and when he's done he reaches over and snags Jerry's barely touched one. Ma's just sitting there, staring at him, and he's somehow simultaneously calmer than he's ever been and about one hair away from ripping into her and just laying it all bare.
It takes Bobby four swallows to empty Jerry's beer, and just as he's set the bottle down on the table, Ma says real quietly, "I don't know why you're doing what you're doing, Bobby, but you need to put an end to it right now."
Because she'd never, ever, ever admit it, but Bobby's always kind of been Evelyn's favorite. He's her oldest, after all, and kind of reminds her a wee bit of her old flame Doug.
He looks over at her, and she's-Ma's pissed. He'd been expecting disappointment, but her cheeks are red and her mouth's just a compressed straight line cutting across her face. And now Bobby's not calm or angry.
He's just back to floundering.
He turns his head away from her, and then they just sit there for a long time. Over the sound of water running in the kitchen, he can hear Jack humming and sometimes singing a word or two.
As though she knows what his focus is on, Ma suddenly says, "It's his birthday in a few weeks." It's too loud somehow. He's startled into looking over at her again.
"Huh?" he asks, frowning.
"Your brother," she snaps out, still really angry at Bobby apparently. "Jack. His birthday is in less than three weeks and we're going to have a little party for him. And you are going to be here."
Bobby scoffs. "Yeah, if I don't have to work- "
"It'll be at night, Bobby, and don't you take that tone with me, kid. I say there's a party, and Jackie's brothers are damn well going to be there, you hear me?" She eyes him for a moment, and Bobby's pissed and drunk and fucking screwing up every little thing in his life, but he's not stupid. He keeps his mouth shut and drops his eyes to the table and just focuses on breathing in and out.
You do not sass Evelyn, and you definitely do not attempt to out-sass her.
Then one of Ma's hands comes into view and she's grabbing his right hand in hers and squeezing it-hard. He obligingly looks up, and it's to the sight of her with tears in her eyes.
"A present," she whispers abruptly, her mouth snapping shut over the 't' like it's hinged too tight and can't stay open long. Bobby doesn't even know what he's feeling, and he can't say what she is, either, but just going by looks alone-yeah, that's it right there.
Now you fucking get it, he thinks. Now you get what I'm dealing with on a daily basis here.
But Bobby just nods, and Evelyn squeezes his hand again, and then they're both quiet once more. The whole house would be quiet if it weren't for Jack. He's singing something about wishing it would rain, and suddenly Bobby knows just the thing, remembers it.
The next day, after work and before the bars, Bobby walks down three blocks and goes into that pawn shop on the corner. He walks up to the guy at the counter, and when he's acknowledged with a suspicious frown and a quick nod, Bobby points up to the front of the store, at the window, third from the left.
"How much for that guitar?" he asks, pointing with one hand and pulling out his wallet with the other.
Because of course Bobby bought Jack his first guitar. Is this not canon?
***
Tuesday, just after Bobby finishes cleaning the plates from breakfast and is about to start in on the glasses, the phone rings. Then it rings again, and he has to make the snap decision of whether or not to answer the damn thing. As he's wiping his hands off on his jeans and reaching for the phone itself, he kinda mentally prepares himself for that lawyer Mom was "seeing," or some stupid domestic thing Jerry wants him to help with, or someone from the hospital needing to discuss payment plans on Jackie's hospital bills.
"Mercers," Bobby grumps out.
"Uh, yeah. . . " a quiet voice says, and Bobby frowns. It's a guy on the other end-young, too, it sounds like.
"Who is this?" Bobby demands. "Spit it out, or I'm hanging up right now." He resists adding on any curses just in case it turns out to be someone calling for Mom again-as three days ago that was the fucking case and had led to what would go down in his book as one of the most awkward conversations of his life-but he is so not in the fucking mood for any more jackass, gangster wannabes today.
"Uh, is- I'm calling for Jack?" the guy stutters out. Sounds nervous, and while any call for Jack from some young-sounding dick pings on Bobby's radar, he takes some joy in the fact that he's already cowed said dick.
"Who is this?" Bobby repeats slowly and carefully, only now wondering, like a moron, if this isn't one of Sweet's goons calling to stir shit back up again.
"Randy!" the guy says quickly. "It's Randy, from the band? I'm in the band with Jack," he adds, still with that nervousness all through his voice. But then it's like that broke the dam, and suddenly the guy just starts rattling all this stuff off. "I don't know if you know that. I mean, I assume you're one of his, uh, brothers? Is he there? Cos I can just, like, leave a message or something, if he's not. It's- it's not urgent. I'm just trying to see if he's, you know, okay or whatever. I mean, not okay, you know, cos his mom just- uh, but just-cos I haven't heard anything from him in awhile and the other guys are getting kind of- but that's, you know, understandable and all."
Poor Randy. He is in for one helluva rude awakening. Jack owes him all the blowjobs.
Bobby catches himself snorting aloud when the guy finally screeches to a verbal halt. "Yeah, Randy, was it?" he asks, knowing full well he's right but cheerfully giving in to the urge to just fuck with this guy a little more. Dude made it too easy, already flaking out before Bobby'd even really started yanking his chain.
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, it's Randy. Randy Jinds?"
"Well, Randy, Jackie can't in fact come to the phone right now, but he is here." Bobby hesitates for a few seconds but then decides it can't really hurt anything if he asks. "You his friend then, too, or just some asshole riding his coattails?"
"Wha?" the guy squawks in reply, and Bobby smiles. "No, man," Randy says, and some of that pansy-ass tone has left his voice, "it's not even like that. Jack and me, we've been around for years now. Since Chicago. He's my best friend in the world. I'm not-riding his coattails. We're like partners!"
Someone mention foreshadowing?
Now, at this moment, Bobby's seriously torn between laughing and making another crack about Jackie and his boyfriend, or cutting the dude a break and backing off. A little. Fact is, Jack's just in the other room, zoning out on morning shows as his good stuff starts kicking in. Then it occurs to Bobby that maybe a good way to solve this is to just take the ancient cordless into the living room and stick it in Jackie's doped up face, watch the kid slur his words and confusedly try to figure out what's going on. That'd be the real test of whether or not this Randy is telling the truth. Jack can't lie for shit most of the time, and Bobby'd found out the other day that him stoned out of his mind dropped those odds down to impossible. Bobby'd caught him trying to light up on the porch, and shithead had seriously tried to play it off as him just "getting some fresh air"-while he'd still been retardedly flicking the fucking lighter and with the cigarette literally hanging out of his mouth. Yeah, Jackie's a real brain trust these days.
Funnily enough, "retardedly" isn't actually a word. Go figure.
"Well, that's a fucking relief," Bobby finally says sarcastically. He gets up from where he'd been leaning against the wall and turns around to head into the living room. "Tell you what, lemme just go in and see how Princess is doing. If he's awake, then I'll let you talk to him. How's that sound, Randall?"
"Uh- uh, that sounds fine."
"Peachy," Bobby says, stopping when he gets to the couch and Jack. Shaking his head, Bobby snaps his fingers in front of the kid's face a couple times to get his attention. It works, but takes three seconds too long. Jackie slowly lifts his head up from where it's been resting on his hand, and then his eyes follow a moment later. Bobby grins.
"Huh?" Jack asks, his eyes fucking glazed as shit.
Another of my top five favorite lines in this fic. Two swears in one sentence is always a classic.
"Phone for you, Princess," Bobby tells him, shoving the receiver into his face. "It's the President."
My dad always used to say that: "It's the President." It never got old.
Jack frowns, but when he makes no move to take the phone, Bobby sighs and literally bends down to mold the kid's hand around it and then drags it up to his ear.
"Fuck you, Bobby," Kid mutters, as Bobby arranges his hand on the receiver. ". . . 're so full of shit."
"Christ, your mouth is foul when you're high," he says, stepping back to see if Jackie'll still hang onto the phone if Bobby isn't hanging onto it right along with him. "That any way to talk to your sweet nurse?"
Jack's got the phone right next to his mouth, and it looks like it might stay put for awhile. He's still frowning at Bobby, but it's pretty dazed and probably more from confusion than any anger or whatever.
"Crap-fuckin' deal," Jackie slurs out, his voice still rough in a way Bobby's starting to think is gonna be permanent. " . . . not even nice to me. Ass."
Bobby laughs, then points to the phone. "Says he's in your band. Randy? That sound familiar?"
The frown of confusion slowly changes into something else, some expression Bobby doesn't know the right name for. He looks-not happy, not scared, but something. Nervous? Bobby studies Jackie a little.
Yeah, that's him nervous. Huh. Good thing to know, he figures. Although, that isn't really boding too well for fuckin' Randy in Bobby's book.
"Randy?" Jackie whispers, and if it isn't exactly said into the phone, it's at least close enough to count.
Bobby can't hear what the guy says in response, and much as he wants to listen in, he doesn't. At first. No, Bobby unbends himself from leaning over Jack and goes back into the kitchen. There, he leans against the counter for a moment, then cranes back to look into the living room again, before finally just going back to cleaning the dishes. Jack's voice is either real quiet and being drowned out by the running water, or else he isn't saying anything, cos Bobby can't hear a word.
Dishes done, Bobby turns off the tap. Then he goes over to the fridge and, at barely past ten in the morning, grabs himself a beer. Twisting the cap off, he slowly makes his way over to the doorway, looking in on Jackie again.
Bobby's not too proud to admit he's trying to eavesdrop. Sometimes it's the only way to get the truth, especially in this family.
Pretty sure Bobby never even gave Randy the "If You Hurt Him. . . " speech cos poor Rands was already justifiably terrified of pissing off Jack's brothers. I imagine awkward get-togethers where Bobby and Angel just let loose all these horrifying stories of the shit they got into, and Jerry and Jack just shake their heads, as Randy's quaking in his boots and trying desperately not to let it show-cos you know those Mercers can smell fear, right? And of course Randy doesn't want to wimp out in front of Jack. . .
" . . .don't know," Jack's saying. "Gonna-gonna stay here. For awhile." Then he's quiet for a bit, and Bobby figures that means Randy's talking over the line. "Yeah," Jack whispers a moment later, "whatever. Whatever you gotta d- " He stops suddenly, like Randy interrupted him. Bobby frowns, taking another swallow of the beer and looking closely at how Jackie's acting.
And right now Randy is still trying to figure out what the hell has happened to Jack, while Jackie's misinterpreting Randy's concern as a gentle "firing" from the band cos even now-Jack knows his voice is pretty much toast. So, later, when Randy shows up unannounced on their doorstep, that's really kind of the beginning, and of course it's when he's high and moody, of Jack falling for Randy. Rands of course doesn't know it yet, but he's already gone.
Sad, now. He isn't crying or anything like that, but Bobby knows Jackie. That's the kid's fucking depressed face, different from his crying face altogether. This one is more like Jack's trying not to care, when it just makes it that much more obvious that he cares a whole helluva lot. It's the same one Jackie'd always used to have, back when Bobby would catch the little bastards around the neighborhood messing with him and saying shit things about him within earshot, or like when he had come up to see Bobby that one time in the joint, or at the lawyer's downtown fucking last week when he'd been looking at those adoption papers Mom had kept.
Bobby wonders if that shitty poker face of Jackie's fooled anybody up in New York. He wonders as he swallows down some more beer if fuckin' Randy would've seen through Jack's act if he'd been here, and not just talking to the kid on the phone.
And the sad answer to that is, probably he wouldn't, no, not for another few years because Jack has a tendency to play it that close to the chest. Randy has to work very hard for a very long time to make it inside Jack's walls. I don't think any other scenario would be the least bit realistic.
***
And now it's time for a timestamp within the fic itself! How lazy/awesome is that?
Jack's name is flashing on the caller ID, and without a second thought Bobby's dropping his bag right by the front door so he can get the cell open that much faster with both hands.
Cos by this point, Bobby's playing for the Red Wings.
"Hey," the kid says, and it's not as worn down sounding as it usually is, "you home yet?"
"Just barely," Bobby answers, turning on the porch and dropping down into one of the chairs by the windows. "How 'bout you, shithead? What's going on out there in La-La Land? Bang any hot metrosexuals lately?"
It's like he's got a sixth sense for busting his brothers' balls, or something!
He's met with silence, and Bobby starts to wonder if maybe he fucked up and cracked that joke at a really bad time or something, and then suddenly the line's full of the sound of Jack's rough laughter, which of course quickly takes a turn for coughing after only a few seconds.
"Jack?" Bobby asks, and then he repeats it, shouting, "Jack! What the fuck?"
More hacking but it grows distant, like the kid's moving away from the phone. And then, Bobby catches a familiar voice asking at first in the background, but by the last word, right up next to the speaker, "What's so goddamn funny? Jack, wha- why are you giving this to me?"
"Randall, what the fuck is going on?" Bobby asks in his coldest voice, partly cos he is a little worried about Jackie, always is with that awful coughing he does now almost constantly, but mostly because he just likes messing with Randy. It's even more fun than ragging on Jackie, as far as that goes.
"Uh, Bobby?" the guy eventually asks. Jack can still be heard in the background, but the coughing doesn't sound quite as bad as it did a few seconds ago. "What'd you say to him?"
"Nothing!" Bobby instantly snaps. "Just the usual shit. I made a crack about him getting some male-tail and then suddenly he's literally coughing up a lun- what are you laughing at?!"
But Randy, the fucker, just keeps on laughing from when he'd started halfway through Bobby's response, and eventually Bobby simply hangs up on the retards.
A few months later, when Bobby's farther out west with the team and can make a pit-stop to see his brother in L.A. after the game, he finds out why the two of them had been laughing.
Randy even summons up the stones to say to Bobby deadpan, "FYI, we prefer 'dandy' over metrosexual." And then Bobby's suddenly sitting front row center for the Jack&Randy Tongue Festival.
I for one would fork over quite a bit of cash for tickets to that festival. Mmmmm.
He doesn't return to L.A. for three years, excluding his two-day stint when Jack insists he show up for his big 30th birthday party, cos at least when Jackie and Wonder Boy are forced to come to Detroit to see him they keep the making out in front of everyone to a minimum.
Detroit's finally good for something.
Detroit, specifically Evelyn's house = Cockblock Central. Jack and Randy always book a hotel room when visiting.
And thus ends part one. This was fun, right?
***