(no subject)
This is my response to TMBG_Challenge's #7, about being late.
I didn't really want to cut it down any, so I put it here first.
Title: Smile
Warnings: There's really nothing that bad, except for one f-bomb. And some suggested animal abuse. :P
John Flansburgh was awakened by the sound of a guitar, falling over and being knocked to the floor, and a sound from beneath his floors that sounded like a hole was being sawed around the perimeter of his bed. His hardwood was being shaken from underneath by his downstairs neighbor, who was forcibly scraping stucco off of his ceiling to feed to the pigeons in the park with.
Again.
John rubbed sleep from his tear ducts; he had to show up to Rockefeller Plaza to do the Today Show at 7:30, to give the tour a kick start. It was one of the last of their "concert on the plaza" things, and all they had to do was play a couple of songs and leave; that was the beauty of doing their sound checks the day before.
And what time was it? He held the alarm clock close to his nose and squinted, as his eyes slipped into focus: it read '2:42'. He smacked the side with his palm, knowing that it wouldn't really work to fix it; the last little plastic tab fell down and revealed a three, and this point he had realized that it had died at some point in the night as he was asleep--at 2:42 in the morning to be exact.
He ran a hand through his rumpled hair and blearily pulled himself into a sitting position. He looked to his Telecaster wall clock on the other side of the room, not needing to strain his eyes much to read from the thick black minute and hour hands, and he could even see the red second hand bouncing along. His eyes registered what the clock said, but it took him a moment to actually process what time it was, and where he was in contrast to where he was supposed to be.
It was 8:23.
"Flying fuck!" he hissed as he tumbled out of his bed onto the floor with a hollow thud. His legs were entangled in the sheets, as if the bed was trying to claim him back, and he could hear some seams popping as he pulled his feet free and half-somersaulted backwards into his bedside table, knocking miscellaneous personal items onto the floor beside him. Scrambling to his feet, he found himself darting towards his closet despite the fact that he hadn't fully risen from the floor yet. He clumsily pulled himself into somewhat upright posture, though his shoulders were tensed up as he rifled around in his bureau for a clean shirt. He found the least wrinkled-looking button down shirt he could find, haphazardly thrusting his right arm through the inside-out left sleeve, and digging deeper into the drawer for some pants. After tugging out a pair of khakis [as well as the various other articles of clothing that happened to be nestled around it], he hopped gracelessly towards the bathroom on his right foot, while his other foot concurrently tried to find it's way out the end of his pant leg. He knew this caused a bit of a ruckus for his downstairs neighbor, and he could hear his neighbor bump up the chutzpah with which he scraped his stucco.
In this process John's elevated foot kicked the power button on his television, the TV whistled on, and the black screen faded to Katie Couric's face. She was sitting at the news desk beside Matt Lauer and they were calmly delivering the news. Flansburgh could hear them from his bathroom; They're going on without us, he thought, his shoulders dropping. Linnell's going to kill me. As he chewed on his toothbrush and put his shirt on again, (properly this time,) he sprinted back out of the bathroom to find a decent pair of shoes. But as he plopped down on his butt onto the floor, he shot a passing glance at the screen as he frantically grappled with his shoelaces. And something caught his attention that made him look back up. He didn't slow in pace, because he was still late, but he saw, behind Katie and Matt, and through the window that peered out at the plaza, were the fans. It seemed like almost every inch of the window was filled with faces, most of them in some They Might Be Giants attire.
But this was the part that struck him: they were all smiling.
They didn't seem to be angered by his unpunctuality, or even by the vague hunch he might not coming at all. They were smiling. But maybe it was because they knew they were on TV.
Or maybe it was because they knew he was watching.
A small grin broke the corners of his mouth. He tugged the strings of his sloppy double-knot and clambered to his feet; rescuing his guitar from the floor, he darted at the door, knowing there wasn't even enough time to call NBC and tell them he was late, (but even if there was, he didn't know the number.) Flinging the door closed behind him, he fled towards the stairs and practically threw himself down, with only his hand on the banister to save his head from cracking on the angular concrete edge.
He'd get there, belatedness aside, and he, Linnell, and the Dans would blow the nation's socks off.
They'd give those kids in the window a real reason to smile.
I didn't really want to cut it down any, so I put it here first.
Title: Smile
Warnings: There's really nothing that bad, except for one f-bomb. And some suggested animal abuse. :P
John Flansburgh was awakened by the sound of a guitar, falling over and being knocked to the floor, and a sound from beneath his floors that sounded like a hole was being sawed around the perimeter of his bed. His hardwood was being shaken from underneath by his downstairs neighbor, who was forcibly scraping stucco off of his ceiling to feed to the pigeons in the park with.
Again.
John rubbed sleep from his tear ducts; he had to show up to Rockefeller Plaza to do the Today Show at 7:30, to give the tour a kick start. It was one of the last of their "concert on the plaza" things, and all they had to do was play a couple of songs and leave; that was the beauty of doing their sound checks the day before.
And what time was it? He held the alarm clock close to his nose and squinted, as his eyes slipped into focus: it read '2:42'. He smacked the side with his palm, knowing that it wouldn't really work to fix it; the last little plastic tab fell down and revealed a three, and this point he had realized that it had died at some point in the night as he was asleep--at 2:42 in the morning to be exact.
He ran a hand through his rumpled hair and blearily pulled himself into a sitting position. He looked to his Telecaster wall clock on the other side of the room, not needing to strain his eyes much to read from the thick black minute and hour hands, and he could even see the red second hand bouncing along. His eyes registered what the clock said, but it took him a moment to actually process what time it was, and where he was in contrast to where he was supposed to be.
It was 8:23.
"Flying fuck!" he hissed as he tumbled out of his bed onto the floor with a hollow thud. His legs were entangled in the sheets, as if the bed was trying to claim him back, and he could hear some seams popping as he pulled his feet free and half-somersaulted backwards into his bedside table, knocking miscellaneous personal items onto the floor beside him. Scrambling to his feet, he found himself darting towards his closet despite the fact that he hadn't fully risen from the floor yet. He clumsily pulled himself into somewhat upright posture, though his shoulders were tensed up as he rifled around in his bureau for a clean shirt. He found the least wrinkled-looking button down shirt he could find, haphazardly thrusting his right arm through the inside-out left sleeve, and digging deeper into the drawer for some pants. After tugging out a pair of khakis [as well as the various other articles of clothing that happened to be nestled around it], he hopped gracelessly towards the bathroom on his right foot, while his other foot concurrently tried to find it's way out the end of his pant leg. He knew this caused a bit of a ruckus for his downstairs neighbor, and he could hear his neighbor bump up the chutzpah with which he scraped his stucco.
In this process John's elevated foot kicked the power button on his television, the TV whistled on, and the black screen faded to Katie Couric's face. She was sitting at the news desk beside Matt Lauer and they were calmly delivering the news. Flansburgh could hear them from his bathroom; They're going on without us, he thought, his shoulders dropping. Linnell's going to kill me. As he chewed on his toothbrush and put his shirt on again, (properly this time,) he sprinted back out of the bathroom to find a decent pair of shoes. But as he plopped down on his butt onto the floor, he shot a passing glance at the screen as he frantically grappled with his shoelaces. And something caught his attention that made him look back up. He didn't slow in pace, because he was still late, but he saw, behind Katie and Matt, and through the window that peered out at the plaza, were the fans. It seemed like almost every inch of the window was filled with faces, most of them in some They Might Be Giants attire.
But this was the part that struck him: they were all smiling.
They didn't seem to be angered by his unpunctuality, or even by the vague hunch he might not coming at all. They were smiling. But maybe it was because they knew they were on TV.
Or maybe it was because they knew he was watching.
A small grin broke the corners of his mouth. He tugged the strings of his sloppy double-knot and clambered to his feet; rescuing his guitar from the floor, he darted at the door, knowing there wasn't even enough time to call NBC and tell them he was late, (but even if there was, he didn't know the number.) Flinging the door closed behind him, he fled towards the stairs and practically threw himself down, with only his hand on the banister to save his head from cracking on the angular concrete edge.
He'd get there, belatedness aside, and he, Linnell, and the Dans would blow the nation's socks off.
They'd give those kids in the window a real reason to smile.