we're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl year after year.
Meme times. Again! Rants, snippets, and memes, that's what we do around here. Um. Ask me a question, and I'll answer it. Possibly in a voice post, who knows.
Poll Question Period
tutti frutti rudy:
On the last tour before FUCT, there was a large, bald, quiet security guard named Rudy. He was in his forties, and got the job because he'd served as a Marine under Charlie's dad.
In Pete's memory, Rudy has a big beer gut, and deep, oily wrinkles in his face, and thick hair growing out of his ears, and liked to drop kids on their heads instead of setting them on their feet after pulling them out of the crushing crowd, but he knows those things are false. He only wants to think Rudy was ugly and mean because Patrick thought Rudy was like God or something, always following him around and--Rudy had this creaky old leather jacket, crusty with zippers and buttons, a chain across the left shoulder, and Patrick wore it a few times, out late after shows, walking in the cold with their prototype entourage. The cuffs went way past the tips of his fingers; the shoulders hung halfway to his elbows. If anyone gave him shit for how it made him look about nine years old, or if anyone asked how his edge was doing under all that animal flesh, he'd get the old shitkicking expression his face, but as soon as he moved, felt the weight of the leather on him, he'd stop. He'd smile and thank the person with sickly sweetness and touch the hem of the coat, almost at his knees.
Pete remembers walking in to a green room, the night of the last show, and Patrick jumping up from the floor beside the chair where Rudy was sitting. Rudy had his leather jacket in his lap and a green handkerchief in his hand, crisply folded in a square, like it just came out of the package.
"Hey Pete," Patrick said nervously. "I'm just. Saying goodbye to Rudy. He's leaving right after the show."
"Hey," Pete said, and nodded at Rudy. "Good luck, man."
Rudy tilted his head and squinted at Pete and nodded back. "It's been a pleasure working with you boys," he said.
"I bet," Pete said, and looked straight at Patrick, and left.
He remembers expecting Patrick to come screaming after him, punch him in the face or in the nuts, give him a tangible reason to feel so hurt. Which wasn't even how he felt. He just felt confused, really. He felt like Patrick, in the space of a few months, had taken a whole new lexicon of symbolism into his life, and Pete didn't understand a single thing. He didn't understand a jacket. He didn't understand a handkerchief. These things didn't fit what he knew of musicians fucking tour staff.
But Patrick didn't fling the green room door open so hard it bounced off the wall. Patrick didn't ignore Pete during the show or dump anything on him at the afterparty. Patrick was just--Patrick, except maybe a little quiet for a few weeks, maybe less prone to rages until they got back in the studio. He was just Patrick, except sometimes, he'd stuff a green handkerchief in one pocket or another, and Pete never asked what it meant.
One time, years later, Pete caught a sliver of a reflection in a mirror--Patrick trying on a leather coat at a boutique in LA. Patrick stuck his tongue out at himself and touched the zipper-free lapels and sleeves and the bare left shoulder and when they left, he only bought a yellow trucker hat with the logo for a fake brand of beer.
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Poll Question Period
tutti frutti rudy:
On the last tour before FUCT, there was a large, bald, quiet security guard named Rudy. He was in his forties, and got the job because he'd served as a Marine under Charlie's dad.
In Pete's memory, Rudy has a big beer gut, and deep, oily wrinkles in his face, and thick hair growing out of his ears, and liked to drop kids on their heads instead of setting them on their feet after pulling them out of the crushing crowd, but he knows those things are false. He only wants to think Rudy was ugly and mean because Patrick thought Rudy was like God or something, always following him around and--Rudy had this creaky old leather jacket, crusty with zippers and buttons, a chain across the left shoulder, and Patrick wore it a few times, out late after shows, walking in the cold with their prototype entourage. The cuffs went way past the tips of his fingers; the shoulders hung halfway to his elbows. If anyone gave him shit for how it made him look about nine years old, or if anyone asked how his edge was doing under all that animal flesh, he'd get the old shitkicking expression his face, but as soon as he moved, felt the weight of the leather on him, he'd stop. He'd smile and thank the person with sickly sweetness and touch the hem of the coat, almost at his knees.
Pete remembers walking in to a green room, the night of the last show, and Patrick jumping up from the floor beside the chair where Rudy was sitting. Rudy had his leather jacket in his lap and a green handkerchief in his hand, crisply folded in a square, like it just came out of the package.
"Hey Pete," Patrick said nervously. "I'm just. Saying goodbye to Rudy. He's leaving right after the show."
"Hey," Pete said, and nodded at Rudy. "Good luck, man."
Rudy tilted his head and squinted at Pete and nodded back. "It's been a pleasure working with you boys," he said.
"I bet," Pete said, and looked straight at Patrick, and left.
He remembers expecting Patrick to come screaming after him, punch him in the face or in the nuts, give him a tangible reason to feel so hurt. Which wasn't even how he felt. He just felt confused, really. He felt like Patrick, in the space of a few months, had taken a whole new lexicon of symbolism into his life, and Pete didn't understand a single thing. He didn't understand a jacket. He didn't understand a handkerchief. These things didn't fit what he knew of musicians fucking tour staff.
But Patrick didn't fling the green room door open so hard it bounced off the wall. Patrick didn't ignore Pete during the show or dump anything on him at the afterparty. Patrick was just--Patrick, except maybe a little quiet for a few weeks, maybe less prone to rages until they got back in the studio. He was just Patrick, except sometimes, he'd stuff a green handkerchief in one pocket or another, and Pete never asked what it meant.
One time, years later, Pete caught a sliver of a reflection in a mirror--Patrick trying on a leather coat at a boutique in LA. Patrick stuck his tongue out at himself and touched the zipper-free lapels and sleeves and the bare left shoulder and when they left, he only bought a yellow trucker hat with the logo for a fake brand of beer.
*