Sound Check
Aug. 10th, 2013 09:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
brian_campo in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
birthright_rpg“Hey, Brian. Get your shit together, man!”
“Sorry.”
The Dive was an aptly-named bar about a mile from the famous strip. Its customers were locals and many of them were students at the university. The odors of beer and cigarette smoke had long ago soaked into the wood paneling on the walls, and Brian had never known a time when the cement floor wasn’t sticky. Even so, it was the kind of hole in the wall where people flocked to escape tourism. There was a pool room in the back, drinks were cheap, and the chicken fingers from the kitchen weren’t half bad.
The doors opened at 8 p.m. That left time for a final sound check, one that hadn’t gone well for Brian, who was typically thought of as the technician of the group because he was the only one with formal training. When he screwed up, it was a bad sign.
“You skipped the bridge,” Seth complained. “We sounded like amateurs.”
“We are amateurs,” Mikey called from behind the drum kit.
Of the four of them, he was the most laid back, the least likely to ride Brian’s back for a messed up rehearsal. Whether they played well or not, he would go home blissed out. It was his natural state.
“Oh yeah? You want to go back to playing your neighbors’ barbecues?” Seth asked. “I’m sure there’s some Toto songs we haven’t covered yet.” As the vocalist, he was the most high strung, figuring he’d take the most heat if they sounded bad (and the most glory if they sounded good). Brian didn’t think he was a bad guy; he knew Seth would have his back in a fight. But he was temperamental.
“Won’t happen again. Just give me a minute.” Brian took off his headphones and set them on the Oberheim, a synthesizer he had bought three years prior with money from his dad’s life insurance policy. Backstage, he nudged open a cooler with his shoe and surveyed the contents. The ice was melting and beer cans bobbed between the cubes. He crouched down and scooped a handful of water to splash his face and wash the sweat out of his eyes. He put his cold hand around the back of his neck and closed his eyes.
Mikey came up beside him and knelt, too. “You stoned or something?”
Brian’s head tweaked left. “Nah.”
“Damn. I was gonna ask if you were holding.” The drummer fished for a can of beer and popped the tab. Foam fizzled over the top. Mikey swigged it. “So what’s up?”
“Nothing, I’m just… my mind’s somewhere else.” Brian stood. He shook the water off his fingers and dried them in his shirttail.
“Is it a girl?” Mikey hopped on a stool, almost tipping over. He reached back and caught himself on a wall.
Brian put his foot on the bottom rung and righted it. “Kind-of.”
It seemed like he hadn’t thought about anything except the problem with his hands – he wasn’t willing to give it a name -- in weeks. Now thoughts of the blonde mixed in with those, the two subjects hopelessly intertwined because of what Valerie had seen. More importantly, because of the calm way she called him out on it. He had gone over their confrontation a hundred times, trying to figure out what she knew. ‘What was that back there?’ she had asked. Did she actually see him move the chair? Or did she just mean his fumbling retreat? Whatever Valerie saw, she hadn’t been scared off. Brian carried the brass compass in his pocket. He had lost track of the times he opened it with his thumb and watched the needle spin. He was starting to worry he’d wear out the spring.
“She cute?” Mikey was watching him closely.
Brian smiled in spite of his mood. “Yeah.” Remind me not to introduce you.
“So?” Mikey gulped the Budweiser, a steady stream of it running down his bare chest in a rivulet. In his mind, there was no problem if there was a girl and she was cute.
Brian combed his hair back and ignored the bait. “So what?”
“Oh. I got it.” Mikey crumpled the can and threw it in a garbage can. “You don’t want to talk about this, do you?”
“Not really.” Brian shook his head. What did he want to do? Play music and get so wrapped up that he forgot who he was. Lock the door on his small apartment and listen to records until he fell asleep face-down on the couch, drool wetting the cushion. Check his phone to make sure the line wasn’t dead.
“Alright. I give up,” said his friend, who climbed off the stool and headed back into the haze of blue and orange lights.
Seth yelled, “Dude, come on! If we push it, we’ve got time for one more.”
Brian stared at the open cooler. Try it, he thought. No one’s looking. Try to shut the lid. He held up his palm and swiped the air. The cooler didn’t close. However, from the wail of feedback in the speakers and a cry of, “What the fuck?” from Seth, it was obvious that a mic stand had toppled on stage.
Brian scratched the back of his neck.
Noted.
It tied into how he felt.
“Sorry.”
The Dive was an aptly-named bar about a mile from the famous strip. Its customers were locals and many of them were students at the university. The odors of beer and cigarette smoke had long ago soaked into the wood paneling on the walls, and Brian had never known a time when the cement floor wasn’t sticky. Even so, it was the kind of hole in the wall where people flocked to escape tourism. There was a pool room in the back, drinks were cheap, and the chicken fingers from the kitchen weren’t half bad.
The doors opened at 8 p.m. That left time for a final sound check, one that hadn’t gone well for Brian, who was typically thought of as the technician of the group because he was the only one with formal training. When he screwed up, it was a bad sign.
“You skipped the bridge,” Seth complained. “We sounded like amateurs.”
“We are amateurs,” Mikey called from behind the drum kit.
Of the four of them, he was the most laid back, the least likely to ride Brian’s back for a messed up rehearsal. Whether they played well or not, he would go home blissed out. It was his natural state.
“Oh yeah? You want to go back to playing your neighbors’ barbecues?” Seth asked. “I’m sure there’s some Toto songs we haven’t covered yet.” As the vocalist, he was the most high strung, figuring he’d take the most heat if they sounded bad (and the most glory if they sounded good). Brian didn’t think he was a bad guy; he knew Seth would have his back in a fight. But he was temperamental.
“Won’t happen again. Just give me a minute.” Brian took off his headphones and set them on the Oberheim, a synthesizer he had bought three years prior with money from his dad’s life insurance policy. Backstage, he nudged open a cooler with his shoe and surveyed the contents. The ice was melting and beer cans bobbed between the cubes. He crouched down and scooped a handful of water to splash his face and wash the sweat out of his eyes. He put his cold hand around the back of his neck and closed his eyes.
Mikey came up beside him and knelt, too. “You stoned or something?”
Brian’s head tweaked left. “Nah.”
“Damn. I was gonna ask if you were holding.” The drummer fished for a can of beer and popped the tab. Foam fizzled over the top. Mikey swigged it. “So what’s up?”
“Nothing, I’m just… my mind’s somewhere else.” Brian stood. He shook the water off his fingers and dried them in his shirttail.
“Is it a girl?” Mikey hopped on a stool, almost tipping over. He reached back and caught himself on a wall.
Brian put his foot on the bottom rung and righted it. “Kind-of.”
It seemed like he hadn’t thought about anything except the problem with his hands – he wasn’t willing to give it a name -- in weeks. Now thoughts of the blonde mixed in with those, the two subjects hopelessly intertwined because of what Valerie had seen. More importantly, because of the calm way she called him out on it. He had gone over their confrontation a hundred times, trying to figure out what she knew. ‘What was that back there?’ she had asked. Did she actually see him move the chair? Or did she just mean his fumbling retreat? Whatever Valerie saw, she hadn’t been scared off. Brian carried the brass compass in his pocket. He had lost track of the times he opened it with his thumb and watched the needle spin. He was starting to worry he’d wear out the spring.
“She cute?” Mikey was watching him closely.
Brian smiled in spite of his mood. “Yeah.” Remind me not to introduce you.
“So?” Mikey gulped the Budweiser, a steady stream of it running down his bare chest in a rivulet. In his mind, there was no problem if there was a girl and she was cute.
Brian combed his hair back and ignored the bait. “So what?”
“Oh. I got it.” Mikey crumpled the can and threw it in a garbage can. “You don’t want to talk about this, do you?”
“Not really.” Brian shook his head. What did he want to do? Play music and get so wrapped up that he forgot who he was. Lock the door on his small apartment and listen to records until he fell asleep face-down on the couch, drool wetting the cushion. Check his phone to make sure the line wasn’t dead.
“Alright. I give up,” said his friend, who climbed off the stool and headed back into the haze of blue and orange lights.
Seth yelled, “Dude, come on! If we push it, we’ve got time for one more.”
Brian stared at the open cooler. Try it, he thought. No one’s looking. Try to shut the lid. He held up his palm and swiped the air. The cooler didn’t close. However, from the wail of feedback in the speakers and a cry of, “What the fuck?” from Seth, it was obvious that a mic stand had toppled on stage.
Brian scratched the back of his neck.
Noted.
It tied into how he felt.