It's Not the Football Team
Mar. 8th, 2014 01:54 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_rpgThe girl’s name was Susie. She had brown curls that snaked out from her head like Medusa and strange eyes, too light for brown, too murky for green. She was not quite human, not quite demon. Her left wrist bore tattoos inscribed to keep the demon’s nastiness at bay and, near those, scars from where she’d attempted to slice, burn, or chew them off at various stages of her life. Nothing worked. One day she’d gotten fed up and attempted to hack off her arm, but the tattoos simply migrated to her neck.
Go on, behead yourself, they dared.
Susie sat like a pretzel, legs and arms twisted, a violin resting on her lap. “What do you want me to play?”
“Whatever you want.” Brian rubbed the back of his neck.
“Anything?” This seemed a hopeful question. Her lips pursed with pleasure.
“Well, not the Devil Went Down to Georgia, but basically yeah.” He was still residually high on a mixture of marijuana laced with PCP and he was concerned that the Charlie Daniels Band didn’t make for happy thoughts.
“I fucking hate that song.” She leaned forward on her stool, so far he thought she’d tip over.
“That’s a start.” He rubbed his eyes and blinked at her. A violinist had been Brian’s idea. He wanted to write a new song for the Nerves, change up the format, something melancholy in a way that matched his mood, but nobody was into it (especially Maddy, who had adopted an ‘if it ain’t broke don’t fix it’ mentality), so he was thinking about branching out on his own. A side project. He posted flyers in the music department at UNLV and this was what showed up: a brunette in a Parliament t-shirt and suspenders.
“You’re stoned,” she declared and lowered her bow. “How am I supposed to take this seriously when you’re stoned?”
His arm dropped into his lap, a slapping thud of skin on denim. “I dunno, let’s ask Hendrix. Morrison. Bowie.” He shook his head. “Ray Charles.” That was probably a bad example; he was the one at the keyboard. “What, you don’t get high?”
Susie stared. An eyebrow twitched.
“Okay,” he said, adjusting his seat on the bench. “Better idea. I’ll start playing and you just… improvise.”
“Fine.”
A friend in the music department had let him use the university theatre to audition Susie, as long as they were out by two p.m. On stage sat a piano, part of an unfinished set for a production of The Innocents. He mopped his hair aside and shut his eyes. Brian’s fingers picked out the first few notes of a song that spoke to his state of mind: he felt unmoored, miscast in the ordinary life he had a year ago, ill suited for the one that loomed around him now.
Valerie thought he was doing good. Well, that was kind of funny. He had listened to the message with a crooked smile and a suspicion that the universe was laughing at him. The second time through, he crumpled a beer can and sent it sailing across the room.
Maddy, who had come over to borrow a Thin Lizzy record, didn’t even bother pretending not to eavesdrop. “Brian! You want her back? Just go over there! It was a fantasy. She didn’t gang-bang a football team. Jesus.” She left with an armload of Cheap Trick, too, thought he wouldn’t notice.
His boot ground against the piano pedal.
Eight bars in, Susie’s bow vibrated the strings. Brian opened his eyes and watched her as they played, the slender lean of her body, the eyelashes on her cheeks, the reptilian tattoo that wrapped around her arm like a tongue. If he had a type, Susie was it. She had attitude. Musicality. And somehow there was sex in the way her chin laid against the instrument. Here was a girl he could sleep with.
Here was a girl—
Brian stood up and slammed the cover over the keys.
“That’s good enough, you’re hired. I gotta go.”
“What?” Susie stood up, alone and out of place in a reconstructed drawing room.
“I’ll call you later.” He jumped off the stage, which might have been a bottomless pit, a dark chasm, the way his brain was misfiring. He started up the aisle. Outside, the sunshine shrank his pupils into black dots. He was sweating. In a hurry.
The door drifted closed.
Susie kicked her violin case.
“Asshole.”
Go on, behead yourself, they dared.
Susie sat like a pretzel, legs and arms twisted, a violin resting on her lap. “What do you want me to play?”
“Whatever you want.” Brian rubbed the back of his neck.
“Anything?” This seemed a hopeful question. Her lips pursed with pleasure.
“Well, not the Devil Went Down to Georgia, but basically yeah.” He was still residually high on a mixture of marijuana laced with PCP and he was concerned that the Charlie Daniels Band didn’t make for happy thoughts.
“I fucking hate that song.” She leaned forward on her stool, so far he thought she’d tip over.
“That’s a start.” He rubbed his eyes and blinked at her. A violinist had been Brian’s idea. He wanted to write a new song for the Nerves, change up the format, something melancholy in a way that matched his mood, but nobody was into it (especially Maddy, who had adopted an ‘if it ain’t broke don’t fix it’ mentality), so he was thinking about branching out on his own. A side project. He posted flyers in the music department at UNLV and this was what showed up: a brunette in a Parliament t-shirt and suspenders.
“You’re stoned,” she declared and lowered her bow. “How am I supposed to take this seriously when you’re stoned?”
His arm dropped into his lap, a slapping thud of skin on denim. “I dunno, let’s ask Hendrix. Morrison. Bowie.” He shook his head. “Ray Charles.” That was probably a bad example; he was the one at the keyboard. “What, you don’t get high?”
Susie stared. An eyebrow twitched.
“Okay,” he said, adjusting his seat on the bench. “Better idea. I’ll start playing and you just… improvise.”
“Fine.”
A friend in the music department had let him use the university theatre to audition Susie, as long as they were out by two p.m. On stage sat a piano, part of an unfinished set for a production of The Innocents. He mopped his hair aside and shut his eyes. Brian’s fingers picked out the first few notes of a song that spoke to his state of mind: he felt unmoored, miscast in the ordinary life he had a year ago, ill suited for the one that loomed around him now.
Valerie thought he was doing good. Well, that was kind of funny. He had listened to the message with a crooked smile and a suspicion that the universe was laughing at him. The second time through, he crumpled a beer can and sent it sailing across the room.
Maddy, who had come over to borrow a Thin Lizzy record, didn’t even bother pretending not to eavesdrop. “Brian! You want her back? Just go over there! It was a fantasy. She didn’t gang-bang a football team. Jesus.” She left with an armload of Cheap Trick, too, thought he wouldn’t notice.
His boot ground against the piano pedal.
Eight bars in, Susie’s bow vibrated the strings. Brian opened his eyes and watched her as they played, the slender lean of her body, the eyelashes on her cheeks, the reptilian tattoo that wrapped around her arm like a tongue. If he had a type, Susie was it. She had attitude. Musicality. And somehow there was sex in the way her chin laid against the instrument. Here was a girl he could sleep with.
Here was a girl—
Brian stood up and slammed the cover over the keys.
“That’s good enough, you’re hired. I gotta go.”
“What?” Susie stood up, alone and out of place in a reconstructed drawing room.
“I’ll call you later.” He jumped off the stage, which might have been a bottomless pit, a dark chasm, the way his brain was misfiring. He started up the aisle. Outside, the sunshine shrank his pupils into black dots. He was sweating. In a hurry.
The door drifted closed.
Susie kicked her violin case.
“Asshole.”