Through the Light of the Bottle
Just Another Case
I counted.
Twenty six eyes glared at me sans the two standing in the corner.
One grasped a guitar tightly, the other didn’t.
One refused to look me in the eye. The other stared me down with a cocky grin.
I blinked.
Ten minutes later, my head is resting against the leather bound wheel of my car. My eyes are still shut.
I hear the click of the car door opening and the movement of leather under a solid form.
“So, how’s life treating you?” she asks with a small smile adorning her face.
“Don’t be a smart ass, Holly,” I groan.
“I really think you’re the last person to talk,” she counters, snapping her seatbelt shut.
“I know, I’m a damn pot calling the kettle black,” I mumble into the steering wheel, eyes still shut.
She laughs softly, pushing my shoulder. “I’d tell you everything was going to be okay,” she started, rubbing my shoulder, “if you didn’t feel the need to be a complete bitch to some people,” she squeezes my shoulder playfully.
“Look, just own up to it Kate: you fucked them over and they’re little egos can’t deal with it. They’ll write some scathing article in Rolling Stone about what a pain it is to deal with you and we’ll all call it even. Now, open you’re eyes,” she shakes my shoulder hard.
“No,” I answer simply, pressing my forehead deeper into the steering wheel.
“Come on, Kate! Open you’re eyes so you can see the huge smile on my face!”
I slowly lift my lids while simultaneously turning my head to face her from.
“And you’re so happy because…?”
“I got a column!” she lets out a cry of joy, shaking her head in excitement as her red locks whip around.
My head flies up from its depressing position, “Holy shit, you have a job? As in you’re getting paid to do something useful?”
She pulls a face, slapping my shoulder. “Shut up, I’ve gotten my writing published before.”
“Uh huh,” I dodge another slap, “and how much did Highlights Magazine pay you?” I didn’t move quickly enough as another interaction between her hand and my shoulder takes place.
“Drive me to a bar or something, you’re congratulating me,” she laughs, reaching over and turning the ignition on.
I nod, a smile settling on my face as I pull away from the arena and buses decorating the parking lot.
“So who are you writing for?”
She bites her lip, a smile threatening to take over her whole face.
“Now, I know I may talk complete shit about them most of the time, but this is probably the biggest job I’ve ever gotten,”
“Shit, you’re writing for Rolling Stone,” I blurt out, my head whipping in her direction.
“Road,” she reminds me, forcing my eyes to travel back to the pavement in front of the car, “and…yea,” she ends lamely.
“And…?”
She stares at me blankly for a moment.
“Well, what are you writing about?”
“Oh! Right! Uh, “life on tour” for the bands,” her hands fly into the quote symbols. “They want me to cover all the major festivals, follow around anticipated tours,” she trails off, listing her jobs off her fingers.
I coast into the parking lot of the nearest liquor store. We step out of the car and through the sliding glass doors of the store. The bright lights feel cold on my skin and I involuntary wrap my hands around myself, rubbing the skin on my shoulders which are now adorned with goose-bumps.
I reach for a large clear bottle of vodka, when Holly slaps my hand away.
“Please, let’s have some class,” she laughs, shoving an armful of bottles of cheap red wine.
“Classy indeed,” I remark cynically, feeling the back pocket of my jeans for my wallet.
As we exit the store, I grab a bottle taking a quick swig, before handing the bottles to Holly and fishing for my keys.
My head is pounding and the liquid weighs down my tongue as I tilt my head back, letting the red fluid fall down my throat.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As it turns out, 26 pairs of angry eyes can loose the said anger from the said eyes after a couple bottles of wine.
Grant it, just because the glaring ceased as their sight was shielded with alcohol, does not mean that their memories faded from the embarrassment I caused. I’m sitting alone on the curb of the sidewalk, a least twenty feet away from any of them.
We’re outside the venue and it’s way to fucking early in the morning for anyone with half a brain to be roaming the parking lot. The lights of the tour bus flood the space in front of us. Holly floats between each group of people, head tossing with laughter, the shine of her teeth catching the incandescent light. I reach for a bottle that’s sitting beside me, grasping the thin neck tightly.
“I’m with him now,” her voice carries over my shoulder as she comes up behind me, finding her way to the group next to me.
I turn my head to face her, but Jay stares straight ahead.
“Come again,” I reply as I bring the bottle back to ground. Jay intercepts my attempts, grabbing the neck herself and taking a small sip.
“Gerard, we’re together.”
“Ah,” my mouth remains slightly open as I stare at her, her gaze never meeting mine. I turn my gaze to where she was looking, finding her focus quickly.
Gerard is sitting a couple of meters away, on the hood of one of the roadie’s car, Carl’s I think. His cigarette hangs between his pointer and middle finger as he casually talks to three stray fans that waited the night out. As I watch, the three stray people quickly turn to ten as various people gradually move under the streetlight and near the hood on which he is perched on.
“Good for you,” I whisper. She nods her head slowly, eyeing the scene still, before standing up slowly and making her way over herself.
I finally blink as I feel the cool sensation of my eyes drying out from staring. Soft notes hang in the air. I turn my head to see Toro sitting a few feet down from me strumming the strings of his guitar.
I gradually feel myself leaning backwards until I’m lying down; the stones fixed into the mix of the hard concrete create dents in my skin and my head hits the surface with a small thud.
A strong pounded sensation fills my head, taking over my nostalgic view of the evening as I close my eyes in pain. I slowly feel myself slip away from the brisk fall air, the strumming of the guitar fades from my ears and the light that’s illuminating Gerard is put out from my mind.
Twenty six eyes glared at me sans the two standing in the corner.
One grasped a guitar tightly, the other didn’t.
One refused to look me in the eye. The other stared me down with a cocky grin.
I blinked.
Ten minutes later, my head is resting against the leather bound wheel of my car. My eyes are still shut.
I hear the click of the car door opening and the movement of leather under a solid form.
“So, how’s life treating you?” she asks with a small smile adorning her face.
“Don’t be a smart ass, Holly,” I groan.
“I really think you’re the last person to talk,” she counters, snapping her seatbelt shut.
“I know, I’m a damn pot calling the kettle black,” I mumble into the steering wheel, eyes still shut.
She laughs softly, pushing my shoulder. “I’d tell you everything was going to be okay,” she started, rubbing my shoulder, “if you didn’t feel the need to be a complete bitch to some people,” she squeezes my shoulder playfully.
“Look, just own up to it Kate: you fucked them over and they’re little egos can’t deal with it. They’ll write some scathing article in Rolling Stone about what a pain it is to deal with you and we’ll all call it even. Now, open you’re eyes,” she shakes my shoulder hard.
“No,” I answer simply, pressing my forehead deeper into the steering wheel.
“Come on, Kate! Open you’re eyes so you can see the huge smile on my face!”
I slowly lift my lids while simultaneously turning my head to face her from.
“And you’re so happy because…?”
“I got a column!” she lets out a cry of joy, shaking her head in excitement as her red locks whip around.
My head flies up from its depressing position, “Holy shit, you have a job? As in you’re getting paid to do something useful?”
She pulls a face, slapping my shoulder. “Shut up, I’ve gotten my writing published before.”
“Uh huh,” I dodge another slap, “and how much did Highlights Magazine pay you?” I didn’t move quickly enough as another interaction between her hand and my shoulder takes place.
“Drive me to a bar or something, you’re congratulating me,” she laughs, reaching over and turning the ignition on.
I nod, a smile settling on my face as I pull away from the arena and buses decorating the parking lot.
“So who are you writing for?”
She bites her lip, a smile threatening to take over her whole face.
“Now, I know I may talk complete shit about them most of the time, but this is probably the biggest job I’ve ever gotten,”
“Shit, you’re writing for Rolling Stone,” I blurt out, my head whipping in her direction.
“Road,” she reminds me, forcing my eyes to travel back to the pavement in front of the car, “and…yea,” she ends lamely.
“And…?”
She stares at me blankly for a moment.
“Well, what are you writing about?”
“Oh! Right! Uh, “life on tour” for the bands,” her hands fly into the quote symbols. “They want me to cover all the major festivals, follow around anticipated tours,” she trails off, listing her jobs off her fingers.
I coast into the parking lot of the nearest liquor store. We step out of the car and through the sliding glass doors of the store. The bright lights feel cold on my skin and I involuntary wrap my hands around myself, rubbing the skin on my shoulders which are now adorned with goose-bumps.
I reach for a large clear bottle of vodka, when Holly slaps my hand away.
“Please, let’s have some class,” she laughs, shoving an armful of bottles of cheap red wine.
“Classy indeed,” I remark cynically, feeling the back pocket of my jeans for my wallet.
As we exit the store, I grab a bottle taking a quick swig, before handing the bottles to Holly and fishing for my keys.
My head is pounding and the liquid weighs down my tongue as I tilt my head back, letting the red fluid fall down my throat.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As it turns out, 26 pairs of angry eyes can loose the said anger from the said eyes after a couple bottles of wine.
Grant it, just because the glaring ceased as their sight was shielded with alcohol, does not mean that their memories faded from the embarrassment I caused. I’m sitting alone on the curb of the sidewalk, a least twenty feet away from any of them.
We’re outside the venue and it’s way to fucking early in the morning for anyone with half a brain to be roaming the parking lot. The lights of the tour bus flood the space in front of us. Holly floats between each group of people, head tossing with laughter, the shine of her teeth catching the incandescent light. I reach for a bottle that’s sitting beside me, grasping the thin neck tightly.
“I’m with him now,” her voice carries over my shoulder as she comes up behind me, finding her way to the group next to me.
I turn my head to face her, but Jay stares straight ahead.
“Come again,” I reply as I bring the bottle back to ground. Jay intercepts my attempts, grabbing the neck herself and taking a small sip.
“Gerard, we’re together.”
“Ah,” my mouth remains slightly open as I stare at her, her gaze never meeting mine. I turn my gaze to where she was looking, finding her focus quickly.
Gerard is sitting a couple of meters away, on the hood of one of the roadie’s car, Carl’s I think. His cigarette hangs between his pointer and middle finger as he casually talks to three stray fans that waited the night out. As I watch, the three stray people quickly turn to ten as various people gradually move under the streetlight and near the hood on which he is perched on.
“Good for you,” I whisper. She nods her head slowly, eyeing the scene still, before standing up slowly and making her way over herself.
I finally blink as I feel the cool sensation of my eyes drying out from staring. Soft notes hang in the air. I turn my head to see Toro sitting a few feet down from me strumming the strings of his guitar.
I gradually feel myself leaning backwards until I’m lying down; the stones fixed into the mix of the hard concrete create dents in my skin and my head hits the surface with a small thud.
A strong pounded sensation fills my head, taking over my nostalgic view of the evening as I close my eyes in pain. I slowly feel myself slip away from the brisk fall air, the strumming of the guitar fades from my ears and the light that’s illuminating Gerard is put out from my mind.