The Young and Lost Club
002
A Year and Half Earlier
Midlife crisis, my ass.
Our generation has always been the “wanting to grow up” type, with the 18 year olds pretending to be 21 and the 14 year olds dressing like hooker. And in the spirit of this, we go ahead and have our life crisis when we first branch out into what the adults like to call, “the real world”. We panic, we freak out, we go on medication, and then, when all else fails, we drink heavily. What on earth are we supposed to do with our college degrees? What does this piece of paper even mean? Is this even what I want to do with my life? Questions that no one has answers for.
Basically, my dear friends, we are fucked.
We are an entire generation of the hopeless and the terrified, a club of the young and lost. And I feel like I'm about to be named president of it.
And trust me, the ones that do get it figured out in their 20’s will be the ones buying a shiny red convertible in their mid-50’s, so don’t feel too bad.
I’m no different. Graduated Magna Cum-Laude from my liberal arts school, a fistful of degrees and minors, and…then the job search happens. And then the move from Maryland to New York, for a myriad of reasons that all amounted to running away. And then joining a band with my brother just because I could, and I didn’t want to grow up and face reality. Next thing I know, I’m making brilliant money working as a paid assistant/intern on a popular late night television show, Late Night with Steven Riley, the new funny guy with ratings through the roof, have my own apartment, a boss who thinks I’m the funniest thing alive, a possible promotion to becoming a writer for the show, a kick ass band who was on the verge of becoming something big, all in all, having absolutely nothing to do with what I originally had planned for myself ,not that I had a clue anyway. But it feels like I’m stuck.
I go home to my apartment and feel like I never want to leave. I spend my money on clothing that I really shouldn’t …I’m trapped in some vicious circle and I don’t know how to force myself out. My annoyance with myself causes me to be sarcastic and bitchy, which is then rewarded as cleverness at work, which then provides me with a larger paycheck, which causes me to spend money, which then causes me to be annoyed at myself. The band becomes annoyed because I’m in a successful job, and can’t be fully dedicated. I would fully dedicate, but there is something rewarding in having that paycheck every week, having a large apartment and expensive clothes. I can’t help it. I’m materialistic, I guess. Or maybe I’m just neurotic. Lately, I think it’s the latter.
I don’t show it though. Outside, I am cool, calm, collected. I once heard, “I pretended to be somebody I wanted to be until I became that person,” (Archibald Leach), and have quite fervently applied it to my life. I shoved my old self in a closet when I moved to New York and have become who I wanted to be. It’s just in the dark corners of my mind, the old self starts to creep back up, and threaten to take control.
I have to be strong enough to hold her back.
***
All in all, today was shaping up to be a shitty day. Today, I was in charge of taking care of the band, something I had done nearly every other day since I started working here. Steven Riley was somewhat afraid to let me take care of celebrity guests because he was afraid I would offend them, but bands were somewhat different. As he explained, bands have more than one person so my bitchyness would be divided up among the members and therefore defused somehow. He also reasoned that I respected bands more than celebrities because I was in a band as well. Steven was a pretty smart guy sometimes. I was good at taking care of bands, I oversaw my own band’s sound checks nearly every weekend which proved useful in setting up the stage every day, and when conversation came to halt, I just casually mentioned I played guitar, and that was enough to pass the time. I really was just a glorified baby-sitter, but it wasn’t a horrible job by any means. In fact it could be downright entertaining. I got to meet a couple of my idols, a couple of teen idols, and everyone in between. Things could be worse.
But as for my shitty day: Steven was acting like a cranky baby because the server was down and asked me to handle it, the interns that looked to me for guidance were total bungling fuckwads who didn’t know how to use a copier, Max was constantly texting me about our show tonight, and, worse of all, the band hadn’t shown up yet. In fact, the band was a grand total of 4 hours late seeing as the driver never showed up (a fault of said bungling fuckwads) and I was now waiting by the guest entry door as instructed by Steven so I could do damage control, scuffing my $350 dollar stilettos on the concrete in boredom.
Finally a car pulled up and I stood up straighter as they all filed out of the car.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m-“
“You’re the girl who lost our driver.” One of them spoke up. I wasn’t sure which one. I generally learned all of their names before hand, a little ego boost for them, but today had been so hectic I hadn’t gotten a chance and god forbid I ask an intern. They’d probably say they didn’t know how to Google shit.
“Yes, well I’m sorry about that Mr. umm,” I glanced down at my clipboard slyly where I had their names a brief description that I had jotted down after a Google search three minutes before they had arrived. It wasn’t that I hadn’t heard of the band , I just didn’t know the members by name. The notes weren’t that descriptive:
“Ryan Ross-skinny
Spencer Smith- chubbier/beard (?)
Jon Walker-beard
Brendon Urie-last one”
Seeing as they guy who talked wasn’t horrifically skinny, or chubby, and did not sport a beard that left one option. “Mr. Urie.” I concluded.
The boy grinned at me, his eyes widening in amusement, “You don’t know who we are?” He put a hand on his forehead theatrically. “Hold me Ryan, I feel faint!”
“Bren,” The skinny one said-no wait, Ryan Ross. That was it. He had a calm voice that was slightly monotone. “Will you let her talk, please?”
I felt a rush of gratitude towards him and I smiled at him slightly. “Right. I’m Clark Abrams and on behalf-“
“Oh my god,” Urie said suddenly, hitting the one I identified as Walker on the arm. “She’s the Clark!”
“No way!” Walker said, looking at me. Ross sighed slightly and shifted away from the group, looking in the opposite direction, as if he knew what was coming.
“Look,” I said, starting to lose my cool. “We really don’t have time for this-“
“But you’re Pete’s Clark!” Urie said, interrupting for what I could only guess was the 100th time. “You’re like a celebrity!”
“Who the fuck is Pete?” I snapped.
“Aw, Pete’s going to cry over that one,” Smith finally joined in the game, grinning at me.
“I have no idea what you guys are talking about.” I said stiffly. They were all beaming at me, like at any second I was going to do whatever it was they were waiting for.
“Guys, come on,” Ross said, but his quiet voice was lost in the bubbling of voices of his band mates.
“Come on,” Walker said to me earnestly. “You have to remember Pete Wentz?”
“Oh,” I said, my heart sinking. I really, really did not want to relive that day, which up until today had been my worst day on the job.
“No, no,” Urie was saying excitedly to Smith who was laughing. “Remember she told him that just because he was short and she was short didn’t mean they were going to have short little babies together, and then when he didn’t stop she said his ego must be compensating for something, and she had an idea what it was because-“
“It was all over the internet!” All three of them finished, and burst into laughter.
“No seriously,” Smith said, still laughing slightly. “Pete tells that story all the time. He thought it was hilarious the way you told him off. We’ve heard all about you.”
“Well,” I said acidly. Thinking of Pete Wentz usually put me in a foul mood. “I’m so glad we have that all cleared up, now you are 4 hours late for a sound check so if any of you would like to help me out and go do your job that would be fantastic.” I tried to keep my cool, as I flung open the door and glared at all of them until they filed one by one into the studio. Walker was still laughing, Smith winked at me, Ross mouthed an apology, but Urie stood outside, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “After you,” He said.
I narrowed my eyes and turned around to walk away, but he caught up with me. “I’m Brendon,” he said happily.
“I’m aware.” I said gritting my teeth.
“You are?” He said, pretending to sound surprised. “Because you weren’t five minutes ago.”
“Well, now I do, so I guess I can die happy.”
“So,” He started, but I cut him off.
“Look, My. Urie-“
“Call me Brendon,” he said.
“I will not.” I said sharply. “Mr. Urie, I’ve had to deal with assholes literally all day. Don’t make yourself one of them.”
Rather than backing off, he just started laughing. “Pete said you were a class act. I thought he was exaggerating but he really wasn’t.”
“That’s surprising, he usually exaggerates about things.” I snapped. He was really annoying me, and he was holding up the already held up sound check.
“Are you always such a bitch?” He asked pleasantly, as if we were discussing the weather.
I considered my first thought for a reply before I said it. After all, he had went and called me a bitch, and “celebrity” or not, I don’t take that lying down. “Well,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “I work with cocky bastards like yourself all day, what do you think?”
But rather than wiping off his smug look, his grin only widened. “Ooh,” He said, pointing at me. “I like you.”
“How wonderful for you.” I said, rubbing my forehead. “Now, please go in there or I’ll get fired.”
He laughed again. “Oh fine, I couldn’t have that on my conscious. Tootleloo.” He said and bounced off to join the rest of his merry band of idiots.
After that, the day slid by somewhat easily, other than the fact that I had to spend the time between the sound check and the actual filming with the band, all of whom thought that my bitchiness was delightful and humorous, and Brendon (who always was amazingly perceptive, too much for his own good) quickly learned how to press my buttons. I suppose Pete Wentz had gotten the one up on me after all: he had made me into somewhat of a legend, and assured his future band buddies a show when they played on Late Night. I’d have to send the bastard a fruit basket; I guess he won after all.
Despite all this, the filming ran without a glitch, the band played extremely well, according to an intern, I didn’t watch, and nothing embarrassing was said during their brief interview. I sighed in relief and went to my office to gather up my things. Steven was allowing me to leave slightly earlier tonight as I had a show downtown at a club. I stopped by their room to say goodbye and congratulate them on a good show, grateful that I didn’t have to see them again.
“You ought to come out with us tonight,” Urie said when I said goodbye. “Show us around New York a little.” Funny how he was under some sort of bizarre impression that I liked them as well as they seemed to like me.
“Sorry,” I said quickly, hitching my bag up onto my shoulder. “I have a show.”
“What kind of show?” Smith said instantly.
“I’m, uh, in a band.” I said quickly, mentally slapping myself for letting that slip.
“Really?” This came from Ross, over in the corner his long body spread out on the couch, texting on his phone. “What do you play?”
“You probably sing,” Urie said smugly. “You look like a singer.”
“No.” I said shortly, feeling slightly indignant. “My brother sings, and our bassist sings backup. I play guitar. And synth if needed, but mostly guitar.”
“Are you all any good?” Walker asked.
Although usually confident, I never knew how to brag about the band. It made me shy, like it was asking for unwanted attention. “Yeah, I mean, I guess, our show is nearly sold out tonight.”
“We should come,” Urie piped up.
Ross scowled at him. “You mean, is it okay if we come?”
Brendon laughed. “Yes, mother.” He looked up at me with big brown puppy dog eyes. “Is it okay if we come to your show, Ms. Abrams?”
“I…I, um,” I stammered. “Sure, but I really need to go, like now,” I said, in hopes that they would back down if we had to leave instantly.
“We’re ready.” Walker said, standing up and stretching.
“Erm, great.” I said, and started leaving. Shit.
Brendon caught up with me. “Bet you’re happy, huh?” He asked, wagging his eyebrows.
God, what a fucking mess.
Midlife crisis, my ass.
Our generation has always been the “wanting to grow up” type, with the 18 year olds pretending to be 21 and the 14 year olds dressing like hooker. And in the spirit of this, we go ahead and have our life crisis when we first branch out into what the adults like to call, “the real world”. We panic, we freak out, we go on medication, and then, when all else fails, we drink heavily. What on earth are we supposed to do with our college degrees? What does this piece of paper even mean? Is this even what I want to do with my life? Questions that no one has answers for.
Basically, my dear friends, we are fucked.
We are an entire generation of the hopeless and the terrified, a club of the young and lost. And I feel like I'm about to be named president of it.
And trust me, the ones that do get it figured out in their 20’s will be the ones buying a shiny red convertible in their mid-50’s, so don’t feel too bad.
I’m no different. Graduated Magna Cum-Laude from my liberal arts school, a fistful of degrees and minors, and…then the job search happens. And then the move from Maryland to New York, for a myriad of reasons that all amounted to running away. And then joining a band with my brother just because I could, and I didn’t want to grow up and face reality. Next thing I know, I’m making brilliant money working as a paid assistant/intern on a popular late night television show, Late Night with Steven Riley, the new funny guy with ratings through the roof, have my own apartment, a boss who thinks I’m the funniest thing alive, a possible promotion to becoming a writer for the show, a kick ass band who was on the verge of becoming something big, all in all, having absolutely nothing to do with what I originally had planned for myself ,not that I had a clue anyway. But it feels like I’m stuck.
I go home to my apartment and feel like I never want to leave. I spend my money on clothing that I really shouldn’t …I’m trapped in some vicious circle and I don’t know how to force myself out. My annoyance with myself causes me to be sarcastic and bitchy, which is then rewarded as cleverness at work, which then provides me with a larger paycheck, which causes me to spend money, which then causes me to be annoyed at myself. The band becomes annoyed because I’m in a successful job, and can’t be fully dedicated. I would fully dedicate, but there is something rewarding in having that paycheck every week, having a large apartment and expensive clothes. I can’t help it. I’m materialistic, I guess. Or maybe I’m just neurotic. Lately, I think it’s the latter.
I don’t show it though. Outside, I am cool, calm, collected. I once heard, “I pretended to be somebody I wanted to be until I became that person,” (Archibald Leach), and have quite fervently applied it to my life. I shoved my old self in a closet when I moved to New York and have become who I wanted to be. It’s just in the dark corners of my mind, the old self starts to creep back up, and threaten to take control.
I have to be strong enough to hold her back.
***
All in all, today was shaping up to be a shitty day. Today, I was in charge of taking care of the band, something I had done nearly every other day since I started working here. Steven Riley was somewhat afraid to let me take care of celebrity guests because he was afraid I would offend them, but bands were somewhat different. As he explained, bands have more than one person so my bitchyness would be divided up among the members and therefore defused somehow. He also reasoned that I respected bands more than celebrities because I was in a band as well. Steven was a pretty smart guy sometimes. I was good at taking care of bands, I oversaw my own band’s sound checks nearly every weekend which proved useful in setting up the stage every day, and when conversation came to halt, I just casually mentioned I played guitar, and that was enough to pass the time. I really was just a glorified baby-sitter, but it wasn’t a horrible job by any means. In fact it could be downright entertaining. I got to meet a couple of my idols, a couple of teen idols, and everyone in between. Things could be worse.
But as for my shitty day: Steven was acting like a cranky baby because the server was down and asked me to handle it, the interns that looked to me for guidance were total bungling fuckwads who didn’t know how to use a copier, Max was constantly texting me about our show tonight, and, worse of all, the band hadn’t shown up yet. In fact, the band was a grand total of 4 hours late seeing as the driver never showed up (a fault of said bungling fuckwads) and I was now waiting by the guest entry door as instructed by Steven so I could do damage control, scuffing my $350 dollar stilettos on the concrete in boredom.
Finally a car pulled up and I stood up straighter as they all filed out of the car.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m-“
“You’re the girl who lost our driver.” One of them spoke up. I wasn’t sure which one. I generally learned all of their names before hand, a little ego boost for them, but today had been so hectic I hadn’t gotten a chance and god forbid I ask an intern. They’d probably say they didn’t know how to Google shit.
“Yes, well I’m sorry about that Mr. umm,” I glanced down at my clipboard slyly where I had their names a brief description that I had jotted down after a Google search three minutes before they had arrived. It wasn’t that I hadn’t heard of the band , I just didn’t know the members by name. The notes weren’t that descriptive:
“Ryan Ross-skinny
Spencer Smith- chubbier/beard (?)
Jon Walker-beard
Brendon Urie-last one”
Seeing as they guy who talked wasn’t horrifically skinny, or chubby, and did not sport a beard that left one option. “Mr. Urie.” I concluded.
The boy grinned at me, his eyes widening in amusement, “You don’t know who we are?” He put a hand on his forehead theatrically. “Hold me Ryan, I feel faint!”
“Bren,” The skinny one said-no wait, Ryan Ross. That was it. He had a calm voice that was slightly monotone. “Will you let her talk, please?”
I felt a rush of gratitude towards him and I smiled at him slightly. “Right. I’m Clark Abrams and on behalf-“
“Oh my god,” Urie said suddenly, hitting the one I identified as Walker on the arm. “She’s the Clark!”
“No way!” Walker said, looking at me. Ross sighed slightly and shifted away from the group, looking in the opposite direction, as if he knew what was coming.
“Look,” I said, starting to lose my cool. “We really don’t have time for this-“
“But you’re Pete’s Clark!” Urie said, interrupting for what I could only guess was the 100th time. “You’re like a celebrity!”
“Who the fuck is Pete?” I snapped.
“Aw, Pete’s going to cry over that one,” Smith finally joined in the game, grinning at me.
“I have no idea what you guys are talking about.” I said stiffly. They were all beaming at me, like at any second I was going to do whatever it was they were waiting for.
“Guys, come on,” Ross said, but his quiet voice was lost in the bubbling of voices of his band mates.
“Come on,” Walker said to me earnestly. “You have to remember Pete Wentz?”
“Oh,” I said, my heart sinking. I really, really did not want to relive that day, which up until today had been my worst day on the job.
“No, no,” Urie was saying excitedly to Smith who was laughing. “Remember she told him that just because he was short and she was short didn’t mean they were going to have short little babies together, and then when he didn’t stop she said his ego must be compensating for something, and she had an idea what it was because-“
“It was all over the internet!” All three of them finished, and burst into laughter.
“No seriously,” Smith said, still laughing slightly. “Pete tells that story all the time. He thought it was hilarious the way you told him off. We’ve heard all about you.”
“Well,” I said acidly. Thinking of Pete Wentz usually put me in a foul mood. “I’m so glad we have that all cleared up, now you are 4 hours late for a sound check so if any of you would like to help me out and go do your job that would be fantastic.” I tried to keep my cool, as I flung open the door and glared at all of them until they filed one by one into the studio. Walker was still laughing, Smith winked at me, Ross mouthed an apology, but Urie stood outside, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “After you,” He said.
I narrowed my eyes and turned around to walk away, but he caught up with me. “I’m Brendon,” he said happily.
“I’m aware.” I said gritting my teeth.
“You are?” He said, pretending to sound surprised. “Because you weren’t five minutes ago.”
“Well, now I do, so I guess I can die happy.”
“So,” He started, but I cut him off.
“Look, My. Urie-“
“Call me Brendon,” he said.
“I will not.” I said sharply. “Mr. Urie, I’ve had to deal with assholes literally all day. Don’t make yourself one of them.”
Rather than backing off, he just started laughing. “Pete said you were a class act. I thought he was exaggerating but he really wasn’t.”
“That’s surprising, he usually exaggerates about things.” I snapped. He was really annoying me, and he was holding up the already held up sound check.
“Are you always such a bitch?” He asked pleasantly, as if we were discussing the weather.
I considered my first thought for a reply before I said it. After all, he had went and called me a bitch, and “celebrity” or not, I don’t take that lying down. “Well,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “I work with cocky bastards like yourself all day, what do you think?”
But rather than wiping off his smug look, his grin only widened. “Ooh,” He said, pointing at me. “I like you.”
“How wonderful for you.” I said, rubbing my forehead. “Now, please go in there or I’ll get fired.”
He laughed again. “Oh fine, I couldn’t have that on my conscious. Tootleloo.” He said and bounced off to join the rest of his merry band of idiots.
After that, the day slid by somewhat easily, other than the fact that I had to spend the time between the sound check and the actual filming with the band, all of whom thought that my bitchiness was delightful and humorous, and Brendon (who always was amazingly perceptive, too much for his own good) quickly learned how to press my buttons. I suppose Pete Wentz had gotten the one up on me after all: he had made me into somewhat of a legend, and assured his future band buddies a show when they played on Late Night. I’d have to send the bastard a fruit basket; I guess he won after all.
Despite all this, the filming ran without a glitch, the band played extremely well, according to an intern, I didn’t watch, and nothing embarrassing was said during their brief interview. I sighed in relief and went to my office to gather up my things. Steven was allowing me to leave slightly earlier tonight as I had a show downtown at a club. I stopped by their room to say goodbye and congratulate them on a good show, grateful that I didn’t have to see them again.
“You ought to come out with us tonight,” Urie said when I said goodbye. “Show us around New York a little.” Funny how he was under some sort of bizarre impression that I liked them as well as they seemed to like me.
“Sorry,” I said quickly, hitching my bag up onto my shoulder. “I have a show.”
“What kind of show?” Smith said instantly.
“I’m, uh, in a band.” I said quickly, mentally slapping myself for letting that slip.
“Really?” This came from Ross, over in the corner his long body spread out on the couch, texting on his phone. “What do you play?”
“You probably sing,” Urie said smugly. “You look like a singer.”
“No.” I said shortly, feeling slightly indignant. “My brother sings, and our bassist sings backup. I play guitar. And synth if needed, but mostly guitar.”
“Are you all any good?” Walker asked.
Although usually confident, I never knew how to brag about the band. It made me shy, like it was asking for unwanted attention. “Yeah, I mean, I guess, our show is nearly sold out tonight.”
“We should come,” Urie piped up.
Ross scowled at him. “You mean, is it okay if we come?”
Brendon laughed. “Yes, mother.” He looked up at me with big brown puppy dog eyes. “Is it okay if we come to your show, Ms. Abrams?”
“I…I, um,” I stammered. “Sure, but I really need to go, like now,” I said, in hopes that they would back down if we had to leave instantly.
“We’re ready.” Walker said, standing up and stretching.
“Erm, great.” I said, and started leaving. Shit.
Brendon caught up with me. “Bet you’re happy, huh?” He asked, wagging his eyebrows.
God, what a fucking mess.
♠ ♠ ♠
I'm not a huge fan of this chapter, but it's necessary for us to see Clark before Brendon changed her.Just remember, Clark has confessed that she lies to herself (or rather, used to), so her actions tend to speak louder than what she actually says.
so freaking cute
Please leave a comment?
-Sophie : )