The Young and Lost Club
004
I’ve been blessed with a good life, I know I have. I don’t know whether I can thank God, karma, fate, or just pure luck for this, but there have been moments in my life that I look back on and want to get on my knees and thank whoever is listening for ever finding me worthy of living them.
For the first fifteen years of my life, I had nothing to complain about. My parents were deeply in love, my brother and I were best friends, I did well in school, I was pretty and smart, and nothing seemed to require much effort. It was pure floating.
My mother died when I was seventeen. She did not deserve it. She battled with cancer heroically, for the last two years of her life, and her death was the single most tragic thing in my life. My mother was beautiful, and kind and loving, and my inspiration in the world. She was a combination of my best friend and my role model, and I was constantly trying to prove myself worthy of her, not that she ever implied I needed to do so, but I felt I should.
My father buckled under the pressure of having a sick wife, who constantly was going to the doctor, was sick from chemo that they told us would not cure her, but only stall her death. He had two kids that needed taking care of as well, and rather than rising to the occasion, he did the opposite and abandoned us. He started an affair with one of his co-workers, and it was anything but a secret. My mother was a saint about it, I knew it must have killed her, like it killed Max and I, but she told us we shouldn’t judge him, that if he needed escape, he should have it.
When she died, the only bond that existed between Max and I and our father broke, and we began arguing, constantly. We were all in so much pain from losing the most wonderful thing in our lives.
You want to talk about self destructive behavior? Our family became Exhibit A. Max started drinking and partying, I often went with him. Taylor and Brian (around even back in those dark days) were the ones who took care of our drunken and drug fucked up minds, something we owe them for, for the rest of our lives. God only knows how many times they intervened before we truly fucked up. I dated horrible guys, but didn’t care because the only other option was being alone, and I couldn’t take that. I moved too fast, did things I would regret if I could remember them. My father, his guilt finally catching up with him, fell into horrible depression.
At least Max and I escaped. After a year, we cut down on partying (although I never did break the boyfriend habit). Max started seeing a therapist and worked out his anger in a couple months. We moved out the second Max turned 18. It was a shitty apartment, we both got part time jobs and worked our asses off to pay utilities, our rent was often a couple months behind, but at the same time, Max and I had a blast. We were more than enough family for each other, and without our father, we could try to focus on healing from Mom’s death. We only see our father occasionally. We check in to make sure he hasn’t killed himself, that he takes care of himself, and we always go home on the anniversary of her death to see him. He is, after all, our father, no matter how much we despise him for his actions.
Despite all this, I still realize that I have a good life. I have my brother, my best friends, a great job. I have to be thankful for what I do have.
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Our show was one of our typical venues, a bar called, of all things, Saints, seeing as it was built in an old church. It was a ridiculously cool place, although the pews were removed, the organ up in the balcony had been kept and spray painted neon colors, and the stained glass was still there as well. The stage was constructed out of where the pastor or priest would usually stand, and the acoustics were perfect.
Even though our band, humbly named The Comeback Kids (based off the New Pornographers song, Max had picked it) wasn’t signed, we had begun making a name for ourselves in some of these trendy like bars. Saints had been our first big-ish venue and it was definitely our favorite. The crowd here loved us and we actually had a fairly solid fan base growing because of this club.
I managed to get Panic in, even though it was ridiculously crowded, thanks to a name drop and because I knew the bouncer fairly well. I pointed the guys in the direction of the bar and grudgingly told them I’d meet up with them after the show. I turned to leave, forcing my way to back stage, when Ross caught up with me. “Hi,” he said awkwardly, rubbing his hands together. “Sorry, I just wanted to apologize about my friends. They just get really excited sometimes, and well, if you heard the way Pete talked about you, you’d understand.”
I smiled at Ross, appreciating him coming and apologizing and I told him so. “I never realized I had such a huge impression on Pete,” I mused.
“Yeah well, Pete tends to appreciate anyone whose last words to him are ‘Suck my dick,’” Ross said, with a small laugh.
“Oh my god,” I said, covering my mouth in shock. “I completely forgot I said that.”
Ross shrugged. “Anyways, I totally understand if you want us to leave-“
“No!” I insisted. Now I felt bad, because while the other three were annoying, Ryan Ross seemed like a decent guy, and I didn’t want to seem like a total bitch. “Really, if you want to stay, then please feel more than free to. I’m sure the guys would love to meet you.”
“Great,” he said smiling again. “I’m really interested to hear you all. Break a leg!” And with that he headed off back into the crowd, giving me a small wave. I let out a small “ha” of amusement and continued backstage, where my three best friends were currently arguing over who was the better superhero: Batman or Superman, drinking a beer or two before we were called on stage.
“Fuck both of you,” Brain grunted. “Batman’s a faggot.”
“Dude,” Max snorted. “Superman’s disguise is a reporter. Batman is a fucking millionaire. You’re retarded.”
“The villains, man,” Taylor insisted. “Batman wins every fucking time.”
“You all are retarded,” I commented, walking into the room. “And Batman totally wins, you’re a fuckass Brian.”
“Hey Clark, go fuck yourself.” Brian said.
“Boosh.” Max said, bumping my fist and handing me a beer. “How was work?”
“Shitty, oh and by the way, Panic at the Disco is stalking me and decided to come to our show.” I said calmly.
They all blinked at me, and I shrugged.
“I’m not even going to ask.” Taylor said.
“Good decision,” I agreed. “I’m going to murder Pete Wentz if I ever see him again.”
|||
I played guitar. I considered it the love of my life, which was somewhat of a surprise. I had always assumed my brother was the music genius of our family. For him, it had always been easy: He taught himself a wide amount of instruments. Guitar? Of course. Piano? Pro level. Trumpet? Sure why not? Synthesizer? Yeah, I’ll give it a shot. Any instrument could be learned and mastered in a month, he was a lyrical genius, and his music composition was astounding. Max was for sure our leader, our showman, our organizer. He wrote our songs for the most part (although we all helped fill them out), was lead singer, and played any instrument we needed. Sometimes, Brian and I would laugh about it and tell him that we appreciated him doing all the work and letting us coast along on his talent.
My learning of guitar was somewhat of an accident. I was a horrible singer. When my parents made me take piano lessons I whined and complained until they decided it wasn’t worth it. In school we had to play the recorder and the only song I mastered was Hot Cross Buns. Basically, I was written off to the land of no musical talent.
But when Max was groaning about needing someone to play guitar in a band, he offered to teach me. I agreed because I needed a distraction from all the current problems in my life and, hell, so did Max. In a little less than a year, with basics under my belt, I self taught, and I was addicted. It was the only way I made it through my senior year of college. Whenever I felt stressed, I played guitar, whenever I needed to calm down, I played guitar. When I came back after graduating, the results were astounding. The guys, whom Max recruited while I was finishing up classes, were all in shock at how good I had become. I think their proudest moment was when I had to go to the doctor and he announced I had carpel tunnel from the way I played. They bought me a handle of vodka and decorated my wrist braces with pony stickers in celebration.
Music had become a power unlike anything else in my life. Nothing seemed too complicated to play, Max and I were on the same wavelength, and Taylor, the bassist, and Brian, the drummer, were quickly roped in too. And because we worked, our music worked, and because our music worked, we all felt that someday, someday we would get a big break, and that we could actually make it.
Playing music for an audience gives you the biggest adrenaline rush in the world. When you finish that last song, and everyone goes crazy (Saints was home to our biggest supporters), you feel like you are on top of the world, like you are invincible.
The end of a show is when I am the happiest. It makes me want to quit my job and spend every day performing. Unfortunately, being unsigned, this wasn’t really an option, but hopefully, it could be obtainable someday.
||||
“You all were…incredible,” Ryan said immediately after I introduced the guys to each other. After much grumbling and complaining and procrastinating, we had decided it would be rude to not sit and have a couple drinks with Panic. But, oddly enough, hearing all of them praising us like crazy, I felt somehow elated. It wasn’t that I had been worried about earning their respect, but hearing it was satisfying just the same.
“Wow, thanks.” Max said to Ryan. “You know, I’m a huge fan of your lyrics,” Taylor and I exchanged a glance, wondering how and when Max had listened to Panic and when he had come to know that Ryan Ross was the lyricist. Probably Wikipedia. We both glanced away quickly, hiding our laughter. What a suck up.
“I need a drink,” I announced, as I watched them all slip into easy conversation.”Anyone else?”
“I do,” Brendon said, speaking up quickly. What a surprise. He hadn’t shut up the moment I had sat next to him.
“Grab me a beer?” Jon asked.
I turned to leave, not bothering to wait for Brendon. “I ain’t your bitch,” I heard Brendon say.
“That’s not what your Mom said last night,” Jon retorted and I heard laughter as I pushed my way through the crowd.
Brendon caught up with me anyway, and together we started making our way up to the bar. It was difficult, the place was crowded as all get out, and being short, I was constantly overlooked and shoved around. And despite my happy adrenaline rush, Brendon, was quickly annoying the shit out of me with his incessant chattering and questioning such as: “How long have you been playing guitar?” “Is Max your brother?” “Are you and Taylor dating?” “Are you and Brian dating?” “What’s on your wrists?” “Why?” To which I supplied the shortest responses possible: “3 Years” “Yes” “No” “No” “Braces” and “Carpel tunnel.” I was dying to get to the bar and have a shot or seven, when he suddenly slung his arm around my shoulders and drew me close to his body.
“What are you doing?” I snapped, struggling to get away from him, but he only tightened his grip.
He smiled down at me (God, he was always smiling) and said, “You keep getting pushed around down there, I’ll get us the there faster if you stay with me.”
He was quite obviously correct, he was taller and could make a bigger and easier path for us than I could. “Oh.” I said, feeling stupid, and somewhat like a bitch. He was just trying to be helpful after all.
“Oh,” he mocked back at me, laughing slightly, and adjusting his arm on my shoulder.
I didn’t mean to, but I wasn’t used to being touched much, and I stiffened under his touch again and frowned, and for the first time, Brendon seemed to take offense by my rudeness. We reached the bar, finally, and he suddenly sighed, yanking out two chairs at the bar and gestured for me to sit. “Look,” he said when I sat down. “I know you basically hate me-“
“Hate’s a strong word.” I interjected. “I barely know you.”
He shrugged. “Whatever. I think we should just start over.”
“Why?” I said, feeling completely confused.
“Because,” he said with a shy grin. “I’m a pretty awesome kind of guy.”
I laughed, “No, that’s not what I meant, I mean, why would you even want to start over? I know I’m not exactly the nicest person in the world. I’ve basically been a bitch to you all day. Why would you even bother?” I finished quickly, looking down at my hands and blushing slightly. I felt utterly horrible for treating him so badly. He was annoying, but at the same time, I knew he was just trying to be nice, in his own sort of way, and once again I was pushing and struggling against it, just like I always did. The difference was, Brendon was the first person to ever really call me out on it.
He smiled slightly, looking down at the bar, and shrugged. “I don’t know. I think you’re interesting.”
“Interesting?” I scoffed.
“Oh come on, don’t underestimate yourself. You’re very interesting. Like…how does a tiny girl like you hold so much anger at everyone?” I laughed slightly, blushing again at being called out, and encouraged, he continued. “And like…why would someone as talented as you are at guitar be working in some shitty job for a television show?”
I tilted my head at him bemused.
“Come on,” He egged, nudging me slightly with his arm. “You see? I’m not so bad, let’s start over, I’m in New York a while, it’d be nice to make a friend or two outside of the band.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but my friend, Greg, the bartender finally came over and after giving me a quick, awkward hug over the bar, asked what we wanted to drink.
Saints specialized in shots. Each bartender had a shot named after them, like The Ashley, The Roxie, The Greg, and all of them were lethal and incredible. Brendon looked horribly confused, so I quickly explained it to him. “What would you like?” I asked Brendon politely.
“I have no clue,” he admitted. “You go first.”
I ordered a couple shots, and a beer, and Brendon went ahead and got what I ordered too.
“Damn,” I teased. “Got enough alcohol?”
“I got the exact same thing as you!” He defended. “And I’m much bigger! You’re like what? A 5 foot tall twig?”
“Yes, but I’m a New Yorker, and we have to drink in order to stand living with one another,” I explained.
“Touché’.” He said, lifting up a lime green shot that Greg had just placed in front of us. “This looks deadly.”
“It is.” I agreed. “Cheers.” We clinked glasses and downed them.
“Holy shit,” Brendon said, his big brown eyes watering slightly. “This is my new favorite bar.”
“Mine too,” I agreed, and we both smiled at each other. I picked up another shot, this one electric blue and full of tequila. “Bottoms up, Urie.”
|||
With a few shots under our belts, we lapsed into a slightly awkward pause, and Brendon glanced at me expectantly, like this was the test of whether or not we were actually going to start over. I fiddled with my beer bottle, and then glanced up at him. “So,” I said awkwardly. “How long are you guys in New York?”
It was a simple question, but Brendon broke into a huge smile before saying, “About a month.”
“A month?” I said. “Why so long?”
“We’ve got a press tour thing going on here, you know, making the rounds on TV shows and stuff, and also we’re filming a music video for our new single here.”
“And then where?”
“Home, for two weeks.”
I smiled at his happy expression at the mention of home. “And where is home?”
“Las Vegas.”
“Eww,” I said jokingly.
“Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” He said, pretending to be hurt. “Those hookers are like second moms to me!”
I laughed loudly. “And then where?”
“Jesus, shall I make you an itinerary?” He said with a smirk, making me snort. “No, just kidding, then we go on tour, for about three months? Maybe four?”
“Wow,” I said, resting my chin in my hand. “Another shot?”
“Yup.” He said, and we both grabbed a purple one, clinked glasses and downed them.
I took a couple sips of my beer as a chaser.
“Pussy,” Brendon teased.
“Sorry we can’t be all as manly as you.” I shot back sarcastically, making him laugh. “Anyways,” I said. “Do you ever get tired of it? You know, never staying in one spot?”
He considered for a minute. “I do and I don’t. I love what I do, I love doing concerts, I love traveling, but I get homesick. Sometimes I miss just sitting for a minute. But when I do sit for too long, I start getting antsy. It’s a give and take thing.”
“Sure,” I agreed.
“And what about you? How long have you lived in New York?” He asked.
I calculated for a minute, the alcohol was making it somewhat difficult. “Almost two years.”
“Only two years? Where did you live before?”
“A small town in Maryland,” I answered. I’d tell him the name of the town, but he probably hadn’t heard of it before. “Farms galore,” I laughed.
“Why the move?”
I shrugged, and answered as vaguely as possible, “It was time for a change. New York is for dreamers, I fit in here better. I made Max and the band come along with me.”
“Oh,” he said, realizing the topic was a personal one. “Another shot?”
“Duh.”
At some point, Brendon and I made it back to the group, but as Jon put, we “sure as hell took all the time in the world.” (But he was just pissed because Brendon and I ended up splitting his beer rather than bringing it back to the table). We were both drunk, but having a grand old time, talking about anything and everything, like drunk people do. I was vaguely aware that we were both flirting hardcore, and I couldn’t remember at what point I had stopped finding him cute but deathly annoying, and started finding him sexy and extremely entertaining.
Our bands seemed to be getting along well too, we sat with the rest of the table talking with everyone for quite some time, while sobering up. At some point, maybe around 1 in the morning, Jon, Spencer, Ryan (surprisingly, but in retrospect, I think we was just playing a good wingman to Brendon and decided to give us time alone) and the rest of my band decided to hit up another club a couple blocks down. “You wanna come, Clark?” Max asked.
“No,” I sighed. “Sorry, I’ve been up since 6, I don’t think I have another wind in me.” It was one of the downfalls of my job, but then again, I wasn’t into getting molested on a dance floor.
“You, Brendon?”
“Nah,” He said. “I want an early night in.”
We watched them leave, me thanking everyone for coming.
“So,” I said, looking at Brendon. “It’s been really nice talking to you, but I really do have to get home. I’m exhausted.”
“No problem,” He said. “I’ll walk you.”
“No,” I assured him. I knew what happened when a guy offered to take you home: next thing you know its morning and the guy is in your bed and you sit there staring at your sheets wondering how on earth you’re going to get to the Laundromat on a Saturday. I didn’t do one night stands. This isn’t to say I hadn’t had one or two before, but I still felt angry at myself for it. I wanted to mean something to a guy. I had too much self worth to let myself be some easy lay. I hated the whole situation of being walked home, and would avoid it at all costs. “Really, it’s only a couple streets down.”
“And let you get raped? Absolutely not. Come on,” He said, scooting out of the booth, and holding out his hand.
I was pissed off, not necessarily at him, but the situation. I had been getting along so well with him, and now in 10 minutes, he was going to throw it all out the window by trying to get inside my apartment with me.
We started down the street, and I pulled my thin coat around me tighter. It was early March, but the wind still had a feeling of winter in it.
“What did I do?” Brendon said suddenly, after a couple blocks of silence. “You’re all pissed off again.”
I glanced up at him. “I’m not going to sleep with you.” I said bluntly.
Brendon paused and looked at me with a raised eyebrow. He looked annoyed. “I’m sorry,” he said flatly. “But did I say anything about wanting to sleep with you? I don’t think I did.”
We had reached my apartment building, and both stopped. “I…I just…most guys…” I trailed off as Brendon started laughing.
“Look, Clark, I’m not most guys. I don’t sleep around like that. Maybe you shouldn’t think so highly of yourself, huh?”
I blinked a couple times. I had never, ever, ever been told that by a guy before. A girl once or twice had told me I was stuck up, but never a guy. “Oh.” I said. “Ok.” I could only think to turn around and leave, somehow feeling oddly rejected and hurt, even though I didn’t want to sleep with him.
Brendon laughed again and grabbed my arm. “I am, however going to ask for your number.” He grinned that cute grin again.
I frowned. “Look, you just feel bad that you kind of hurt my feelings.” I said. Brendon shook his head but I continued. “I don’t give out my number unless I’m sure that person in going to call, so let’s just cut the crap and agree that it was nice to meet each other and-“
“No,” Brendon insisted. “I really want your number. I really want to see you again.”
I just snorted and shook my head. “Goodnight, Urie. It was nice meeting you.” I tried to leave again but Brendon once again stepped in front of me, cutting me off.
“God you’re stubborn. Look, just give me a number. Any number that could somehow possibly link me to you, alright? I’ll prove it to you.”
That was the thing about Brendon I would end up loving the most: when I had doubts, he was always there to prove me wrong.
“Any number?” I said skeptically.
“As long as I’ll eventually get to you,” he said. He really did have a weird little brain.
“Alright,” I said reluctantly. I pulled out a piece of paper and quickly scrawled the main line number of the television network I worked and handed it to him. I may as well have given him the rejection hotline. Calling that number was a fucking nightmare.
He smiled as he slipped the paper into his breast pocket.
“Good night,” I said pointedly.
He only smiled again, and took hold of my upper arm, drawing me close to him. “Just so you know, I plan on making it really difficult for you to not like me,” he said, his warm breath was on my cheek. “Night.” And he strode off into the night, while I stood there stunned.
And that was the exact moment I got a crush on Brendon Urie.
For the first fifteen years of my life, I had nothing to complain about. My parents were deeply in love, my brother and I were best friends, I did well in school, I was pretty and smart, and nothing seemed to require much effort. It was pure floating.
My mother died when I was seventeen. She did not deserve it. She battled with cancer heroically, for the last two years of her life, and her death was the single most tragic thing in my life. My mother was beautiful, and kind and loving, and my inspiration in the world. She was a combination of my best friend and my role model, and I was constantly trying to prove myself worthy of her, not that she ever implied I needed to do so, but I felt I should.
My father buckled under the pressure of having a sick wife, who constantly was going to the doctor, was sick from chemo that they told us would not cure her, but only stall her death. He had two kids that needed taking care of as well, and rather than rising to the occasion, he did the opposite and abandoned us. He started an affair with one of his co-workers, and it was anything but a secret. My mother was a saint about it, I knew it must have killed her, like it killed Max and I, but she told us we shouldn’t judge him, that if he needed escape, he should have it.
When she died, the only bond that existed between Max and I and our father broke, and we began arguing, constantly. We were all in so much pain from losing the most wonderful thing in our lives.
You want to talk about self destructive behavior? Our family became Exhibit A. Max started drinking and partying, I often went with him. Taylor and Brian (around even back in those dark days) were the ones who took care of our drunken and drug fucked up minds, something we owe them for, for the rest of our lives. God only knows how many times they intervened before we truly fucked up. I dated horrible guys, but didn’t care because the only other option was being alone, and I couldn’t take that. I moved too fast, did things I would regret if I could remember them. My father, his guilt finally catching up with him, fell into horrible depression.
At least Max and I escaped. After a year, we cut down on partying (although I never did break the boyfriend habit). Max started seeing a therapist and worked out his anger in a couple months. We moved out the second Max turned 18. It was a shitty apartment, we both got part time jobs and worked our asses off to pay utilities, our rent was often a couple months behind, but at the same time, Max and I had a blast. We were more than enough family for each other, and without our father, we could try to focus on healing from Mom’s death. We only see our father occasionally. We check in to make sure he hasn’t killed himself, that he takes care of himself, and we always go home on the anniversary of her death to see him. He is, after all, our father, no matter how much we despise him for his actions.
Despite all this, I still realize that I have a good life. I have my brother, my best friends, a great job. I have to be thankful for what I do have.
|||
Our show was one of our typical venues, a bar called, of all things, Saints, seeing as it was built in an old church. It was a ridiculously cool place, although the pews were removed, the organ up in the balcony had been kept and spray painted neon colors, and the stained glass was still there as well. The stage was constructed out of where the pastor or priest would usually stand, and the acoustics were perfect.
Even though our band, humbly named The Comeback Kids (based off the New Pornographers song, Max had picked it) wasn’t signed, we had begun making a name for ourselves in some of these trendy like bars. Saints had been our first big-ish venue and it was definitely our favorite. The crowd here loved us and we actually had a fairly solid fan base growing because of this club.
I managed to get Panic in, even though it was ridiculously crowded, thanks to a name drop and because I knew the bouncer fairly well. I pointed the guys in the direction of the bar and grudgingly told them I’d meet up with them after the show. I turned to leave, forcing my way to back stage, when Ross caught up with me. “Hi,” he said awkwardly, rubbing his hands together. “Sorry, I just wanted to apologize about my friends. They just get really excited sometimes, and well, if you heard the way Pete talked about you, you’d understand.”
I smiled at Ross, appreciating him coming and apologizing and I told him so. “I never realized I had such a huge impression on Pete,” I mused.
“Yeah well, Pete tends to appreciate anyone whose last words to him are ‘Suck my dick,’” Ross said, with a small laugh.
“Oh my god,” I said, covering my mouth in shock. “I completely forgot I said that.”
Ross shrugged. “Anyways, I totally understand if you want us to leave-“
“No!” I insisted. Now I felt bad, because while the other three were annoying, Ryan Ross seemed like a decent guy, and I didn’t want to seem like a total bitch. “Really, if you want to stay, then please feel more than free to. I’m sure the guys would love to meet you.”
“Great,” he said smiling again. “I’m really interested to hear you all. Break a leg!” And with that he headed off back into the crowd, giving me a small wave. I let out a small “ha” of amusement and continued backstage, where my three best friends were currently arguing over who was the better superhero: Batman or Superman, drinking a beer or two before we were called on stage.
“Fuck both of you,” Brain grunted. “Batman’s a faggot.”
“Dude,” Max snorted. “Superman’s disguise is a reporter. Batman is a fucking millionaire. You’re retarded.”
“The villains, man,” Taylor insisted. “Batman wins every fucking time.”
“You all are retarded,” I commented, walking into the room. “And Batman totally wins, you’re a fuckass Brian.”
“Hey Clark, go fuck yourself.” Brian said.
“Boosh.” Max said, bumping my fist and handing me a beer. “How was work?”
“Shitty, oh and by the way, Panic at the Disco is stalking me and decided to come to our show.” I said calmly.
They all blinked at me, and I shrugged.
“I’m not even going to ask.” Taylor said.
“Good decision,” I agreed. “I’m going to murder Pete Wentz if I ever see him again.”
|||
I played guitar. I considered it the love of my life, which was somewhat of a surprise. I had always assumed my brother was the music genius of our family. For him, it had always been easy: He taught himself a wide amount of instruments. Guitar? Of course. Piano? Pro level. Trumpet? Sure why not? Synthesizer? Yeah, I’ll give it a shot. Any instrument could be learned and mastered in a month, he was a lyrical genius, and his music composition was astounding. Max was for sure our leader, our showman, our organizer. He wrote our songs for the most part (although we all helped fill them out), was lead singer, and played any instrument we needed. Sometimes, Brian and I would laugh about it and tell him that we appreciated him doing all the work and letting us coast along on his talent.
My learning of guitar was somewhat of an accident. I was a horrible singer. When my parents made me take piano lessons I whined and complained until they decided it wasn’t worth it. In school we had to play the recorder and the only song I mastered was Hot Cross Buns. Basically, I was written off to the land of no musical talent.
But when Max was groaning about needing someone to play guitar in a band, he offered to teach me. I agreed because I needed a distraction from all the current problems in my life and, hell, so did Max. In a little less than a year, with basics under my belt, I self taught, and I was addicted. It was the only way I made it through my senior year of college. Whenever I felt stressed, I played guitar, whenever I needed to calm down, I played guitar. When I came back after graduating, the results were astounding. The guys, whom Max recruited while I was finishing up classes, were all in shock at how good I had become. I think their proudest moment was when I had to go to the doctor and he announced I had carpel tunnel from the way I played. They bought me a handle of vodka and decorated my wrist braces with pony stickers in celebration.
Music had become a power unlike anything else in my life. Nothing seemed too complicated to play, Max and I were on the same wavelength, and Taylor, the bassist, and Brian, the drummer, were quickly roped in too. And because we worked, our music worked, and because our music worked, we all felt that someday, someday we would get a big break, and that we could actually make it.
Playing music for an audience gives you the biggest adrenaline rush in the world. When you finish that last song, and everyone goes crazy (Saints was home to our biggest supporters), you feel like you are on top of the world, like you are invincible.
The end of a show is when I am the happiest. It makes me want to quit my job and spend every day performing. Unfortunately, being unsigned, this wasn’t really an option, but hopefully, it could be obtainable someday.
||||
“You all were…incredible,” Ryan said immediately after I introduced the guys to each other. After much grumbling and complaining and procrastinating, we had decided it would be rude to not sit and have a couple drinks with Panic. But, oddly enough, hearing all of them praising us like crazy, I felt somehow elated. It wasn’t that I had been worried about earning their respect, but hearing it was satisfying just the same.
“Wow, thanks.” Max said to Ryan. “You know, I’m a huge fan of your lyrics,” Taylor and I exchanged a glance, wondering how and when Max had listened to Panic and when he had come to know that Ryan Ross was the lyricist. Probably Wikipedia. We both glanced away quickly, hiding our laughter. What a suck up.
“I need a drink,” I announced, as I watched them all slip into easy conversation.”Anyone else?”
“I do,” Brendon said, speaking up quickly. What a surprise. He hadn’t shut up the moment I had sat next to him.
“Grab me a beer?” Jon asked.
I turned to leave, not bothering to wait for Brendon. “I ain’t your bitch,” I heard Brendon say.
“That’s not what your Mom said last night,” Jon retorted and I heard laughter as I pushed my way through the crowd.
Brendon caught up with me anyway, and together we started making our way up to the bar. It was difficult, the place was crowded as all get out, and being short, I was constantly overlooked and shoved around. And despite my happy adrenaline rush, Brendon, was quickly annoying the shit out of me with his incessant chattering and questioning such as: “How long have you been playing guitar?” “Is Max your brother?” “Are you and Taylor dating?” “Are you and Brian dating?” “What’s on your wrists?” “Why?” To which I supplied the shortest responses possible: “3 Years” “Yes” “No” “No” “Braces” and “Carpel tunnel.” I was dying to get to the bar and have a shot or seven, when he suddenly slung his arm around my shoulders and drew me close to his body.
“What are you doing?” I snapped, struggling to get away from him, but he only tightened his grip.
He smiled down at me (God, he was always smiling) and said, “You keep getting pushed around down there, I’ll get us the there faster if you stay with me.”
He was quite obviously correct, he was taller and could make a bigger and easier path for us than I could. “Oh.” I said, feeling stupid, and somewhat like a bitch. He was just trying to be helpful after all.
“Oh,” he mocked back at me, laughing slightly, and adjusting his arm on my shoulder.
I didn’t mean to, but I wasn’t used to being touched much, and I stiffened under his touch again and frowned, and for the first time, Brendon seemed to take offense by my rudeness. We reached the bar, finally, and he suddenly sighed, yanking out two chairs at the bar and gestured for me to sit. “Look,” he said when I sat down. “I know you basically hate me-“
“Hate’s a strong word.” I interjected. “I barely know you.”
He shrugged. “Whatever. I think we should just start over.”
“Why?” I said, feeling completely confused.
“Because,” he said with a shy grin. “I’m a pretty awesome kind of guy.”
I laughed, “No, that’s not what I meant, I mean, why would you even want to start over? I know I’m not exactly the nicest person in the world. I’ve basically been a bitch to you all day. Why would you even bother?” I finished quickly, looking down at my hands and blushing slightly. I felt utterly horrible for treating him so badly. He was annoying, but at the same time, I knew he was just trying to be nice, in his own sort of way, and once again I was pushing and struggling against it, just like I always did. The difference was, Brendon was the first person to ever really call me out on it.
He smiled slightly, looking down at the bar, and shrugged. “I don’t know. I think you’re interesting.”
“Interesting?” I scoffed.
“Oh come on, don’t underestimate yourself. You’re very interesting. Like…how does a tiny girl like you hold so much anger at everyone?” I laughed slightly, blushing again at being called out, and encouraged, he continued. “And like…why would someone as talented as you are at guitar be working in some shitty job for a television show?”
I tilted my head at him bemused.
“Come on,” He egged, nudging me slightly with his arm. “You see? I’m not so bad, let’s start over, I’m in New York a while, it’d be nice to make a friend or two outside of the band.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but my friend, Greg, the bartender finally came over and after giving me a quick, awkward hug over the bar, asked what we wanted to drink.
Saints specialized in shots. Each bartender had a shot named after them, like The Ashley, The Roxie, The Greg, and all of them were lethal and incredible. Brendon looked horribly confused, so I quickly explained it to him. “What would you like?” I asked Brendon politely.
“I have no clue,” he admitted. “You go first.”
I ordered a couple shots, and a beer, and Brendon went ahead and got what I ordered too.
“Damn,” I teased. “Got enough alcohol?”
“I got the exact same thing as you!” He defended. “And I’m much bigger! You’re like what? A 5 foot tall twig?”
“Yes, but I’m a New Yorker, and we have to drink in order to stand living with one another,” I explained.
“Touché’.” He said, lifting up a lime green shot that Greg had just placed in front of us. “This looks deadly.”
“It is.” I agreed. “Cheers.” We clinked glasses and downed them.
“Holy shit,” Brendon said, his big brown eyes watering slightly. “This is my new favorite bar.”
“Mine too,” I agreed, and we both smiled at each other. I picked up another shot, this one electric blue and full of tequila. “Bottoms up, Urie.”
|||
With a few shots under our belts, we lapsed into a slightly awkward pause, and Brendon glanced at me expectantly, like this was the test of whether or not we were actually going to start over. I fiddled with my beer bottle, and then glanced up at him. “So,” I said awkwardly. “How long are you guys in New York?”
It was a simple question, but Brendon broke into a huge smile before saying, “About a month.”
“A month?” I said. “Why so long?”
“We’ve got a press tour thing going on here, you know, making the rounds on TV shows and stuff, and also we’re filming a music video for our new single here.”
“And then where?”
“Home, for two weeks.”
I smiled at his happy expression at the mention of home. “And where is home?”
“Las Vegas.”
“Eww,” I said jokingly.
“Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” He said, pretending to be hurt. “Those hookers are like second moms to me!”
I laughed loudly. “And then where?”
“Jesus, shall I make you an itinerary?” He said with a smirk, making me snort. “No, just kidding, then we go on tour, for about three months? Maybe four?”
“Wow,” I said, resting my chin in my hand. “Another shot?”
“Yup.” He said, and we both grabbed a purple one, clinked glasses and downed them.
I took a couple sips of my beer as a chaser.
“Pussy,” Brendon teased.
“Sorry we can’t be all as manly as you.” I shot back sarcastically, making him laugh. “Anyways,” I said. “Do you ever get tired of it? You know, never staying in one spot?”
He considered for a minute. “I do and I don’t. I love what I do, I love doing concerts, I love traveling, but I get homesick. Sometimes I miss just sitting for a minute. But when I do sit for too long, I start getting antsy. It’s a give and take thing.”
“Sure,” I agreed.
“And what about you? How long have you lived in New York?” He asked.
I calculated for a minute, the alcohol was making it somewhat difficult. “Almost two years.”
“Only two years? Where did you live before?”
“A small town in Maryland,” I answered. I’d tell him the name of the town, but he probably hadn’t heard of it before. “Farms galore,” I laughed.
“Why the move?”
I shrugged, and answered as vaguely as possible, “It was time for a change. New York is for dreamers, I fit in here better. I made Max and the band come along with me.”
“Oh,” he said, realizing the topic was a personal one. “Another shot?”
“Duh.”
At some point, Brendon and I made it back to the group, but as Jon put, we “sure as hell took all the time in the world.” (But he was just pissed because Brendon and I ended up splitting his beer rather than bringing it back to the table). We were both drunk, but having a grand old time, talking about anything and everything, like drunk people do. I was vaguely aware that we were both flirting hardcore, and I couldn’t remember at what point I had stopped finding him cute but deathly annoying, and started finding him sexy and extremely entertaining.
Our bands seemed to be getting along well too, we sat with the rest of the table talking with everyone for quite some time, while sobering up. At some point, maybe around 1 in the morning, Jon, Spencer, Ryan (surprisingly, but in retrospect, I think we was just playing a good wingman to Brendon and decided to give us time alone) and the rest of my band decided to hit up another club a couple blocks down. “You wanna come, Clark?” Max asked.
“No,” I sighed. “Sorry, I’ve been up since 6, I don’t think I have another wind in me.” It was one of the downfalls of my job, but then again, I wasn’t into getting molested on a dance floor.
“You, Brendon?”
“Nah,” He said. “I want an early night in.”
We watched them leave, me thanking everyone for coming.
“So,” I said, looking at Brendon. “It’s been really nice talking to you, but I really do have to get home. I’m exhausted.”
“No problem,” He said. “I’ll walk you.”
“No,” I assured him. I knew what happened when a guy offered to take you home: next thing you know its morning and the guy is in your bed and you sit there staring at your sheets wondering how on earth you’re going to get to the Laundromat on a Saturday. I didn’t do one night stands. This isn’t to say I hadn’t had one or two before, but I still felt angry at myself for it. I wanted to mean something to a guy. I had too much self worth to let myself be some easy lay. I hated the whole situation of being walked home, and would avoid it at all costs. “Really, it’s only a couple streets down.”
“And let you get raped? Absolutely not. Come on,” He said, scooting out of the booth, and holding out his hand.
I was pissed off, not necessarily at him, but the situation. I had been getting along so well with him, and now in 10 minutes, he was going to throw it all out the window by trying to get inside my apartment with me.
We started down the street, and I pulled my thin coat around me tighter. It was early March, but the wind still had a feeling of winter in it.
“What did I do?” Brendon said suddenly, after a couple blocks of silence. “You’re all pissed off again.”
I glanced up at him. “I’m not going to sleep with you.” I said bluntly.
Brendon paused and looked at me with a raised eyebrow. He looked annoyed. “I’m sorry,” he said flatly. “But did I say anything about wanting to sleep with you? I don’t think I did.”
We had reached my apartment building, and both stopped. “I…I just…most guys…” I trailed off as Brendon started laughing.
“Look, Clark, I’m not most guys. I don’t sleep around like that. Maybe you shouldn’t think so highly of yourself, huh?”
I blinked a couple times. I had never, ever, ever been told that by a guy before. A girl once or twice had told me I was stuck up, but never a guy. “Oh.” I said. “Ok.” I could only think to turn around and leave, somehow feeling oddly rejected and hurt, even though I didn’t want to sleep with him.
Brendon laughed again and grabbed my arm. “I am, however going to ask for your number.” He grinned that cute grin again.
I frowned. “Look, you just feel bad that you kind of hurt my feelings.” I said. Brendon shook his head but I continued. “I don’t give out my number unless I’m sure that person in going to call, so let’s just cut the crap and agree that it was nice to meet each other and-“
“No,” Brendon insisted. “I really want your number. I really want to see you again.”
I just snorted and shook my head. “Goodnight, Urie. It was nice meeting you.” I tried to leave again but Brendon once again stepped in front of me, cutting me off.
“God you’re stubborn. Look, just give me a number. Any number that could somehow possibly link me to you, alright? I’ll prove it to you.”
That was the thing about Brendon I would end up loving the most: when I had doubts, he was always there to prove me wrong.
“Any number?” I said skeptically.
“As long as I’ll eventually get to you,” he said. He really did have a weird little brain.
“Alright,” I said reluctantly. I pulled out a piece of paper and quickly scrawled the main line number of the television network I worked and handed it to him. I may as well have given him the rejection hotline. Calling that number was a fucking nightmare.
He smiled as he slipped the paper into his breast pocket.
“Good night,” I said pointedly.
He only smiled again, and took hold of my upper arm, drawing me close to him. “Just so you know, I plan on making it really difficult for you to not like me,” he said, his warm breath was on my cheek. “Night.” And he strode off into the night, while I stood there stunned.
And that was the exact moment I got a crush on Brendon Urie.
♠ ♠ ♠
I am not exactly pleased with this chapter, it's been horrible to write, and I've re-written it about 15 times and I'm sorry if you have the same problem I had with it. That being said, the later chapters I'm currently working on have me really, really excited to post : )Please leave a comment. (pleasepleasepleaseplease) I like chatting with people : )
Oh, and here's how I imagine Clark, if you're interested: touch me here
