You Can Run Away With Me Anytime You Want
You can Run Away with Me Anytime You Want
Brendon Urie liked random days off when he was on tour. It was a chance to step away from the crazy, fan-driven lifestyle of an American rock band and check out some places he’d never been. Today, a windy and cold January day in Lake Marrow, Minnesota, he found himself walking down a well-kept sidewalk under strings of leftover Christmas lights in search of a place to duck out away from the wind that was nipping his ears cherry red. It was that time of year where the sun was setting at just five o clock, and an amber glow up the block grabbed his attention.
When he got closer, he saw that it was a little coffee shop- The Bear Claw Cafe. Perfect, he thought, a nice cup of coffee and a quiet atmosphere was just what he was craving. A little bike bell dinged when he stepped inside.
The place was small and painted gold and brown. The chairs were mismatched with the table, and the baristas wore white aprons stained by different caffeinated concoctions. It was a homey little place, and Brendon liked that a lot. It was refreshing. Using his gray sweater to swipe away the snow melting on his black-framed glasses, Brendon went up to the counter and ordered a plain, black coffee.
As the coffee maker moaned and ground away, Brendon noticed the small, makeshift stage near the back of the shop. Under the two bright lights there was a pretty, young girl sitting at a single stool with a microphone and old, black and velvety sounding Gibson acoustic. Brendon noticed her straight away- dusty blonde hair cut jaggedly around her shoulders, classic Chuck’s and a vintagey looking romper- far too summery for this time of year. Mostly, he noticed how beautiful she was. Short with a smooth face and thin red lips and a natural blush to her slightly freckled cheek. She cradled her guitar in a knowing, loving way that Brendon rarely saw in another person.
At the moment, she was just strumming away sweetly, a casual composition of chords with no direction but lots of depth in the sound. A sign at her feet resting against her tattered guitar case read in scrawling letters “help me get to my next stop?” with three little “$$$” underneath. A couple dollars were scattered throughout the big black case.
Brendon was captivated by her straight away. She sang a little, but mostly she just strummed along. Her fingernails were short and tidy and layered by different colors of chipping paint and they danced over the strings like a rainbow under a waterfall. Brendon was long finished with his coffee when she finally took a break. She sang a quick “thank you” into the mic and swung the ol’ Gibson from around her body and rested it against the stool, where she sat back down and lazily swung her skinny jeans-clad legs over the ground. Brendon stepped up towards the stage.
“That was lovely,” he said to the girl with a nervous half-smile. Despite his popularity, Brendon had an issue with shyness.
“Thanks, stranger.”
“Are you from around here?”
The girl shook her head, her hair twirling up and around her chin. “Nope, I’m a runaway.” She answered as bluntly as she would ask the barista for a cup of jo. “My name’s Shannon Powers. I’m workin’ my way to Chicago to start something with my music and the like.”
“How old are you?”
“Turned eighteen last month.”
“Seriously? How long have you been on the road?”
“Almost a year, graduated high school a year early and was out the door practically the next morning. Been playin’ music my whole life- I knew it was about time to throw myself into it full time.”
Brendon looked at this girl and couldn’t help but feel a little jealous, and a little guilty. Panic! had gotten so big so fast that he never got to live this life- surviving off the music and having nothing more to show for it but a few single dollar bills and some callused fingers- no stadium dates, no music videos, no tour buses or screaming fangirls. It was an American Dream. There was a certain romance to the trying-to-make-it journey that Brendon always wished deep down he had experienced.
Shannon took the red guitar pick and flipped it casually up and down like a penny. “So what’s your story? From what I’ve seen, you don’t look like a local.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, you don’t have a lumberjack beard or a Minnesota Vikings jersey for starters.”
Brendon laughed, “Ahh, I see.”
“So tell me, what brings you here?”
“My name is Brendon.” He said, squirming a little at the rare chance to start fresh with someone who had no idea who he was. “Brendon Urie. I’m a musician too. I’m, um, just doing a bit of sight seeing I suppose.”
No reaction. This girl must have had no idea.
“I dig it.” She said smoothly, with a little southern drawl that Brendon found endearing. It made him wonder where Shannon’s story began.
“You know, I, um, well I know some people in the music business up in Chicago.” He said awkwardly, thinking of his friends Pete Wentz, William Beckett, and all the amazing guys who helped Brendon himself get to where he was. “I can probably give you my number, if you’re interested. For music stuff! I mean...” Blushing furiously at the unintentional forwardness of his offer, Brendon dug around in his pocket for a pen and scribbled his number down on the back of his coffee receipt.
Shannon looked at it with a knowing smile and an elated spark in her dashing green eye, “wow, connections, phone numbers, and cute to boot! I’m pretty jealous of you, mystery music man.”
“I could say the same about you.” Brendon said honestly, suppressing that innocent excitement he got from being called “cute” by such a lovely looking young woman. “You have to be brave to leave everything behind and take a big risk like this. It shows how much you love the music.”
Shannon folded the receipt carefully and tucked it neatly into her pocket. “I really do. And I can tell just from talkin’ with you that you do too.”
“Absolutely. I have the passion, just not the story I guess.”
Shannon laughed a twinkling, surprisingly delicate laugh for such a strong girl, “well, you can run away with me anytime you want.”
When he got closer, he saw that it was a little coffee shop- The Bear Claw Cafe. Perfect, he thought, a nice cup of coffee and a quiet atmosphere was just what he was craving. A little bike bell dinged when he stepped inside.
The place was small and painted gold and brown. The chairs were mismatched with the table, and the baristas wore white aprons stained by different caffeinated concoctions. It was a homey little place, and Brendon liked that a lot. It was refreshing. Using his gray sweater to swipe away the snow melting on his black-framed glasses, Brendon went up to the counter and ordered a plain, black coffee.
As the coffee maker moaned and ground away, Brendon noticed the small, makeshift stage near the back of the shop. Under the two bright lights there was a pretty, young girl sitting at a single stool with a microphone and old, black and velvety sounding Gibson acoustic. Brendon noticed her straight away- dusty blonde hair cut jaggedly around her shoulders, classic Chuck’s and a vintagey looking romper- far too summery for this time of year. Mostly, he noticed how beautiful she was. Short with a smooth face and thin red lips and a natural blush to her slightly freckled cheek. She cradled her guitar in a knowing, loving way that Brendon rarely saw in another person.
At the moment, she was just strumming away sweetly, a casual composition of chords with no direction but lots of depth in the sound. A sign at her feet resting against her tattered guitar case read in scrawling letters “help me get to my next stop?” with three little “$$$” underneath. A couple dollars were scattered throughout the big black case.
Brendon was captivated by her straight away. She sang a little, but mostly she just strummed along. Her fingernails were short and tidy and layered by different colors of chipping paint and they danced over the strings like a rainbow under a waterfall. Brendon was long finished with his coffee when she finally took a break. She sang a quick “thank you” into the mic and swung the ol’ Gibson from around her body and rested it against the stool, where she sat back down and lazily swung her skinny jeans-clad legs over the ground. Brendon stepped up towards the stage.
“That was lovely,” he said to the girl with a nervous half-smile. Despite his popularity, Brendon had an issue with shyness.
“Thanks, stranger.”
“Are you from around here?”
The girl shook her head, her hair twirling up and around her chin. “Nope, I’m a runaway.” She answered as bluntly as she would ask the barista for a cup of jo. “My name’s Shannon Powers. I’m workin’ my way to Chicago to start something with my music and the like.”
“How old are you?”
“Turned eighteen last month.”
“Seriously? How long have you been on the road?”
“Almost a year, graduated high school a year early and was out the door practically the next morning. Been playin’ music my whole life- I knew it was about time to throw myself into it full time.”
Brendon looked at this girl and couldn’t help but feel a little jealous, and a little guilty. Panic! had gotten so big so fast that he never got to live this life- surviving off the music and having nothing more to show for it but a few single dollar bills and some callused fingers- no stadium dates, no music videos, no tour buses or screaming fangirls. It was an American Dream. There was a certain romance to the trying-to-make-it journey that Brendon always wished deep down he had experienced.
Shannon took the red guitar pick and flipped it casually up and down like a penny. “So what’s your story? From what I’ve seen, you don’t look like a local.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, you don’t have a lumberjack beard or a Minnesota Vikings jersey for starters.”
Brendon laughed, “Ahh, I see.”
“So tell me, what brings you here?”
“My name is Brendon.” He said, squirming a little at the rare chance to start fresh with someone who had no idea who he was. “Brendon Urie. I’m a musician too. I’m, um, just doing a bit of sight seeing I suppose.”
No reaction. This girl must have had no idea.
“I dig it.” She said smoothly, with a little southern drawl that Brendon found endearing. It made him wonder where Shannon’s story began.
“You know, I, um, well I know some people in the music business up in Chicago.” He said awkwardly, thinking of his friends Pete Wentz, William Beckett, and all the amazing guys who helped Brendon himself get to where he was. “I can probably give you my number, if you’re interested. For music stuff! I mean...” Blushing furiously at the unintentional forwardness of his offer, Brendon dug around in his pocket for a pen and scribbled his number down on the back of his coffee receipt.
Shannon looked at it with a knowing smile and an elated spark in her dashing green eye, “wow, connections, phone numbers, and cute to boot! I’m pretty jealous of you, mystery music man.”
“I could say the same about you.” Brendon said honestly, suppressing that innocent excitement he got from being called “cute” by such a lovely looking young woman. “You have to be brave to leave everything behind and take a big risk like this. It shows how much you love the music.”
Shannon folded the receipt carefully and tucked it neatly into her pocket. “I really do. And I can tell just from talkin’ with you that you do too.”
“Absolutely. I have the passion, just not the story I guess.”
Shannon laughed a twinkling, surprisingly delicate laugh for such a strong girl, “well, you can run away with me anytime you want.”