Why?

Why?

By: Chris Fox

Transcribed from: “Why?" by The England Ram-a-Band

Off of the album: The England Ram-a-Band.

It ended together.

It was that sort of place where you go and see musicians play. They were playing indeed. I didn't know what kind of music, or who it was. But there I was, lurking around the merch desk - more of a table with purchasable goods strewn about - gandering at the band doing whatever they were doing. It was entertaining, whatever it was, hypnotic really. They would cry, "Why?" as if it was some sort of protest song, which it certainly wasn't. Then the choir of drunkards doting about the room would respond, "Why!" Less a question more an answer. It was apparently some inside joke I wasn't aware of, or wasn't drunk enough to understand the concept of. Whichever.

It was that sort of place where you go to drink alcohol. They were drinking indeed. The patrons of this bar - less a bar, more an Italian restaurant on the south side of town - were milling about wildly like ants in a hill someone's disturbed. It was entertaining, whatever it was, hypnotic really. Socializing seemed to be an artform, which it certainly isn't. They would cry, "WHY?!" when the band begged of them, and "HEY" when their friends beckoned them. It was apparently some trade secret I wasn't aware of, or didn't have enough friends to understand the concept of. Whichever.

I tried to come with friends, honestly, I had. But this isn't one of those type of shows; a bring your friends to see the awesome band sort of shows. Even though it is. Everyone else brought their friends; that's who they're drinking with, and HEY!ing with, and WHY?!ing with. But I brought nobody. Partially because my friends tend to be busy. Busy partying, or drinking, or loving with others elsewhere. Partially because I can't really claim to have that many friends to begin with; plenty of acquaintances, sure. But they are only acquaintances; they can't claim to know the first thing about me; they're just people I spend time with now and again. And partially because I didn't want to invite anyone. This is one of my favourite bands, and I love them. Thus, I like to keep them a secret from the world. Call that squandering good talent, if you will. But I find a certain aesthetic pleasure in keeping bands close to my heart, and away from the viral eyes and ears of others. I don't like it when my music is spread across the world so ungratefully, and so rudely. I like only the best of the best of my fellow music listeners picking up on the music I enjoy. But that is me, and this is just a big party, after all.

Just a bit party. Just a big get together. Just a big fête, it's all it was. It's what I expected, and I lived up to the expectations. I went alone. I expected to be alone. And I was. Standing about by the aforementioned merch booth, I took in the happenings all around me. I loved to be around strangers. There's a certain fascination in being surrounded by people you don't know whatsoever; a certain fascination in being surrounded by people who stare at you, pondering your existence as you stand alone, atypical, drinkless, friendless, alone.

I was drinkless, and I was friendless, and I was alone, and atypical. Then again, you already know how I began this story.

He wore a shirt that made him look like a carpenter. But his pants juxtaposed this, as they fit him so well, showing off his slender form. He walked in and he caught my attention immediately. I admit that I was quite attracted at first glance, but I've been taught first glances are not to be trusted. I looked away. I felt him looking at me. It was a burning sensation on the left side of my chest, as if his magic gaze was magnetically pulling my heart to the left side of my ribcage. I sat down in an empty chair on my side of the room, as if that would help (it didn't). He looked uncomfortable, his gentle eyes drifting around the room, as if searching for an old friend. He seemed to notice no one. Instinctively, he pressed his back to the wall directly next to the front doors, making very sure not to bump into the gumdrop machine he leaned against. He acted cool. He acted as if he belonged, as if he was meant to be there all along, as if he were waiting for someone - as if that person was on their way, and simply hadn't arrived yet. He stood there so calm and naturally, and I fell in love with that. But I'm a wallflower as well. I know that move; I'm well practiced in that language. I saw through this boy's façade, and love him more for it.

He looked uncomfortable, like I would've. He moved. He went to the nearby table, entranced by the same band as I was. He sat down, pretending, again to wait; he occupied his social anxieties by eating from the assorted salad provided on the table. He kept glancing at me. He noticed me. Every time his gaze turned to me, my heart beat like a bass drum, and rolled like a timpani roll against my soft chest when he quickly, embarrassingly averted his gaze toward the aforementioned hypnotic band. I couldn't help glancing myself. He's one of those strangers, the sort you meet in random circumstances like this. They're just there, and they're gorgeous, and you can't take your eyes off them, even when all you want to do is keep staring. Their style, their mood, their expressions, their gazing. It's all addicting! You want it, but feel like it's a faux pas. Like everyone in the room notices the secrets of shyness between you and this mysteriously intriguing soul, even though, in truth, all of these thoughts float ambiguously out of the public mindset.

He disappeared. I was thinking, and he disappeared. I looked over his way, but it's as if he no longer existed. Some cool cat - who I think belonged to an important local band I had seen elsewhere - was walking near me. That cool cat distracted me. In my distraction, like a phantom, this mysterious entity of a boy vanished into nothingness. Then without warning, he fathomed into existence next to me. He pulled a chair next to mine, and sat down. I stared bewildered, of course. He smiled, supposedly at my bewilderness, as far as I could tell.

"Hey."

"Hi." If my heart were dynamite, it was at the end of its fuse, and ready to explode. It was.

"Do you like them? I can't say that I've ever heard these folks before." He pointed to them. I didn't look at them; I simply stared into his eyes.

"They're... nice..." I shyly replied.

"Hypnotic."

"That's exactly what I said..." I sounded like a buffoon, but he was too pretty of a boy and I was too hypnotized to notice.

"But you're alone, right?"

I nodded my head, only to maintain my sense of logic. "Just alone enough. I find going to concerts like this, by myself, refreshing and liberating." This was a lie.

"I'm glad you came." I agreed with him. This was a truth. "I saw you first, as soon as I stepped in."

I nodded.

"Honestly..." The band stopped playing, and the person dj'ing put on some unappealing rap music. "It wouldn't have been the same thing had you not joined the festivities."

I smiled.

"I don't like going to shows alone..." I admitted.

"Neither do I," he replied, flirtatiously taking my hand. "Why do you think I started talking to you?"

"Because I'm just some pretty girl?"

"You are a pretty girl," he replied, eliciting another smile by myself. "And I wouldn't accept your beauty any other way."

It started alone. It ended together.

Wallflower

Wallflower

By: Chris Fox

Transcribed from: “Wallflower" by Priscilla Ahn

Off of the album: A Good Day

We're the happily lonesome. Or the unhappily lonely, but the lonely nevertheless. We're the social ghosts of society. We're the not particularly loquacious. We're the desperately seeking friendship. Or the not particularly charismatic, but seeking friendship nevertheless. We're the friends you don't have. We're avid members of the Youth and Beauty Brigade you hear so much about. We're your friends. Or your friend of a friend(s), rather, but we'd like to be considered friends nevertheless. We'd certainly be appreciative, anyway.

It was a party. The good stories always happen at the big get togethers, I guess. It's somewhat ideal, and also somewhat cliché. But people like the stories that are clichéd, and people like the things that are ideal. People just don't notice the cliché and ideal when it confronts them head on, in their own lives. Clichés and idealistic happenings are real, and they're everywhere, and they just love to hit you head on. If you notice them, then maybe you'll be prepared for Prince Charming or the Damsel in Distress that appears before you. Maybe you'll expect it like you should with all clichés and ideals. Maybe you'll savour it. Maybe you'll realize how precious those clichés and ideals are.

It was a party. It was a party because the good stories are always at parties. Because that's where everyone is. That's where everything is happening. It's when everyone is there, and everything is happening, that makes everything much more important. Even if nobody notices. Nobody notices when the hour hand moves; nobody notices when the temperature rises or falls one degree; nobody notices when the moment when a cloud disappears. But just because nobody notices these events, that doesn't make them any less cataclysmicly crucial, nor any less infinitely important. Just because you didn't see it doesn't mean it didn't matter.

It was a party. Just like any party, really. There was music, some stuff you recognized, some you didn't. There were lots of people, some you recognized, some you didn't. There was alcohol there, some you liked, some you didn't. There were conversations, most you heard, none you participated in. It's just how it goes sometimes, for some of us who are the desperately seeking friendship. It's how it goes sometimes, and remember, just because you don't see us doesn't mean we don't see you; just because you don't notice us doesn't mean we aren't important. Well, except for me.

It was a party. Just like any party, really. I was against the wall. I was supposed to come with Kristi - she was supposed to be my ride. But Kristi isn't very dependable, and she never showed up. I almost didn't go to the party - I'm the type not to go to parties when I don't know folks there, and I have no reason to go. But lonely houses crave socialization, and I'm not a particular fan of talking to my walls or ceiling. You can only spend so many days in your apartment before it drives you crazy and you realize you just need to get out and be around other people, whether it's at a 'just like any party,' or at the grocery store, or wherever.

And so, it was a just a party. Just a party that I went to of my own accord, for no reason. I knew of some of the guests, but knew none of them. Just Kaitlin Who?, Jack Huh?, Maggie Hmm?, Tyler Whuh?, Peter Meh?, and the like. I knew their names, and their faces; I didn't know them and they didn't know me (nor my name). And of course there were strangers - strangers - strangers, everywhere. So many! This party was in an apartment, but not like mine. One of the trendy downtown loft apartments. The sort that take up both the sixth and seventh floor, which were rented by hip college kids in their senior year, who had too much money from their parents and loans put together, and decided to burn it all on an expensive hangout where they could get away with things more sophisticated than a frat party, but with an equivalent amount of alcohol.

I was there; it was just a party. I was over along the wall where people wouldn't really notice me. It's not that I was trying to remain unnoticed, it's just how it worked out. I can't say that I'm terribly social, by any means. I'm not incapable of making friends, it's just tough. Tough when you know friends take advantage of your good nature - if you're good natured, that is - which I certainly am.

I had been taken advantage of before. Taken advantage of people who thought it'd be convenient to ask someone for advice; of course, being nice, I gave it to them, hoping - praying - that maybe when I truly needed it, I would receive the same treatment, which I didn't. I had been taken advantage of by boys who thought I'd be convenient for them; of course, being nice (and lonely), I would hug them, and kiss them, and make love to them, hoping - praying - that maybe, when I truly needed it, I would receive the same treatment, which I didn't. I had been taken advantage of, and you get quite used to it. You begin to expect that it will happen.

That's what keeps some of us from making friends. That's why it's so hard, sometimes. Because we know behind that nice smile and those quaint laughs, you're just going to end up hurting us like all the others. Another sad story. We don't want sad stories. We like the happy stories. The happy stories cheer us up so much, and we just want a nice happy story for awhile. It's all we're asking for, we just can't pursue it properly. Pursuing the happy story leads to the sad. So we place ourselves on walls all across the world, at 'just a party' anywhere, begging for someone to treat us right. It's all we want.

And there I was. It was just a party, and I'm by myself, so just excuse me and go about your merry ways. All gallivanting on grape juice, dancing about, and flirting about, and flaunting about. The party had a pulse, and I love the pulse. The pulse is what helps make these sort of affairs more interesting. You feel this odd rush of excitement watching everyone go about their ways. Like watching the video monitor for a camera in a public place: you get to view all the nuances of life and society, without anyone else being the wiser that they're being watched with such depth and detail. It's like being an envoy, watching a foreign country's native customers; it's beautiful in that voyeuristic sort of way.

It's beautiful because you're not involved. It's a grand event, because you don't have to worry about yourself. You just gaze away, checking out all the happenings. Guys who want to get laid, girls who want to get laid - when both of the aforementioned fail at getting laid - guys who want to get drunk, girls who don't know when to stop drinking, social butterflies fluttering around meeting new people, old socialites who were treated like party-going royalty. Yet, you're separated from all this hierarchy - you are a disparate soul - you don't matter. It's perfect. You're not involved. You're ju...

He's looking at me. I was just scanning the room. It was nonchalant. Just a scan, it's what you do as a wallflower. You scan. You quickly glance. Like throwing darts blindfolded, you sweep your eyes across the room. It's just what you do. You don't expect much more out of such a superfluous action. It's just a glance, it's just a sweep, it's just a scan, it's just a party.

Staring, staring, staring, staring. He and I. Our eyes haven't disconnected like they're supposed to. This is unnatural. Why is he looking at me? Why can't I stop looking at him? What's going on? We're breaking so many wallflower ordinances that the judge might as well fine me a thousand ten thousand social points and/or nine months in solitude, and be done with me. But we're staring, rather, I'm staring at him while he stares at me, rather...

Rather, rather, rather, rather; staring, staring, staring, staring. My heart is aching from all the staring. It's beating, beating, beating, beating - begging, begging, begging, begging out loud 'STOP LOOKING RIGHT NOW AKI!' - while my soul is begging, begging, begging, begging "I'VE GOT THINGS I CAN TALK TO YOU ABOUT!" Begging, begging, begging, begging, rather, rather, rather, rather...

And it broke, like a wine glass on a hard floor. Snap. There went the eye contact. The camera was on him, showing his somewhat unshaven, brown eyed face, and he jerks his head camera left; camera switch, now it's me, and i try to bury my face in my black hair which is way to short to hide anything by quickly looking down and to the camera left. I felt my face on fire. I must've been an Asian tomato or something. That was one of the most embarrassing things I can remember in the past year.

I'm such a social klutz. A pathetic, ridiculous, inconceivably childish, social klutz. I just stared - gawked, even - at this boy - who was cute - I seriously admit, he was cute - just a boy - stared - constantly - silly - sad, silly, pathetic, girls staring at boy - headline news - pathetic. I could feel my heart beating so fast. It felt like it was going to explode! Hearts don't beat this fast, do they? Is this normal? Is this typical? Of course it's not typical, I don't look at people - at boys - like that - at places like this - at just a parties - no. No. No, no, no, no. No. No I don't. No. I don't. I. Don't.

But I did, and AHHHHHHHH, what's wrong with me? Why can't I just talk to people? Why is my heart exploding several times? Isn't it only allowed to explode once? Why can't he just talk to me? Why can't I just glance at him? Why did I have to just gawk, gawk, gawk, gawk all the live long day? Why can't I just talk to people like a normal person? Please, may I talk to someone like a normal person? Why can't I just be a normal person? Is he still staring at me? Or was this all contrived? Am I just imagining things? Why is life so complicated? Why can't I just make friends? Why did I come to this party? Why...

"Why?"

"What?" I blubbered it. I blubbered it like a fat, blubbery whale. That's how blubbery I blubbered it. There was so much blubber all over that 'what?' that eskimos would never go hungry again. I blubbered so bad, I almost dropped the soda in my hands; I'm sure at least a little spilled. And it's not just the fact that I blubbered it. That's half the fact. The other half is I completely heard the conversation starter wrong. Why, why, why? I heard why, but actually I should have heard...

"Hi."

"What?" I blubbered.

He laughed. "Hi."

"Oh... hhhhhhh." My neurons suddenly found it completely impossible to form a coherent sentence out of a single word. I drank my soda so fast I almost choked.

"Are you okay?" he asked with another laugh.

"No... I mean yeah... wait. Can we just start over?"

He smiled an unshaven smile. "Sure... hi."

"Hi."

"Well at least that was a better start." He ran his hand through his hair, and turned his back to face the same wall my back was affixed to. "How're you doing tonight?"

"Hi... I mean, fine."

He nodded, "I understand that. I'm not really a party person, myself." He looked like he was. "I ended up coming with a friend. But I have no idea where he wandered off to. I was supposed to get my own ride home anyway, though. So I suppose that works out."

Just keep drinking, and keep listening, and keep pretending like I'm an interesting person. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon. "Yeah, I was supposed to come with someone too. But they couldn't show up. And I mean, my place is right in the same neighbourhood..." Why in the world are you telling a stranger where you live, Aki?! "So... you know... I was just like, why not? Yeah. Something like that."

"Wow, so you live in this neighbourhood, eh? It's kind of a pricey part of town - I envy you. The houses here are nice."

Faux pas time. "Well, like, I'm just in the neighbourhood. Not really in a place like this or anything. I just have a small apartment. My ex and I were living together, and stuff..." Why in the world are you telling a stranger about your ex boyfriend, Aki?! "But he decided he'd move out. And I can afford the place, since it's pretty small. So yeah..."

"Haha, it's cool. I wasn't judging you or anything - sorry if you took it that way." He touched my shoulder, and my whole body tremored with OH MY GOD IT FEELS SO GOOD. "My name's Kevin. What's yours?"

"Aki."

"That's a pretty name. I think it means... bright, right?"

I didn't know. "I don't know, honestly..."

"Is it Japanese? Or am I pretending to know too much about names?"

"No, you're right. It's Japanese." I pretended I wasn't blushing.

"So, Aki..." he began, slowly stopping to search for something to say while looking me up and down while fiddling with his blazer's buttons. "Shall I tell you about myself, or shall I politely ask you to do so?"

"You first."

Another beautiful laugh. It gave me shivers. It made me laugh too. "Fair enough. Well, I'm not from here originally. I came into town from Seattle. Stayed here at a friends place for awhile and realized I loved the weather, and loved the way the city carried itself. It's just so bohemian here... and somehow less cluttered and hectic as up north. Let's see, I have a place over in Oakland now; moved into that friends neighbourhood, actually, but he doesn't live here anymore. Just a place to stay now. I have a nice yard, though, and a dog. And I dabble here and there, as far as jobs go. I majored in journalism, in college, and freelance sometimes. But no proper writing job right now. I just pay the bills however I can manage, mostly by writing manuals for business firms downtown, or internet start-ups who need some proper organization. And... I guess I have a decent online presence; I write for this one blog my friend has set up, where I talk about movies, and stuff; if I write enough in a month, my friend will give me a small cut of the advertisement profits, which doesn't hurt..."

And so on and so forth. I've done what he's doing now, though he's much more fluid than I could ever hope to be. He's opening his social vents, as I like to say. Folks like us - us wallflowers - just don't get many chances to express ourselves to people (that we assume, anyway) will understand us. So when we're given the chance, we tend to just unload on the person listening. It's really relieving and enlivening, actually. Though I can't claim to be as interesting as him. But he's just so beautiful, oh his brown eyes, and oh his brown hair, and he looks built without trying, and I bet he rides a bike a lot, and...

"And so, I believe it's your turn, Aki."

"Huh?" He's saying that it's my turn to talk. "Oh, you mean, it my turn to talk, duh. Wellllllllllllll..." I'll spare you the long-winded blubber I forced him to endure. I basically just told how I'm still young, with a business degree, and want to set up a decent website, but still need to find a proper graphic designer, thus in the mean time I fill my time with writing in a diary, and writing poetry, and wandering around the internet looking at videos, and reading reading reading reading listen to me drop all these authors I love and oh, I guess I don't have much more to say, so yeah.

"That's really interesting though. I think that website would be a great idea when you get it off the ground. I could try to see who designed my friends site, if you'd like? I could also see if he'd like to feature it or something, whenever you get started. Again, if you'd be interested?"

"Yeah, that may work." Stroke my neck, stroke my neck, play with my necklace, play with my bracelet, this is really hard, he's so cute...

"You're kind of soft-spoken, you know?" he said. I knew.

"I know... I'm just... not very good at meeting people, is all."

"Letdowns in the past?"

I actually didn't expect him to say something like that. Mostly because it sounds like exactly what I would've asked myself if I were him in this situation. "Yeah, actually. It's just... hard to trust people sometimes, you know?"

"Well... I know we just met, and I know that this may seem bold. But you can trust me." He touched me again and I felt my whole body grow warm, as if heated by a jolt of lightning. "I've just been through a lot of the same stuff. I've had a bad choice in friends, in the past. It gets tough to meet people after you've been bruised."

"Yes!" I said too loudly. I calmed myself considerably before continuing. "You just want so live the corners of the room so desperately. But it's not so easy, like all these other folks. We just need help. People like me, that is, I mean, us. Y'know."

"I do," he replied. And that reply was followed by a silence, yet, somehow, it didn't feel uncomfortable. One of those ever-so-rare exchanges of silence as the rest of the party busied itself with its own concerns, as parties do. He looked at me, and naturally, I looked back at him. And our eyes met, and they started talking too. But they felt comfortable enough for the both of us. And I felt content for the first time in a very long time.

"Is it tough?" I asked, unable to contain my curiosity. "Is it tough to come over here and talk to some strange girl you don't know at all. Just praying that they are willing to talk back? Isn't it terrifying."

"Absolutely. I can't stand it, it's so scary. But... if I didn't do that, I wouldn't be talking to you right now. You know?"

I smiled. I felt perfect.

I got trampled. Not metaphores there, I definitely got trampled. Some jock who had obviously graduated but still longed for the pigskin flopped drunkenly at me. He rammed me hard, and my soda went everywhere on the floor, much to the jeers of nearby onlookers. I almost fell, but is some massive acrobatic display, Kevin somehow managed to stop my fall, wrap his arms entirely around me, basically catch me, pull me upright next to his warm body, all without spilling his drink at all. I wanted to say so many things that would have only come out as awkward, so I made a huff, and buried my head into his plaid shirt, embarrassed.

Another beautiful laugh. "You okay?"

"Thanks... I'm such a klutz."

"You're not. He was. Don't worry about it." He gave me a reassuring hug, and my heart felt alive.

And it just felt perfect. It's so hard to get this sort of satisfaction. One in five million tries. Wallflowers don't have this sort of luck. But I did tonight. I wanted to break into dance right where I stood. I couldn't if I wanted to though, because Kevin left his arm dangling across my shoulder, and unless he wanted to be America's next best dancer with me, by saving my klutz self, I shouldn't try a solo performance with him still attatched to me. Besides, I wouldn't do anything to sever that arm from me at this point. I couldn't help but smile giddly like a fourteen year old school girl.

"I know this is really abrupt, but it seems that this party is getting a bit too loud for my tastes. Would you..."

"I don't... really want to sleep with you," was what I found spilling out of my mouth.

"I hope not, at the pizza shop down the street I was going to invite you to."

"Sorry... I just... I've had problems like this before."

"You don't really need to worry about those problems. Honestly. Let's get out of here, and grab a bite to eat. And maybe if I'm lucky, you'll give me your number after we're done, and by the time you get to your apartment, I'll call you goodnight. Maybe even wake you up in the morning, if you're the type to like those cutesy good morning messages on your phone."

"To hell with that. I like my sleep." How witty, Aki. I was probably just drunk on his kind words, not that I was complaining.

"Again, fair enough! So, are you interested? Want to leave?"

"I'm very interested. And definitely."

We smiled. He took my hand. Walk, walk, walk, walk through a park to his car, which he parked far away. But it gave him time to flirt with me more and make my heart beat, beat, beat, beat faster than my feet on the sidewalks. It's that love at first sight feeling, which is so cheesy, and cliché. But a little birdy told me - earlier tonight, before events transpired - that people like clichés. I do. I love them. Love them.

Absinthe Party At The Fly Honey Warehouse

Absinthe Party
At The Fly Honey Warehouse

By: Chris Fox

Transcribed from: “Absinthe Party At The Fly Honey Warehouse" by Minus the Bear

Off of the album: Highly Refined Pirates

It smells different here. Even something so subtle as the smell has changed with the distance. The air itself literally has an entirely different scent to it - an entirely different quality at its core. I'm not saying that just because there's less pollution than in the States; that's a bit of trivia I couldn't claim to be privy of; the cities around the Puget Sound tend to be better off than most places though.

My parents once had a house out north-east of Portland, somewhere off the Oregon Coast Highway, and there wasn't much pollution there either. That cabin and that land had it's own smell too. A more distinctly American smell, though I couldn't tell you what aspect of North America made it seem more Western Hemisphere than north-central Europe. Maybe it was the Pacific ocean coming, and scent of the salty water and wet beaches wafting in with the rains, filtering through the forests. Maybe it was the deer that walked up our back porch - curious onlookers of a human lifestyle - enviously peering through the glass. But there, it smelled like pine trees, and roasted turkey, and rain. Here it smells like coffee, and cakes, and freshly mowed lawns.

It's wonderful how that change of latitude and longitude in the world can change such subtitles you may normally take for granted. But that's why people say they need a change of pace, right? To alter their perspective to see if the light comes through the windows at a different angle, and they can take better stock of their surroundings with the new ambiance. There I was, sitting around in my Apartment in Tacoma, when I get a call from my friend on the north side Seattle. His name was Rostam. Cool guy, suave, loves poker, chess, and books like The Great Gatsby, Sputnik Sweetheart, and Franny and Zooey; drives a car I wish I had, and has all the connections I wish I had.

Rostam is the magnetic north for all who reside in Washington; if you didn't keep a real compass on hand, you might think the Elliot Bay was the North Pole. He was the glue that successfully held my the friendships of my best friends from high school together. How do you show thanks to someone so magnificently endowed as to be the catalyst of an entire friendship, or multiple ones at that? It's one thing to introduce Miles to Kelly, or to introduce Diane to Mia, and Taylor to Abby. That was easy for Rostam. But when six different people go in four separate directions, all across the country, Rostam is the only sort of person who could manage to keep all happily in close contact, as if none had left to begin with.

Rostam happened to be from a nice family - an immigrant family that made their wealth off of North American shores while residing in Canada - and he took advantage of their kindness and wealth respectively, respectfully. He had travelled to every continent except Antarctica by the time he was fourteen. Born in India, childhood in London, teen years in Montréal, and two pivitol years in a lackluster public school in Seattle.

And the call came. "Guy! Long time, no see!"

"Hello to you too," I replied. "It has been awhile though. How have you been?"

"Busy!" Rostam hollered across the phone lines. "Busy planning! Two weeks; you busy?"

"Just work... And life... et cetera. Why?"

"Life is about to get more interesting. Because I have plane tickets."

"Are you visiting family in Montréal?"

"I'll definitely be in Montréal, but not for family," Rostam hummed in that swaggering way that extremely confident people tend to. "Montréal to London, and London to Amsterdam. You, me, and the whole gang. Interested?"

And so there we were, all sitting, all laughing together at some table at some café by a canal. Amsterdam. There it was in all its splendour. The distance between Seattle and Amsterdam is the sort of distance that you need to travel to understand how small and insignificant you are. You realize that a few hundred miles - like Seattle to Vancouver - is a completely different world, and if you travel a couple thousand miles, there is hardly any resemblance or comparison to whatever naive world you thought you understood.

"Where are we?!" Rostam cried like an obnoxious American with a strange English accent blend.

"Amsterdam!" we all cried as our barista couldn't help but laugh. The barista, who had a thick Dutch accent and spoke fluent English, shook her long blonde hair out of her face and asked if we needed anything else. Mia told her no; I couldn't help but smile.

Miles was an old friend from elementary school. We've been around each other for longer than either of us can remember; it's that clichéd best friend story you've heard over and over your entire life. We even decided to attend the same college, but we both were firmly against dorm life. We escaped that tomb as fast as we could, and luckily, Rostam stayed in Washington with us. He helped us afford a very nice, big house - far too large for the three of us - which Rostam hardly saw the sight of, busy elsewhere.

In junior year, Rostam had really been boasting about how wonderful Washington was, and like a noxious gas, odorless, his words crept quietly into Diane. She had moved to Illinois with Taylor to attend at University of Chicago, and though they had broken up from their high school relationship, they were both craving a warm cup of nostalgia to soothe their midwestern-chilled hearts. They returned to Seattle, transferring and joining us, and not alone. Taylor brought Abby - he had a crush on her since middle school - tucked in tow, and Diane brought Mia.

Mia, Mia, Mia, Mia, Mia, Mia.

What can I say? It's love. Love is strange, because it never will go as planned. Freshman year, high school; eighth day of school, Miles and I met Rostam, and Rostam lead us to Mia; led me to Mia. Brown hair, freckled, braces, and she was my best friend next to Miles. We were always together, even in our big group of friends, when we'd whisper comments to each other in secrecy to the rest. At sleepovers, we shared beds or sleeping bags like it was second nature - as if it were obligatory. We knew each others bodies like they were our own, yet we were entirely platonic. It was just closeness; it was just friendship; it was just love.

And I hated it. She was gorgeous. I saw it, though she didn't. I saw her inner beauty when she cursed herself as 'not being worth it.' I saw when she turned to other boys who only ended up stringing her along and hurting her. Boys who stomped, twisted, and uncouthly bended her gentle edges with their libido-inspired agendas. I didn't see her clothes delicately slide to the floor in a slump of cotton, and denim, and elastic, and lace while she climbed into beds to have her naked heart rudely molested. I did see her, shirt still unbuttoned, pants still unzipped, crying in my arms about the things perverted boys would do when boys will be boys.

And I could do nothing more than hug her, and hold her weakened soul and tired body in my arms, her fragrant scent mixed with alcohol, smoke, and boy, and let her violently weep into me, until she fell unconscious on my shoulder while we still sat on the couch - she sobbed, even in her dreams and nightmares - nightmares of ruthless villains taking advantage of her, no doubt. I was a bystander, certainly not innocent, and certainly idle, but rather helpless to fix the situation. She was hurt. I could fix her hurt. But i couldn't make her love me, which was the only way I could help. I remained silent and let my cotton shirts get soaked by the sobs of boys gone by, one after the other, over the years.

Mia was injured by the masculine community of the Puget Sound. Battered, beaten, and bruised, she knew that if she remained in the American Northwest, the clouds covering the sun every single day would surely smother her with suffocation, and the boys would slowly wither and whittle her away, day by day, until there was only a hollowed cavern where her heart used to be. In her mind, a change of pace and scenery outside her bedroom window was not simply imperative, but a requirement to ensure her survival.

She considered her options: Austin, Los Angeles, Miami, New York City, Toronto. She would have gone anywhere if she were simply attempting to abandon, but in fact, she was simply trying to escape. She knew she wouldn't last long away from her friends; she settled to join Diane and Taylor in Chicago, and like the sun in Seattle, she was gone. But they were back: Lake Michigan was too bitter chilled and Chicagoland too broad; as much as they felt a dull lack of enthusiasm on the shores of Commerce and Elliot Bay, they longed for it; they resettled in the same city as Rostam, Miles and I.

I hadn't heard much from Mia, save for brief phone calls and exchanged emails every month or so; she had grown very distant in her time away. I soon learned that Mia only experienced hurt in Chicago. I soon learned that all she left in Chicago was a shoe and frozen tears when the wind chill dipped twenty below. She dated five boys in those two years. Two were cheaters, one was a beater, one was a liar, and the other scared her to half to death when the condom broke, though she was saved from a pregnancy by the whims of God himself, no doubt. She told me none of this in our slight conversations over the years, and none of it when she returned to Seattle, for the longest time. She remained distant even though she was so close to home; that unbreakable bond was still there, surely, but she had resigned to solitude instead of openness.

As if fate intended to end it for her with a coup de grace, she fell in love in our junior year. A man named Toby - they dated until the winter of our senior year. She spent the time with him happy - a bent form of the happiest I had so longed to see in her again - the happiness of yesteryear and high school smiles - but happy nevertheless. They spent that year and a half dating until he broke her heart, once more, another liar, and another cheater; one last attempt to strangle the life and love out of her, and this time it worked. I had helped her when she cried before, but I had never seen her like that. She opened up to express her sadness, but only for a night. Then she retreated to solitude of the soul once more, and after our graduation, she melted into the populous of Seattle, a faceless ghost in a crowd. I heard nothing from her for years.

But here she was. She accidentally spilled hot coffee on Rostam at the café, and he laughed it off, as he blabbered something loudly to the public of Amsterdam. Her smile was different - crooked - dented - but honest. She smiled her smile like a broken mirror at the mirror of the canal water, which mirrored the sky, which mirrored life back upon itself, unable to escape into the abyss of the ethereal stratosphere. We were all encased in the silver mirror of overcast in a foreign home the likes of which comprehension of distance could never be comprehended by our feeble lovestruck minds. Love was infantile compared to this distance.

Yet love, for me, at least, was even more precious due to that impermanent feeling.

We look good side by side. We look like we were meant to be to begin with. As if there were ways to rewrite stories. But the good stories - the ones that folks who are less keen on their literary habits would claim as being all fluff - are chock full of one thing, one important factor like a thread, that holds the very fabric of the entire plot together: history. That fluffy stuff is the history of the whole affair, the most important part. History is its own story, but the ink is permanent, and there's no taking back the scribble-outs or blotched ink.

We look good side by side. We should have been side by side, throughout life. Because I would've always treated her right, in the way these other boys could never have dreamed in their childish cerebellums. Their ridiculous thought processes couldn't even conceive the care that she would have received. But she never liked me, not like that. It was platonic. That's just how it was, whether anyone liked it or not; whether I liked it or not. Maybe I just wasn't charming enough, or maybe I wasn't fine enough, or maybe I wasn't perfect enough for her. But she was perfect for me. I was imperfect, and so was she. But she was perfect in that imperfection, a diamond regardless of what type of stone she actually may have been.

We look good side by side. We're all walking back to the hotel in some crazed mob of intercontinental tourists not ready to be cooped up in four walls. And we couldn't be so easily contained.

"We can't go home yet," Rostam kept bellowing while he thumbed through his phone on the internet.

"It'd be great to experience the city for what it is!" Abby said, clutching Taylor by the waist.

"Yeah, the real deal," Kelly agreed, "No more of this tourist stuff. Where should we go?"

Miles cried out with excitement, "There's got to be some sort of club or party, or something. Rostam, where are we heading?"

"I just found it. It's right here, off the Paleisstraaat, close to a canal. We can take the the train straight there and walk a block."

"What's the place called?"

"The Fly Honey Warehouse."

"Well it's right down the way!" cried Diane.

Taylor hollered, "Then let's get out of here. Let's go straight there."

And we were off, down the tight knit streets, through the crowds that cluttered the cobblestone and brick streets. They broad-shouldered the natives, as one would expect the Americans to do. But then again, they weren't trying to be inconspicuous by any means. Mia was inconspicuous, as she always seemed to be after her delicate youth that ended in her retreat from Seattle. But then again, she wasn't trying to get noticed. I noticed her.

She walked behind the others as they sang and jeered loudly - catching every eyeshot on the street - and walked with a smirk on her face and her vision downcast as the orange lamps slowly flickered on. I tailed behind the rest of the group to walk with her.

We didn't need to speak. We didn't even gaze upon each other. Just walked. Walked and took in the life of the city around us. Took in the pulse of this place, with its difference. Different smells, different water, different sky, different soil, different lives, different souls.

We came to a canal and crossed it on the bridge, cars honking wildly while taxis vied for customers off the street like pedestrian vultures. A tall, oblong truck with Dutch on the side romped across the bridge obesely close to the curb, and in a natural reaction, Mia hopped from the curb into me very lightly, wrapping her arms in mine. It went by with more angry honks from the taxis on the other side of the street. The danger passed, but she didn't let go. She knew she didn't need to. I felt her hand smoothly slipped into mine, and we continued to walk behind our friends. We still didn't speak. She knew she didn't need to.

And it came, resounding. Ever so natural as a glacier splitting or an avalanche tumbling, yet ever so subtle as a tuning fork in an empty room or a bell in a cathedral. She spoke. Just three words. "I needed this." She didn't make it clear if she was talking about a change, the trip we were on, or myself. She knew she didn't need to.

We walked, and walked, and walked, and I didn't need to be anywhere else than there. We heard the others hollering something about absinthe, and we just laughed at how normal they still seemed to us; how familiar, even after all the years, and all the changes; how happy we all were, and how perfect we all fit together, like some abstract puzzle that could only make sense when it was all together. The others walked so fast that they somewhat left us behind, and we missed our chance to cross a road. I saw Rostam and Miles waving at us, telling us to meet them at a different street corner. We both shook our heads; they shrugged and ambled on, the gadabouts they were. We went to a bench on the canal and sat down. We held each other. We stayed quiet and let the world speak for us.

She smelled different here. Even something so subtle as her smell had changed with the distance. Her body and soul literally had an entirely different scent to it - an entirely different quality at her core. I'm not saying that just because I love her, and I'm not saying that because I never had any feasible way to express that in any way more than friends until now. I say it because the change is so defined. Before she smelled like strawberries, and youth, and coconut, and life; she now smelled of mint, and age, and vanilla, and life. She smelled like home. She smelled right. She felt right. She was right.

"I was right."

She said it so quietly, I could have missed it were I not focusing every ounce of myself on her. "Right about what?"

"That nothing could change you. I knew nothing could. Remember when I said that?"

"You said it at graduation, I think."

"That's right," she said quietly with a nod, "graduation. 'You'll never change, Guy. And that's a good thing.' I still remember that moment very clearly."

A boat passed behind us in the canal. Tourists on it flashed photographed. It was like the stars descended to earth in the minuscule flashes of light. "Why's that, do you think?"

"Because it's when I felt a strange push, I think." She looked down at the floor. It was as if she were symbolically smoking a cigarette, in that way smokers poison their pain with carcinogens. Her pain was raw and strongly felt though; one could tell by her sad look at the bricks on the street. Someone on the road laughed. "My whole life, I had always felt this pull. A powerful, magnetic pull, all my life. But I never knew what it was. What caused this pull? Where was I being pulled, what was pulling me, and why was I being pulled there?

"I couldn't have known." She went extremely quiet again. The city beat a few heartbeats while mine stopped as I held my breath on her every word. "It was at that moment, though, where I felt a push. No longer was I drawn, but I was repulsed. And before I knew what was happening, I found myself in a city I didn't understand, with people I thought I understood, living a life that could never been comprehended.

"I did things. Things that I'm not proud of. Things I'd rather not speak of, either. Things I regret. Things I enjoyed. Things I wish I didn't enjoy. Things that were worth it in the end. Things that gave me experience." Another silence, this one short. "Maybe it was spontaneity, maybe it was stupidity. I don't know. But I was pushed away to such a far off extremity - so far from everything that made even the slightest bit of sense to me - for a reason. A reason I still don't understand."

Quiet except for the city. Some people across the street ran into each other at such a pace that they dropped the bags they were carrying. They both apologized in completely different languages. "The true oddity of it all," she began again, "was that as soon as I had been guided away by that strange shove, I felt magnetized once more. I needed to go back. I needed to set something straight. But I was being tugged in two directions. As if my past and future were playing tug of war with my present." She laughed, and mumbled something about how she was always terrible with analogies.

"You haven't changed," I told her, stroking her hair and back. "You're still so well spoken."

"I have changed quite a bit, in some ways. In others, I feel like a rock: never moving. Maybe like a rock that was thrown. I don't know... more bad analogies. Anyway..." Pause. "The pull. It was so strong. I struggled to follow the pull, but was kept back by some push. Like fate was toying with me."

"Don't they say that fate is the way it is to teach you a lesson," I asked.

"I used to think so. But I used to think that you could alter your fate if you tried. I feel like there's a grander scheme to things. Did Rostam tell you how he got ahold of me?"

I shoot my head. "He didn't. You know how he is."

"I do," she laughed, and as if the bystanders walking past us on the bench had awestruck by such a perfect laugh, everyone grew silent, only for a moment. "I was at the airport when he called. About to leave. I was at my gate and everything."

"Where were you going?" I looked at her, confused, wanting to know what was going through that conceptual mind of hers.

"Away. Somewhere I knew nobody. I was looking for clarity. For the source of the pull. And I was desperate for sense. I was going to fly across the country and hope sense was waiting at my hotel. Or something. I almost missed the call. I was holding the power button down, ready to board as soon as they began calling. And then sense slapped me in the face. Sense said, answer it. And they started boarding the plane, but I knew sense was on the other end of the call.

"And I answered, and it was Rostam. And the first name he mentioned, out of everyone coming here to Amsterdam, was yours. And I had never seen clearer in my life. All at once, my heart felt content to be itself. It wasn't being pushed or pulled anywhere. It was where it was supposed to be. Right here," she pointed to her chest. She smiled. I hadn't seen that smiles... in years.

"Right here," she said again. "It was here, and I knew why."

"I'm why?" I asked.

"It made so much sense. Nothing had ever made that much sense before. That whole plane ride, you were there. And you spoke to Taylor, and Rostam, and Miles, and everyone. But when we were taking off, you watched me grip the seat desperately nervous for us to just get into the air. When we landed, that gaze of yours watched me until my breathing slowed. Whenever my heart was broken in the past, I knew I could go to you.

"I didn't take that for granted. Honestly, I didn't. But I didn't understand what that feeling was. That feeling of permanence. It's not the same kind of permanent, like with my sister, or little brother. Not the same as my parents. It's as if the sort of permanence I felt with you, Guy, was so perfect... The only thing as permanent as you would have to be myself."

She laughed again. She hadn't stopped smiling. I didn't realize how close she was holding onto me, her arms warpped around my waist. It was as if she tied my up in herself. And it's as if my hand fit perfectly where it gently rested on her, like a puzzle piece. Perfect. There was an eternal silence for a moment. I have no idea how long it might have lasted. You lose track in moments like these.

"Thank you," she said, and kissed my cheek.

"Why? For what?"

"For loving me. Forever. Even when I didn't love you back."

She let go of me, and stood, taking me by both hands. "I would never have stopped loving you. Life wouldn't make sense without you."

She quoted me, "'Life wouldn't make sense without you...'" She began to walk hand in hand with me, who knows where still talking.

"'Life wouldn't make sense without you...' I know that now guy. You've known that for a long time. And that was the point. You were the push and pull. Because you knew, and I had to know. And I know."

Our foreign home kept beating. My heart kept beating. It was in harmony, as was she, as was I, as were we.

"Thanks for waiting."

Andy, You're A Star

Andy,
You're A Star

By: Chris Fox

Transcribed from: “Andy, You're A Star" by The Killers

Off of the album: Hot Fuss

Boys will be boys, or something like that. And the boys were being boys, in all the splendour of masculine hilarity. They jumped around in their jockstraps and cups, they threw their shinguards at each other in gay festival (though obviously, not that way). The red Gatorade now soaked the sweat stained floors as boys being boys jumped on top of each other, riding each other like wild animals. It was beautiful if you understood boys, and that they will be themselves - that is to say - boys.

It was beautiful because it was a celebration. A victory! It was another game in a perfect season. This year, the football team had been the reigning champions since the lights in the stadiums were first turned on; since the marching bands had only begun to arrange this year's extravagant display for the half time shows. School spirit came in spades, and the bleachers were filled every single Friday night with banners, and cheers, and 'Ra ra Raiders! A riot on the fields! Show these losers how the Raiders feel! Rip 'em down! Wrap it up! Go Raiders!'

And all season, my popularity throughout Luther Gambol High had been rising like a hot air balloon. When you're the lucky one who has the prestigious honour of speaking in the morning announcements, and are the lead editor on The Raider's Review, you tend to receive avid acclaim from your educational peers for delivering news of victory after victory on the football field. Oh, how they love the sporting life. And with my ravings for our star football team in the school news paper, with the constant fusillade of success, the pep rallies got larger; the attendance at the games grew larger; our team did better. Not that I'm necessarily the direct and our team did better. Not that I'm necessarily the direct cause, of course, but I certainly allowed the wild beast to thrive even further.

Excuse me, where are my manners? Keifer Robinson, executive editor of Luther Gambol High School's newspaper, The Raider's Review. And as boys were being boys in the locker room, after the semifinal victory, the coach walked into the room to give a speech praising his loyal team. It was very cliche, or course, and sounded like a scene stolen from Friday Night Lights. But this is a cliche, and the team was victorious under Friday night lights. I took quotes for the follow-up piece in the next edition of the Review. After the speech, the celebration continued. This was my fortunate opportunity to snag some exclusive interviews with some of the players. Of course, though, there was only one person I really wanted to talk to.

"You know dawg? What can I say? We be breakin' it down this year - niggas be trippin' when they gotta play us - shit," confided sophomore wide receiver superstar Toby 'Tank' James. "And nigga - like - them bitches ain't got shit on us, boy."

"And you will be playing Capital Tech in the upcoming game?"

"Yeah nigga! Shit, them niggas gonna be feelin' the hurt on Friday, son. Ain't gonna be no squabble, kid - know what I'm sayin' nigga? - the game already be over before it started."

"Very cool, very cool," I said with a scribble into a small notepad. "Very insightful, Mr. James. I feel that, bro." I had bigger fish to fry though. "Hey, do you know which way Andy Hook went?"

"Shit, not sure nigga. I think that nigga be outside now." I thanked the tank and turned on my heels toward the exit, but he swallowed my shoulder in the grasp of his tremendous hand. "Yonigga, you gonna be quotin' me in the paper?"

"Well, I need to squeeze in a lot of info - of course - but I'll certainly do my best to fit you in there." My comment rang like stale sarcasm, but the Tank isn't equipped for this sort of high tech sabotage.

"Shit nigga, you cool." Tank quickly assailed me with a complex handshake that I bumbled through before quickly exited the room toward the parking lot. I hurried past the crowd of people who made their way to the busy concrete Savannah filled cars honking wildly like a pack of violent, hungry animals.

He was there, across the way, in a red convertible owned by his father. The car was surrounded by a riotous mob of adoring fans, who whistled and screamed his name with communal admiration. Andy hung out of the top - a girl in a dress that matched the car adjacent - a smile emblazoned on his face as his tough, muscular body glimmered with sweat under the stadium lights.

With a great deal of cheering, he dropped his legendary body into the driver's seat, started the car, and reved his engines violently. With an abrupt start and wildly squealing tires, he flew out of the parking lot like an airplane that can break the sound barrier, honking all the way.

That was not love. That was fleeting. That was convenience. Convenience is wildly driving away from a victorious football game with a cheerleader to go have sex in the backseat somewhere in the woods outsideParkersville before driving her back to Kicksville. Convenience is having sex with a different girl every week only because your the most popular guy in school.

This is love. Love is holding passionate feelings for someone you can never have. Love is pursuing someone who is not just indifferent, but is completely unaware of your existence. This is love, Andy, so promise me she's not your one. Cause Andy Hook, you're a star.

I need to meet him. I need to have an interview.


Monday, AP Physics, just outside the classroom, there he was. He strutted down the hallways of Luther Gambol High with an air of confidence basking him like he was plagued in joy, a girl perched on either arm. Like a journalistic linebacker, I rushed him.

"Andy! Andy Hook!"

He craned his neck past his cranes, glancing at me over his shoulder. He looked at me queerly before doing anything. "Yeah?"

"I wanted to have a word," I returned now that I was within nominal speaking distance. "Keifer Robinson - The Raider's Review."

"Hey, you're the guy who does the announcements, right?"

"That would be me."

Hook shook his branches and his birds flew away. He came close to me, body spray billowing off his body, his shirt tight on his unfathomably perfect physique, his hair in majestic blond waves across his head.

"What's up?"

He was so casual. So nonchalant. So perfectly chiseled out of stone by some omnipresent deity to taunt the rest of us callow peasants with his angelic beauty. I was sent into a stuttering fit, but recovered as hastily as could be managed.

"I... I... Hi, I mean. I wanted to ask you a few questions about your invariably amazing game against our esteemed opponents at JefferyWeems High. The performance your team put on was quite astounding, I must say."

He gazed back at me with an expression I couldn't exactly decipher. I continued, "Also, I thought since the homecoming game was quickly approaching, this weekend, that you and I could do a special feature interview of the Raider's star quarterback - yourself - of course - for the Raider's Review. Something of a before and after piece after our most important game of the year."

That gaze. That penetrating, mystifying, tormenting gaze. He gazed at me unblinking with that masked, curious gander for several seconds. I felt uncomfortable - as if I offended him, or had said something wrong, or rude or insulting - I couldn't tell. I couldn't just sit and let him dissect me like a biology frog.

"So I mean, if you're interested."

"Yeah, man," he finally replied, and I couldn't help but exhale. "We can do that. But like, I've got class in two minutes."

"Oh yes, of course. What say we meet up later this week?"

"I'm pretty busy," Andy said, as if, though he held interest, he was growing predisposed to not be troubled at all.

"If you can find time. It was just an idea I had for the paper, and to give you some well earned press."

He grew quiet again, visually mulling the scheme over. "Alright, I guess I can do it. But I've get to class right now."

I was elated, but didn't show so on my face. Must stay professional, mustn't we? "I'm perfectly contented with that. I'm free any time, all week long. Leave your number on my locker and I'll give you a call; locker number 218; hopefully I'll hear from you soon." While speaking, I quickly scrawled my locker number into my pocket journal, tearing the page out for him. He nodded at the paper, quickly sliding it into his back pocket.

"I guess I will call. Probably later... later today..." He was interrupted as a young girl with fiery locks wrapped her arms around his own, and locked lips like the front door without inhibition whatsoever, tongue and all. I cringed, but on the inside, of course; if your heart could physically cringe, I suppose that would be the feeling I felt. "Look man, I've gotta go."

"Of course. Certainly. I'll await your call, to convene with you thereafter," I blubbered. '...to convene with you thereafter?' Who am I? Eyre?

He walked off, the girl with her hand in his back pocket, no doubt fondling my phone number which rested neatly against his posterior. I hurried to class.

And my heart entered an emotional cavern the likes I had never seen, and my breath shortened like an asthmatic kitten; my life grew quiet like a folk song, and my mind diminished into a slew of thoughts, all painted colours of oil on canvas, contouring in no particular shape - a dazzling rainbow of coruscating illumination - as I saw him enter his classroom, and as my feet absentmindedly carried me toward mine own. I rubbed my eyes under my glasses and stared upon a blackboard filled with equations and calculations the likes of no soul could ever comprehend. And so it passed.

"Hey man..." his voice rang out. But to ascertain, his voice rang out two days later - Wednesday - as I lay in bed, typing violently on my laptop. I had inattentively answer the phone without establishing the caller, and almost yelped with shock as soon as I heard his choral articulation.

"Oh, hi! I mean... Hi... I mean, hello!" I stammered like the buffoon I was. My glasses slid off my nose, and in a futile attempt to retrieve them, I dropped the phone, which clacked loudly against the aluminum casing of my laptop. I quickly snatched the phone up. "I mean... sorry, I mean. Why hello there, Mr. Hook. I mean Andy... Hook? Um..."

Why yes, I was that helpless. I'm pleased you witnessed that, honestly.

"Andy is fine."

"Andy. Greeting, Andy." 'Greetings?' Who am I? Meloy? "I hope you call in good spirits, at least." I mustered desperately trying not to embarrass myself more. I only then realized I was without trousers at the moment, as was my habit when I was alone at night in my room at home, and I felt insurmountably self-conscious in seconds.

"Right... yeah, anyway, I'd be down for the interview thing. But I don't know when a good time would be, at least before the game, like you'd said." He spoke very monotonously, which was queer for him indeed. But I had a hunch he wasn't the telephonic type. To better him, I quickly affirmed I would rush through this conversation thereon.

I bumbled about my room, phone in hand, attempting to slide myself into pants to little avail, as I spoke. "I see. I understand, though. I had presumed you would call earlier in the week, so we would have more of an opportunity to plan."

"Yeah, dude, sorry about that. I had a date with one of the flag corp girls - Rosaline - on Tuesday, and then with this one girl from Intrepid High, in Central City - her name was... Stephanie, or Stacy, or Stella - or some shit like that - I can't remember - and I haven't had much free time. Especially with practice and everything. Like you said, a big game."

That wasn't a direct quote, but I decided not to call him on it. I also mentally noted how many sexual diseases he may have garnered, but quickly shook the thought away. "Oh yeah, I completely understand. You're a very busy man. Well, I assume today is a wash. Are you free tomorrow."

He mumbled to himself of plans, though the actual words were predominately inaudible over the phone. Like, I'm supposed to chill with this chick at lunch - some girl fromKicksville High; I'm skipping the last half of school, because I think she has a friend, and we're all going to smoke out or something. And then that night, I have this party."

I wasn't exactly in the party scene, by any measure, but even I knew how audacious a party in the middle of the week was. "On a Thursday? That's strange."

"It is. Like, y'know that drug guy the principal has been yammering about?" I did. Apparently, the guy he referred to was a woman from Portland who was an ex-meth addict; a rough and ragged shell of her former self, she apparently did tours to high schools across the nation to educate against drug use. Also, Andy said yammering. I was proud, for some very strange reason.

"Well," he continued, "the homecoming pep rally should obviously be Friday. But this guy is coming on in and taking over the auditorium all day. Whatever... So the team has organized this righteous party to pump us up for the game since we can't celebrate Friday. It'll be with some guy Tank knows in Central City, inNorthview or somewhere in that ritzy district by the lake; some really bad ass loft or somethin'."

"That's enthralling," I retorted quickly. I had a feeling he was ditching me, and I was feeling down. With consolation to myself, I had finally managed myself into my pants, though it offered little.

"Wait!" he cried. "Dude, totally! Why don't you come?"

"Me? Come? To the party? Um... me? To that party? The one in Northview? Really? Me?" I had never heard myself ask so many questions at one time, not even when I had interviewed Gibbard during his solo tour.

He laughed. His laugh was harmonic. " You ask a lot of questions, dude." His voice was no longer monotonic, which made the blood weaving its way to my heart simmer from within - I could feel my carotid artery shading my face a diligent shade of rouge. "Yeah, you should come. Everyone from school will be there. A few kegs, plenty of space to chill. And we can find some place out of the way in the house to chat for a bit."

The following emotions are indescribable in the English language. Know that.

"Ab... ab... absolutely. That sounds like a splendid idea."

"Sweet, dude. It'll work out, I know it. Seven-thirty, 330 Pleasant Grove, Northview, Central City. The zip code is, like, 51329, so you can look it up on the net. I'll see you then, bro."


The trip out of Kickville wasn't a long one. I meandered through the rush hour traffic until I was sailing smoothly northeast toward Central City, a slew of cars heading in the opposite direction, honest people with good jobs in the big city who were desperately seeking solace out of the Mile City Metroplex. The Mile City Metro was right down the highway, only twenty-five miles or so; the darkening countryside was quickly illuminated by countless streetlights lining the highway, and the sky glowed orange. I passed endless neighbourhoods until I reached the Loop, which I took around the west side of Central City - the downtown like a siren in the distance, trying to lure me inward with it's pretty lights on the horizon - and slowly made my way to Northview.

After squabbling with my driving peers until I found my exit, I sifted my way through the many neighbourhoods on the north side of Central City. The north side of the city was lined with Great Lake, an infinitely large body of water that was begging to be called an ocean, or a sea, at very least. I was soon in Northview, a neighbourhood - as Andy had described - as very glitzy and glamourous. The blocks stretched long here, with houses that could make any president or CEO feel at home. I finally arrived at the house; I buzzed in at the brick gate, and was quickly let in; the brick driveway had to be nearly a quarter mile long, more like a park, lined with trees.

The house itself was an extravagant affair. Three stories tall, windows everywhere, it was a monolith very near the lake; it must have had its own pier, judging by the size. There were cars scattered throughout the circular driveway, easily more than thirty haphazardly parked in any number of directions. I could hear the shouting and hollering of teenage frivolity before I even turned my car off. The tremendous house and the entire situation was reminiscent of Gatsby's Estate, albeit a bit less mature.

Within the confines of this gregarious abode, party-goers whom I recognized immediately (but who did not recognize me), gaily danced and ambled about frivolously, a deafening chatter filling the entire house. The interior was festooned with gold, from the marble floors, to the maple tables, to the diamond studded chandelier. Red plastic cups were being kicked at random on the floor, and I could never total the sum of all the cigarettes on the floor; the entire house reeked of alcohol, marijuana, and tobacco, respectively to the intensity of the scent.

I made my way to the prodigious garden that was the backyard, complete with a fountain that was filled with several drunk girls in white dresses, their clothing now see-through, revealing their scandalous - also white - now also transparent - thongs underneath, as well as their lack of a brassiere. They splashed each other drunkenly, as well as a group of guys in suits who looked drunk and cranky as they smoked like chimneys. A woman in a dress that was redder than Mars - who I assumed was the lady of the house, judging by her age, easily over forty - was strung out unconscious on a chair as Jesse McClinton - kicker for the Raiders - fondled her breasts and licked her neck. I saw a group of people in the distance stripping their clothes and rushing toward the end of the dock I knew was there, diving into the lake.

Back indoors, I wandered the room, helping myself to a drink that was thrust into my hands upon me re-entering. I hung around by the television, where several folks were playing rock band, receiving much acclaim from the surrounding audience, though it was hard to tell whether they were cheering for the game or the girl who was singing, who's strapless dress had failed her, exposing herself to the room as she sung on oblivious.

Then, there he was. Maybe it was his perfect body that helped me see him, or possibly the audible spank to some girl in an unbelievably short denim skirt, but he stood there, chugging out of his cup. I flew to him like a bird.

"Hey! Hey Andy!"

He turned, and his face lit up in the largest smile I've ever seen him smile, even in those convertibles. It took all the strength within me not to blush. "Hey, man. Kefer, right? Duuuuuuuuuuuude, sorry. I meant Keifer. Right?" He was thoroughly drunk, but I was flattered he remembered.

"Exactly right."

He turned to his friends, and pointed at me with the greatest air of sincerity and intensity. "This dude... guys... is AWESOME! He is going to interview me for the school paper." For whatever drunken reason, his friends cheered. "Come on, Keifffffer. Let's find'us a room where we can talk n'peaceeeeeeeeee."

He hurried ahead, tossing his cup aside - the contents splashing some girl passed out on the floor - and I followed, tucked in tow, as he quickly made his way through the mansion. Up two floors of stairs, as the screams of couples having sex in bedrooms down halls seemed to compete for volume in this wild affair, we went to the third floor. After interrupting several couples, already paired in inebriated trysts together in backrooms, we found ourselves a bedroom. This must have been the master bedroom, for it was almost as lavishly decorated as the entry way, with a bed that was infinitely large, and resembled a work of art, along with a view of the garden and lake, dark in the distance. I was awestruck with its beauty; it took several seconds for me to recall I was in this gorgeous room with Andy Hook of all people, alone.

He dove to the bed like a swimming pool, and flopped around a bit, before stretching out and getting comfortable. He was dressed plainly, in his football jersey and jeans, despite most of the others downstairs decked out in formal attire; this made me feel more comfortable, since I was only garbed in a button-up shirt and nice black trousers myself.

"So, where do we start?" Andy asked, but he sounded completely different than he did downstairs.

"Andy... wait... you don't sound drunk anymore. Am I just imagining that?"

"You aren't," he spoke very normally. "That's a show I put on for the others. I have an alcohol tolerance like a buffalo. So, where do we start?"

I sat on the bed, still in a bit of a haze over this strange sequence of events. I quickly pulled out a notepad absentmindedly. "I guess we'll start here... Let's see... So, how were you feeling last Friday during your game against Jeffery Weems High, one of the consistently highest scoring teams in the Miles End Metro?"

"Well," he said, sitting up, and easing toward me on the edge of the bed. "It was great. I mean, really great. When you face another team who's known for their ability to play a good game, you get this huge adrenaline rush that lasts for all four quarters. It's a real, like, natural high, y'know? Something that you can't replicate any other way."

It was immensely difficult to process all this information and scribble quotes into my notepad which his angelic voice begging to drift me into slumber by its sheer beauty. "I see, fabulous..." I muttered. "And how are you feeling about our forthcoming game against the North Richland Hills High Eagles, our notorious school rivals?"

"If the Beavers from JWHS were as intense as they were, and I tell yah, it was pretty epic; if they were that intense, then playing the Eagles is going to be something else entirely."

"Do you feel confident on winning? The Eagles have only lost one game this season, and of course, that was to us Raiders, though - granted - their own star quarterback Benjamin West was unable to play due to an arm injury."

"Of course I feel confident. I'm undefeated. We're undefeated. It will be a very epic game. But I know that the Raiders will be the winners in the end. It'll be that much more interesting now that Ben West is back..." He mused for a moment, humming nothing in particular. "Ben West... I remember that guy so well."

Did he inch closer to me? I wasn't paying attention. "Have you and Benjamin West had a relationship together, per chance?"

Instantly, he shook his head, and stared at me accusingly. "What?"

"Oh, not like that!" I can't believe what I just said. My feelings were getting me completely carried away. "I mean... you see, professionally. You know?"

"Oh..." he stammered. "Oh yeah. I mean, yeah, we've met a few times. Discussed past games, and whatnot. Of course, we're rivals to the bone. But they say, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer."

Am I an enemy? He seems quite close to me. Or was I inching toward him? This was quite confounding. "And... Tell me... how you feel about the sport. About football."

He pondered, and I stared at his pink lips. "I love it. I grew up with it my entire life. I remember, as soon as I started walking, my dad started pitching the ball at me. He almost went pro, y'know? Back in the day. It never happened... but I'm thinking he wants me to try after I graduate. And I'd love to do that. I love it. I love football. I love the feeling. I love it, because I'm good at it. I can express myself perfectly, because I love it so much..."

I love this... I love that... He was yammering on, and I was being wound like string around his finger with his sensual voice, filled with passion and romance for a sport. He loved that, and loved this. 'I love... I love...' he was saying. I love, I love, I love.

And that's when I thought I passed out and began dreaming. Because the next thing I knew, he had stopped speaking, and I had lunged on top of him, embracing Andy in a kiss. It was one long kiss, one which seemed to drag on forever. I knew it was a dream... I could have sworn it was a dream.

But after forever had ended, Andy pushed me with all his might. The shove sent me toppling off the bed, landing on the floor with a loud bang. Forever must have only lasted five seconds or so, for as I quickly got to my feet, I realized that my body ached from where I had landed. I was definitely not dreaming.

Andy stared at me aghast. "I'm... I'm so sorry..." I mumbled. I had no clue what to even begin to say, his delicate taste still lingering on my lips. "You were saying something, and I was thinking something... not something about you! Something else entirely. Something totally unrelated. About girls! Or something. And... Oh my God..."

He stood up. I figured I was about to be murdered or something. "Really, Andy, I'm so..."

And then, cliche as it may be, completely purposefully, he kissed me. I tried to gasp for breath, but that only let his tongue slither into my mouth. Now I was aghast. But before I could muster the slightest neuron in my cerebrum to fire, he lifted me entirely off the floor, and literally chunked me to the bed. I landed climatically onto the unfathomably soft surface without a sound, and as soon as I had blinked, he had pounced atop me.

And once again, his lips met mine. I was on some form of heretofore latent autopilot system reserved for just such an occasion. Compiled, organized, and executed by my nervous system, I began to unleash every emotion I had for Andy all at once in fervent kissing, returning his every subtle motion with my own. He thust his rough hand between me legs and began to manhandle me, his other hand on the back of my neck. I couldn't move if I wanted to, not that I did, due to his immense weight atop me. I simply laid there and kissed him, my heart exploding with joy.

Before I had realized how glorious this kiss was, I realized I was no longer wearing pants, and that my shirt had been unbuttoned - neigh, ripped - open. He stopped kissing me for only a moment to gander at my pale body before he returned to his duty. That mischievous hand of his down south pulled down my embarrassing plaid boxers, and he grasped me, rubbing me in ways that most people wouldn't dream of caressing. An orchestral choir was building in my head as I felt my entire body melting around me, but suddenly he stopped.

Again, before I realized what was happening, his pants were off - jersey still on - and he pressed my head toward certain regions of himself I won't mention. When I wasn't thinking about him, I was reminded of popsicles, for the most childish of reasons. He was through fast, but held me down until he was pleased two times later. Our lust filled excursion had lasted who knows how long, and now that he was thoroughly dealt with, he pushed me down to the bed once more and picked up where he left off.

I remember feeling everything and nothing at once. Maybe that's love. True love. Feeling everything and nothing all at the same time, to the point where you can't describe the happiness and pleasure. Maybe love is something that has to be indescribable. Maybe it's supposed to be impossible to understand. But I guess it's kind of hard to take me seriously, when I have the high school quarterback putting his hands where no other has been before.

I came, but he wasn't through. He kept massaging me, and it hurt, though was more blissful than I could ever express. He took my hand, and made me take him on one more time. By the time he finished once more, he had pleasured me three times over. When the clock chimed four for me, the inevitable happened.

As I lay gasping on the bed beneath this beautiful creature, a rap came to the door loudly and quickly. "Go away!" Andy hollered.

"Andy... nigga, is that you?" It was the unmistakable voice of Tank. "Nigga, we been lookin' for you. Wha'chu doin' in there? We 'bout to all get together downstairs, but we needs yah kid. Get out here."

Without a second thought, Andy flew away from me like he had wings. His pants were on faster than I could comprehend. Then he was fondling me, but not lovingly. He lifted me straight out of the bed, and pulled my boxers back on for me. He pushed me back on the bed long enough to throw my pants back on me wildly, before dragging me by my shirt back out of bed, pulling me toward the door.

"I want to say this right now, because I may never get another chance. But you were great. Perfect. I've never felt like that before." He pushed me against the door roughly. "But c'mon dude, I'm the star quarterback. I can't have anyone find out about this."

I tried to say something, but nothing came out. A mess of Andy and I was still all over my stomach, and I couldn't think properly. "Nobody can know. Don't you dare tell anyone. Not a soul. Anyone! Or I'll kill you. Do you hear me?"

I nodded.

"Just don't forget this. Never tell. But don't forget. I'll always love you. Even if I don't seem like I do. I'll always love you."

Then my vision went blurry. I felt my nose bleeding from where his chiseled arm careened into my nose, then my eye. He plowed his hand into my chest next, and once more on my brow for good measure. The last punch sent my head into the door with a loud bang. He grabbed me by my still ruined shirt, and threw open the bedroom door. I was then off my feet, and I sailed straight out of the room until I slammed into the opposite wall across the hallway; by body crashed into a large painting that hung, which immediately fell to the floor ruined.

"What the fuck, you fucking fag?" I heard Andy say aloud, more to the others who gasped and yelled in the hallway than to me. "You think I'm fucking gay or something? Fuck you! The stupid kid just started taking off all his clothes. What the fuck's wrong with you, Robinson?" I felt his foot connect with my back hard as blood dripped down my chin.

"Yo nigga, that's sick. Should we kick his ass?" The Tank said, along with several other Raiders.

"No. This fag knows who he's dealing with now."

He grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and lifted me up. I desperately tried to look past the blurriness in my eyes to see him. "I love you," he said. And he hit me once more hard in the brow, and I remember no more until the next morning. Blood and goop littered my body, and I awoke with an astounding headache to the trashed mansion. Like the others who just woke from their binging, narcotic, lust filled dazes, all tattered and bruised like me, or not, I fumbled for my keys, walked outside, hopped in my car, and hurried in a daze home.

A police officer pulled me over on the Loop for speeding in excess of one hundred. I told him I was going to a hospital. He offered to give me a lift or a police escort, but I said I'd manage, and promised to drive slower, which I did. I was back home in an hour. I tidied up my wounds, took a long ache-filled shower, and collapsed into my bed. Only later did I realize I lost my glasses and journal of Andy's interview that night, so I got demoted from my editor position for not having a story to present for the next issue of the Raider's Review.

Any time I saw Andy, he hollered about me rampant gayness to anyone present.

But he always winked afterward.

And my heart entered an emotional cavern the likes I had never seen, and my breath shortened like an asthmatic kitten; my life grew quiet like a folk song, and my mind diminished into a slew of thoughts, all painted colours of oil on canvas, contouring in no particular shape - a dazzling rainbow of coruscating illumination - as I always dreamt about the terribly reality that I loved so dearly, that took place in Gatsby's Mansion in Northview. I dreamt of my love for Andy, and his love in return. I knew we would never be together, and we never were. He joined the NFL, and I became a full time journalist for the New York Times, leaving the hallowed grounds of Kicksville and Central City, only to return for Christmas. Andy, you are my star. And he knew it. He knew he loved me, and that's why he had to hurt me. That's why he had to leave.

And my heart entered an emotional cavern the likes I had never seen. One which I would never would fully escape. Because I fell in love. True love

And so it passed.