Somehow - and still, after a full year of it, I can't comprehend how we kept coming full circle - it always happened. Either in passing or in downright effort to start a full out brawl, one of them would let it slip. Those four words would fall out into the exposed night air, which always held a scent of alcohol and desperation.
It shouldn't have had such a hold over us. Just four words. Four small, insignificant, noncommittal words, which, by themselves, had little meaning if meaning at all.
One of us would say it. It was never even an outsider. The close-knit circle, who knew the affect it had on each of us, would always manage to let it slip.
Then it would start up again.
That was the signal. That was the nudge we all needed to either pounce or flee, because - in all honesty - there was no in between left.
Someone, in their sheer anger or indifference, would mutter, "It's not worth it."
I think, truly, it was always the hardest on me.
I like to think myself arbitrator of the lot. When the instigator stands, the coward flees, opposition, flank one and flank two, ready themselves for battle, and I - mediator - take my referee position. That's how it's always been. That's how it will always be.
To know the war, though, you have to know who fought it.
First, we have the instigator. While it changes from time to time, more often than not, the finger of blame points directly at the same person: Stacey. Of the group, she was always the most difficult. Any magazine that depicted her called her "a sharp-edged, fiesty, devil of a woman". It's one of the few things that the media ever got right.
Cowardly Ana wasn't much of a coward at all. She was spoken over far too easily, and decided that rather than try and get a voice in conversation, she would just speak when spoken to, and leave when things got too cut-throat. In a way, Ana was the smartest of all of us.
Opposition, flank one, the more hard-headed of the duo, was always Katrina. If there was a one of us who was exercised in harsh self support, it was her. She'd argue her own point until she was blue in the face, then go for purple.
For flank two, meet Katie. She was always a subtle, off-the-cuff type, with too much wit for her own good. It has been said on more than one occasion that she lives 90% of her life in her own head, and it drives her so mad that it will eventually be the death of her. I believe it.
Then there was me, who jumped into the middle of the debacle, arms flailing, all sense of self-preservation lost, swimming against the current and screaming until my vocal chords were numb for everyone to just shut the hell up.
They never really did.
It was the twilight zone between the last day of April and the first of May. That was always the worst time for us: the transition into a grueling summer, where the anticipation of it was sometimes worse than the actual time.
The bar was grimy at best. There was a thin layer of dirt and spilled drinks over every counter, every table top, every employee. The bathrooms smelled like vomit, and the small dance floor they'd managed to cram amidst the two bar counters and skewed mess of tables was overflowing with urchins and reaked of sweat.
The plastic cover of the battered booth stuck to my back uncomfortably. I peeled my shirt away, drenched in sweat from simply sitting in the atmosphere, and leaned across the table. "How many more?"
Stacey smiled incoherently, downed the drink, and stared at the empty glass it left behind. She rolled it around in her hand, fixating on the rim with her bloodshot eyes. "Three."
I sighed and fell back against the disgusting seat. "In case you were wondering, I find this place utterly repulsive."
"I wasn't."
"You would have."
The situation, grime and all, had become a routine.
After paparazzi monsters attacked Stacey over a little issue of what we refer to as "The DUI Defeasance", I had been assigned to permanent babysitting duty. I followed her into bars, friend's houses, and even around the apartment. After eleven from Monday to the next, I was attached to her by an invisible leash.
I'm sure you're asking yourself, "Well sure, Robin, what better thing would an attractive, 23-year-old, successful superstar such as yourself have to do on a Saturday night?"
Our manager, Logan, found himself pondering the same question.
"Do you like swimming in money, Robs?" He asked over a large pile of papers, signing each one individually, barely paying attention to my presence.
"I live in a shitty three room apartment with a roommate, because it's too expensive for me to maintain all on my own. In addition to that, she's an alcoholic, neurotic, shell of a person whom I'm only stuck with because of the public's unexplainable affection toward the narcissistic fuck-up."
"Exactly." He nodded absently, not even looking at me. "That's why you're going to watch her."
Logan likes to do this thing - he calls it "running our lives" - where he disregards every word that we say, whether coherent or otherwise, disregards every doubt that we have, every preference we urge. Then, he does what he wants, and we shut up and deal with it. It's a flawless system, if you excuse the flaws.
I suppose that's why, when Stacey had finished off five more drinks, and I was beginning to wonder if anyone took anything I said into consideration in the slightest, I wasn't surprised to see my cell phone ring. The name "Logan" played mournfully across the caller ID, and over the music, I could just barely hear the personalized Star Wars Death Star ring tone.
"Hello?" I screamed over the noise. Stacey laughed at something, then fell out of the booth.
"Robin." He was exaperated, at best.
I balaced the phone between my shoulder and ear, then stepped down out of my seat to hoist Stacey back up. "Yes, Master?"
"You remember that tour you were planning with Beaten to Life?"
"Choose your words carefully, Logan."
He sighed, prissy man that he is. "Do you remember that tour that I was planning wi-"
"Yes."
"It's a no go."
I dropped Stacey. She made a snorting coughing noise, and I took it as evidence that she wasn't hurt severely enough to be dead. Which meant, in short, I didn't have to feel bad.
"Why?" I put my fingers in my ears, but his words were still muffled. "What?!"
"They broke up! Jesus, where the hell are you?"
"Some... bar. Stacey watch, remember?"
Either we were both silent for a long moment, or I had gone deaf. Beaten to Life was a friend band of ours, from their half moronic name to their entirely moronic antics, and we'd known them through the end of high school. Hearing they broke up, was, in short, a shame.
I'm only human, though. I was worried about what would happen to us because of it.
"You've been planning that tour for nearly a year now."
"You think I don't know that? We're screwed!"
"What the fuck, Logan? Why didn't you just go all loony-bin on us and call a band meeting at 2 AM like you always do when shit goes awry?" Across the bar, a little boy - not little, but barely over eighteen and obviously not 21 - was sizing us up. Or he recognized us. The boundaries between mentally undressing and connecting dots between airbrushed magazine pictures always throws me for a loop. I faced my back to him. "I swear, you're more confusing that the most hormonal of women."
"You really make me question my career choice."
"Well, I try."
I could hear the beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. Hear them. "And, being that this is strictly a career move, I've decided..."
"Not liking the tone." I tilted my head, if only subconciously, wearily.
When Logan pauses, he is assessing a situation. He never had the mental capacity to talk and think, being that it is a terribly difficult task. Since he's, you know, a conniving asshole, there is never good resulting from him assessing anything.
"About how pissed off are you this exact moment?"
"Now I'm really not liking this."
"Forget it."
"Fuck no!" I screamed. "I'm 106% sure you did something to fuck me over, and since I'm the one who has to live with it, I think I have a pretty good right to know what the hell it is."
He sighed, in his 'my life is so hard, oh, woe is me - I ride on the coattails of success' way. "Can you be here in fifteen minutes?"
I looked to Stacey, who was swaying and about to pass out on the shitty bar floor. "Give me twenty."
I slammed the phone shut, stuffing it into my pocket, and pulled her up quickly. The boy across the bar had just worked up the courage to walk over. As we stumbled hurriedly away, Stacey flipped him the bird.
"What the fuck, Robin?"
"Band meeting." Pulling her arm over my shoulder, I cringed at her drunken stench.
She cracked a toothy, frazzled smile, and laughed bitterly. "Logan's such an ass."
In one of those rare moments of agreement, I smiled. "He really is."
Now in the parking lot, I scanned the area for our car. A familiar song twined through the air as Stacey humed it out of tune.
She tried to stand alone, to steady herself, but ended up falling again, onto the rough pavement. Big, open cuts formed across her palms, and a scrape from a rock tore a long line from her cheek to chin.
As I helped her up again, I couldn't help my thoughts from spitefully repeating, over and over again, "This is not even worth it."
"Flesh ripped up."
Maybe, maybe not. 'Yes'es and 'no's, ins and outs, ups and downs.
Well, this was fun to write, and I think I know what's going to happen in the next part.
So, now, I just have to ask:
Continue?
MEATSOCKSUPERHEROES [1] MCR
Acknowledgements:Stacey. Katie. Katrina. Ana.I've borrowed who you are. Hope you don't mind if I recreate your general character.Title used with permission of a friend.I have no idea where this is going, further than following the loose outline of real life events. Flop or revolution, it all seems to be one in the same.Did you like this story? Make one of your own!
