“I believe in everything until it's disproved. So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it's in your mind. Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?” –John Lennon
Snow. It was my first memory as a child, of that I am certain. I can remember the crispness of it, the refraction of light on its surface, and how it stung and melted away when I tried to teethe on it. Some how it felt comforting to me almost like a safety blanket. A fresh new snow could just wrap me tightly in its arms and I could become smothered in it. That’s why I stay in this place. The snow, I mean. I couldn’t see myself in any other place that didn’t snow; it would seem foreign to me, almost like I stepped into another planet. Mom says that I stay because I couldn’t be without her for one second of my life, I need her too much. Suppose that’s true, but then that’s just my mother’s way of saying she can’t stand to let her baby go. But I think it’s the snow. I think the reason I stay here is because I can’t stand the rust of the South, and I can’t deal with the gray of the Queen City. I would miss my frosting covered evergreens, and I would morn the loss of not ever seeing my breath turn to steam and my fingers freeze up in the chill. I don’t know what I would be able to do with myself if I didn’t have this blistering lake affect snow, and I don’t think I could live in any other city besides Rochester. I was born here after all, and it’s the only real place I know.
“Kaden! Kaden Pe- Pet- Pe-something! You’re on next!” Petrov, I thought in agitation, it’s Petrov. How hard was that to pronounce? Letting my head rest aimlessly against the stone my back currently against, I breathed in the crisp winter air as I peered down at the end of my cigarette. The alleyway to the right of The Water Street Music Hall wasn’t much of an alleyway at all, not in such a literal sense anyways. It was a gap in between the two large buildings, but on the right there was a larger lot where the money gobblers like to park out of town-ers and earn a little extra change. To the left, well there wasn’t much to look at aside from a few trash collecting heaps of blackened snow, due to the plowing. I took in another long drag twisting the handle of my case tighter and tighter. I wasn’t a wreck or anything; I had done these sorts of shows plenty of times before. I’d go in, listen to a bunch of rowdy 16+ kids who were excited for a cheep fest, and do my show. If I’m lucky I’ll have a few kids who actually know some of my stuff, but I never really go in thinking any of them know me. And why should they? I’m a teenage college drop-out with a funky last name. They couldn’t wrap their head around my last name much less my lyrics. Which is fine by me. My lyrics filled their purpose for me and that was all I needed to appeal to. Myself. Wasn’t much of a living I’ll tell you that, but I get by.
“Kaden!” She was getting annoying now, this stage woman. Flicking the ashes off the end of my cigarette, I peered up at her through my shaggy bangs letting my lips falter only slightly in agitation. The tiny woman was hanging herself from the side door and she was peering back at me, her own demeanor was far less inviting than my own. I sighed and allowed the last half of my cigarette to flutter to the ground before stomping it out. Raising my eyebrows to her she seemed to be satisfied enough as she disappeared through the door. I let out a slight grumble, following her inside, mentally preparing myself for a show that would no doubt be the low light of my career. Kids these days didn’t appreciate lyrics anymore so much as they cared about a catchy line they could sing back to those on stage. It gave them a false connection to the band, something that could make the musicians on stage become more real in their eyes. I, on the other hand, had no such things. I don’t believe in a catch, but suppose that could be where my downfall was.
The lights on stage flickered on and off, almost as if they too were irritated that I wasn’t on stage yet. Mentally I cursed myself for wearing a turtleneck and pants to a gig, and especially my fedora. Of course, I could never actually do any of my gigs without that beat up old hat. Staring out into the open warehouse, I squinted as I set my guitar case down onto my chair. I could tell the little teens were getting antsy, because slowly they started to migrate into little groups and start chatting up little storms and laughing too obnoxiously loud. I cleared my throat into the microphone, testing the sound once over before I retrieved my guitar. A sharp noise rang through the air causing the rest of the kids in the warehouse to groan in discomfort; of course none were as close as I was to the speakers. I winced a little, jerking my head away. This was going to be quite the night, I could feel it. Letting my rough fingers strum the chords of my guitar, I sighed and cleared my throat. As expected none of the teenagers turned themselves around, they didn’t even bother to acknowledge that I was on stage. Suppose they just wanted some screaming band like they had playing in the next room over. Over there I could hear the crowds cheering and jostling about in the large hall, the room so overcrowded with people that they were flooding into my room. Half the teenagers in here didn’t want to be, and the other half (mostly the female half) stood blurry-eyed as they watched some new eye candy make his way to the stage. Another stigma I hated filling. I was just some attractive face, and it didn’t matter what my music sounded like or what I was trying to say, all they would hear was that I was nice to look at. Of course, I’m not trying to toot my own horn I’m really not.
“How’re you doing tonight, Rochester?” I asked, not really caring whether or not they were alright, or whether they had the nerve to respond back to me. I couldn’t really hear them that well anyways with the racket in the next room. Sighing I decided to put my focus, rather, on the icons that lined the walls. They were the pictures of my idols, all of which would be so very ashamed to see me like this, as they watched me entertain some mindless youth. But so was the life of a musician. I’d have to slave myself away just to get onto a decent stage where I was playing to a crowd that actually understood my music.
To my surprise someone answered me back, causing my head to turn slightly in the female’s direction. I could barely make her out over the lights, but I could tell she wasn’t standing with anyone in particular. Her face was half covered by the dimmed lights, but I could make out a length of brunette hair, resting along her lithe frame and ending at her waist. I smiled a little and nodded my head in her direction. Letting my hands slide over the chords again I started to play the rift of my first song, a song I wrote for my mother. It’s a sappy little tune, I have to admit. But suppose it does get crowds going, even if this wasn’t much of a crowd to appease too. I started to sing, my voice still scratchy from the cigarette I had earlier. There wasn’t really that much to sing in this tune, I basically wrote the piece for my Amazon of a mother who, she herself says very little but says so very much. So the song was made up of chords that I switched from, and hard to the point lyrics. Just like my mother.
The crowd somehow seemed confused, though I barely noticed their movements though my half-closed eyes. When I play, it’s almost like I’m reliving the events that brought me to write my music. I never pay attention to my surroundings, I just lean into my guitar and play. I would feel, I would remember, and I would let my lungs expel all the emotions and all of the thoughts I had at that time in my life out onto the stage. And the audience would have a choice. They would either take what I was giving to them with stride, or they would push it away like some old backwards trend. Either way I would get my release and that was all that mattered to me. Whether or not they liked it was completely trivial. It seemed as though, however, they figured just that. They were quiet when I played, yes, but they weren’t exactly paying attention to me either. It was like I was in my own universe; pictures and images seemed to surround me without much logic to them. I would see flashes of lives past, and lives I have yet to live. One could almost call this my own brand of LSD, without any of the nasty little side affects.
My set ended without so much as a hoot from the crowd, not that I really expected anything less. Even the brunette that I had long forgotten about held her tongue as I made my way off the stage. I hadn’t even bothered to introduce the next band; I was in such a shitty mood. What I needed right then was a pint of something strong and a handful more of cigarettes. Though, what I didn’t except was for that silence not to be a malicious one, nor any that had any ill contempt to my playing, but rather they simply didn’t know what to make of it. I was far too consumed with bitterness to even realize as I slammed my form into the bar stool, tugged my pea coat tighter around my figure, and ordered myself a simply whiskey on the rocks. At nineteen, it was funny how used to drinking I was. My mother was never against the idea of my drinking, in fact she encouraged having a class of wine at dinner to help my digestion. Some may find that odd, especially given the current (and overly strict) twenty-one and older law. But my mother, born and raised in Russia, had little tolerance for American things, especially American laws. Here at Waterstreet, I could have very well produced a fake ID, and they would have given me a drink regardless, but suppose tonight I looked like hell, and maybe even older than what I really was.
My whiskey didn’t soothe me as it usually did. The light tingling in my veins only seemed to infuriate me more. What a horrible prospect, this whole concert was, having to perform in front of people who didn’t understand my music, who didn’t listen and pay any attention. It wasn’t until I was eying the empty bottom of my glass that a figure slinked into the seat next to mine. I barely noticed her, her tiny form seemed to blend in quite well with the rest of the surroundings. I had taken her for one of those scene children at first, pretending to be twenty-one when in actuality they were only fifteen. But then her voice, her dark soothing voice, ordered a vodka tonic and I couldn’t help but turn my attention over towards her. I was face to face with the brunette, the cute one from before. I hadn’t noticed how blue her eyes were, nor would I have ever if she hadn’t turned to me at that instant and smirked.
“I know.” She started, and honestly I hadn’t the slightest clue what she was talking about. “My eyes, they’re breathtaking. My figure is supple. I have a nice rack. My a** is fantastic.” It was like she was running off a string of compliments… to herself. I was puzzled, visibly puzzled, which I never was in my life. But she simply smiled softly and placed her hand on the counter, letting her antique rings clank against the oak finish. “Well, now that that’s out of the way love, the name’s Charlie. Charlie Dayton.”
I was stunned. She was so very forward, I had never encountered such a woman, let alone one at a pre-teen scream fest. Letting my eyes fall to the empty whiskey glass in front of me I tried to gather my senses. I knew how to talk, that much I was certain, but I couldn’t formulate words. After all, what was one to say to such a comment like that? It was blunt! It was honest! It was unbelievably attractive. “I… I’m Kaden.” I managed to squeak out once her attention was turned towards the bartender. All she did was smile, bringing her glass to her lips.
“I know.”
I was a bit taken aback again. She knew me? Was she a stalker? Oh lord, please make her a stalker. She would be far easier to avoid if she were, I couldn’t take those eyes in any more than one sitting. At that moment those sharp cerulean eyes would not let me go. Then it hit me. Of course she wasn’t a stalker. I was at a bar, at a show none-the-less. She had watched me play. She had been responsive to my playing… of course she knew me. “I must ask you and this may be personal…” she started her inquiry, but I was far too eager to please her that I didn’t care what the nature of her question was. I would have answered it in a heart beat. “Where do you get your ideas… you know for your songs.”
It was at that moment that I realized something. I had no idea. I didn’t know where those songs came from that I sung so passionately. I had tricked myself into believing they were some life experiences, but they weren’t. I never remembered any of the things I sang about, and that caught me off guard. But I couldn’t lie to her, I just couldn’t. It came so naturally to me, lying, and yet I couldn’t do it to her. I tried to open my mouth but even the thought of lying to her made me sick. “I…” I started, but I didn’t need to finish. She understood. She nodded her head and finished the rest of her drink. She understood what I was saying even though I said nothing. To say I wasn’t intrigued would have been a bold faced lie.
“Well Kade, mind if I call you Kade? Welp, Kade as much as I just loved talking to you,” at this she laughed, “I really must go.” Before I could protest the spunky brunette disappeared into the crowd. I was in awe. Staring for a good hour and a half in the direction the woman went, my features seemed frozen in place. Not even the cries from the bartender for ‘last call’ awoke me from my daze. I was instantly infatuated, deeper than I had ever been with a single human being. And yet at the same time I couldn’t be more turned off by her. She was so blunt, so forceful, and so very butch. I couldn’t find words for the rest of that night. It was almost as if she had muted me, stole my voice right from under me. As I walked home that night, the bitter cold biting like termites at my hardened flesh, I kept turning over that woman’s name over in my mind. Her name was Charlie. A name that would not have suited any other woman quite so well, I think. Had she been any more upfront she would have been perceived as rash, any less vocal and she would have never lived up to her name. And her name was Charlie. Charlie! Like her parents didn’t have a clue what to name a girl… or maybe they knew the boisterous sort when they saw it. Maybe they realized just how peculiar she was going to be as an adult. I cursed lightly under my breath, watching as it instantly froze in the chilled morning air. It had only just occurred to me: I never even knew her last name…
I woke up the following morning with a splitting headache, the origin of which I couldn’t fully explain. I didn’t really drink anything the previous night and one would think I would be used to the reverberations of the speakers behind me. None-the-less even the slightest bit of light, even the smallest of sounds sent my head spiraling into a fit of pain. I flopped out of my bed with the grace of a newborn calf only to find myself tumbling into a pile of clothing. My mornings usually transpired this way; even without my splitting headache I was about as useful as a vegetative accident victim and about as coherent. I stared into the mirror in front of me, my daily routine, trying to get my alien limbs to listen to the incoherent murmurings of my brain. The past night was the last thought on my mind, if I even had a thought further than my basic needs. I might not have even brushed my teeth had it not been ingrained in my mind since childhood. I stood there for a great while, just staring at the unshaven man that stared back at me. He was all skin and bones this man, any trace of muscle probably melted away with his current habits. Those glazed-over eyes didn’t do much of anything except stare back at me, not even watching when the razor slid over his ivory skin.
“Mother ********!” I shouted, finally grasping what had just happened. Suppose it was the hot liquid dripping down my chin that finally woke me from my zombielike state. I made my way downstairs still pulling a shirt over my head and around my torso. The usual scene met my eye, my aunt Mina and my mother sitting lazily on the couch passing a bottle of vodka back and forth, cigarettes still smoldering in the ashtray between them. It was funny how they seemed to wonder where I had accumulated my smoking habit from.
“Isn’t it a bit early to be drinking?” I questioned, crossing the living room and picking up a half-smoked cigarette from the tray. Of course when I looked up to see if my question had registered any sort of reaction, she had that puzzled look spilled over her features, like she suddenly couldn’t understand English. Bringing the end to my lips and inhaling I murmured a slight curse under my breath, plopping myself down on the armchair. “Mother,” I paused, again she feigned that she had no idea what I was saying. “Come now stop that, we both know you’re a god damn American.”
“No, no English! No English!” she bellowed, turning to her sister and they both seemed to laugh in unison. Maybe if I was a five year old this would have been cute, or at least slight amusing, but at the moment all I could do was scowl at the pair and make my way into the kitchen. They were supposed to be a bloody example for me, at least that’s what all the after school television shows preached. Your parents should have taught you better, or some nonsense like that. I never grew up with any of that motherly love crap and I turned out just fine. Well, alright fine relatively speaking. I’m not a gangbanger or anything. Though I guess I’m just the mature one in my family. Out of the three of us I was always the one having to take care of them when they had hangovers, make sure they paid their bills on time, and practically kept their diner running when aunt Mina was going through some ‘difficult times’. Suppose after nineteen years I’ve grown weary of their crap. Maybe if I moved out they’d grow up, but they probably wouldn’t. They’d get themselves into trouble and there’d be no one to take care of them when they fell out of it.
Though I hated them sometimes, I understood why they did what they did. Why they were the unbelievable drunkards that they were, why they got into bar fights that only ended up with more and more money going into the federal police system, and why they made it a habit to never have a full grip on reality. Reality had done them absolutely no good so why should they invest their time in believing in it? Reality gave my mother a teenage pregnancy, a b*****d child, a country full of turmoil and a life of barely scraping by. The best thing that had happened in her life was opening that diner, and she couldn’t have done it without my Aunt Mina’s help. She claims that she doesn’t regret any of it, but I’m not sure if that’s just drunken mother talk or if she’s being completely sincere. My Aunt Mina’s story is just as tragic as my mother’s, and suppose that’s why she never talks about it. Mina isn’t really my blood relative; she’s more or less my mother’s best friend since they both were in the orphanage. Her brother, Mikhail, was gunned down not too long after they graduated high school, which left my aunt all messed up. My mother had to take care of her for a while after that, and soon the two just decided that she should move in. This meant that I had to take care of the two raging alcoholics.
Either way I needed to get out of that house. The walls were closing in on me again, like they did when I was a young boy having to deal with their s**t, and the room was steadily loosing oxygen. If I didn’t leave it would collapse upon me and I’d be as flat as one of those cartoon villains. Grabbing my coat and my house keys I made my way out of the back door, the screen slamming closed behind me. I didn’t bother shutting the front door, I wasn’t going to be out for long and with the way those two were acting, my mother and aunt wouldn’t even notice that the door was open. The cold air hit me the way it always did, with a mix of gratitude and grief. We had a love-hate relationship, the cold and I had, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world. As I made my way down the early morning street I watched the white collar Joes cleaning the freshly fallen snow from their company cars, and I couldn’t help but wonder what that felt like. What it felt like to have such a cookie cutter job, to wake up every morning knowing that you had to do the same bullshit you had to do every other day. The idea was something I really couldn’t fathom. Rigid routines were for children learning their place in the greater society, a society I had no real ties to. I hated the mundane, the obvious, that life high-school counselors always pushed you towards, and anything that had anything to do with the corporate America. In my mind I was rebelling against some higher society that I wanted no part of, yet I was conforming to it’s ideals without even knowing any better.
Snow crunched underneath my Chuck Taylors as I flicked the rest of my cigarette into the melting snow. It was getting warmer by the day, something many New Yorkers knew as a cruel trick. In the time passing between winter and spring we knew all too well that a warm day would only last for a few days, a week tops, before the temperature plummeted again. Of course it’d be nice if for once the temperature stayed nice and even, not like some bipolar teenage binge. My mind was drifting somewhere else as the apartment buildings started to blur into the drab city backdrop. It wasn’t exactly like a moving picture like most daydreams are, nor was it really fragmented. It felt almost like a flashback, like it had happened before. But then that’s how most of my daydreams appeared to me lately and I’m not one to jump on the suspicion bandwagon and make something of these daydreams that there really isn’t.
I found my way into Di Marco’s, a little diner only a few blocks away from my house. I had become a regular here, though it was only by the awkward hours my job entailed that they ever saw me. So when I poked my head into the small restaurant, the only friendly face I saw was a sleep deprived younger girl by the name of Ruby who happened to be unlucky enough to score the overnight shift. She gave me a lopsided smile, drawn down at the corners by her lack of enthusiasm, and pointed to a clear booth near the windows. Di Marco’s was the kind of place you always saw in those 1950’s cop films where the officers took their breaks, knew the waitresses by name, and always ordered black coffee. It was small, granted, but the place had a certain charm to it that most of the places in Rochester lacked. Suppose it was just the whole atmosphere of the black and white checkered tiles on the floor, the faded maroon booths, the old memorabilia of times past, and of course the signature Italian kitchen garments. It made me feel at home, even though my home was never anything like this.
“Morning Kaden, take a seat wherever you’d like, I’ll be with ya in a sec.” Ruby practically mumbled as she poured two businessmen their coffee.
It was the same routine every time I came here. A greeting (whether it was pleasant or not always depends the moods of the waitresses), I’d take my usual seat at the second window so I could have a clear view of the street, and I’d order the same thing: breakfast special two: eggs sunny side, wheat toast, no meat, and a black coffee. Ruby really didn’t need to bother coming over, but I could only assume she wanted a bit of a break from the rest of the ill tempered suits that lounged around here.
I occupied myself with people watching as I waited for my food. People, though I hate to have to be thrust into social interactions with them, I find that watching them is far more entertaining. Like for instance the man to my left that kept rearranging the table while his date was away, hoping she wouldn’t notice that he had stolen a few of the jellies off the table in her absence, or the young redhead a few tables down from mine who insisted she was on a diet of lettuce, yet stared longing at her husband’s French Fries. They were all fascinating in their own rights, and somehow I couldn’t help but feel a disconnect from them. I never had such strong emotions, or even hints of emotion, that could be similarly compared to theirs.
I noticed an odd look strewn about Ruby’s features as she peered over towards the door. Usually she only had that look when a customer came in at the end of her shift, but I knew it wasn’t anywhere near close to then. Turning my own eyes towards the door I nearly choked on my own tongue. Why her sudden appearance here caught me so harshly I hadn’t a clue, but suddenly I found the seat across from mine occupied by Charlie, those bright green eyes lighting up through her raven locks of hair. I couldn’t speak, for once in my life I was at a loss for words. Was she really following me? Did I have myself a genuine stalker? I didn’t know what to make of the ever elusive Charlie, but I knew I better get myself out of whatever funk I found myself in and start speaking before she disappears again. I opened my mouth to speak but she caught me first.
“Fancy meeting you here Kade, I would have figured you’d be found somewhere edgier, like a café or one of those Gothic literature places.” She teased, running a hand through her short choppy hair, the sent of orchid wafting into my nose.
“I uhm…” again I was lost for words. This girl seemed to have that affect over me as of late. “They have great eggs.” Smooth.
A short bell-like giggle fell from her lips, something I would not have expected from a woman such as her. “Well then that explains everything! Waitress! I’ll have some of these ‘great eggs’ with a tea if you have it.”
“Wha-“ I started, letting the spoon in my coffee fall to the edge of the mug.
“What am I doing here? Well actually to be completely honest, I’m here to see you.” she stated so nonchalantly I had to do a double take. So she was a stalker? Did I have to fear for my life? Was she going to pull out a 45 and leave me stunned and tongue-tied in this booth with a bullet in my head? I shuttered, noticeably.
“What do you mean you’re here to see me? How did you know I was going to be here?”
“Magic.” She stated simply, quirking a brow at me. “No, I went to your house. You mother, a real character I must say, told me you’d be here… of course my Russian is a bit rusty so it was either here or a bakery… or even a farm. I don’t know. This seemed the most logical. And as for the former, I needed to talk to you.”
I stopped stirring my coffee for a moment, letting my fingers run along the end as I contemplated this. Why in the world would anyone need to talk to me? Oh God, I really was going to get a bullet in my head, wasn’t I? “I… I don’t know what you mean. Why do you need to talk to me?”
“Oh hell, you really can’t remember anything can you?” she squinted at me, leaning her lithe body over the table, I deftly jerked back. “Huh. So that old bint was right after all. Interesting.”
By this point it was hard to mask my confusion, I hadn’t a clue what this woman was talking about but I was already planning out my will in my mind. My earnings (what little I had left after buying a new pack) would go to my mum and aunt, my guitar to my mates down at the club, maybe they could hang a memorial for me down there, my clothes… well I didn’t know where those would go. Probably the good will, knowing my aunt’s OCD-like tendencies. .Charlie seemed to finally notice my discomfort as she snapped out of whatever strain of consciousness she had been in, and smiled softly at me.
“You’re perplexed, that’s to be expected. I’m not doing a very good job of explaining myself.” She paused and looked down at my hands. “You can let go of the knife Kade, I’m not going to kill you or anything.” She laughed lightly as I suddenly noticed my grip on the dull butter knife. Blood ran to my cheeks as she brought attention to it, but she continued on. “Kaden, I’m going to tell you something and you might no believe me, you might even think I’m crazy. But what I’m telling you, I’m telling the truth.”
I blinked for a long moment, simply staring at that delicately sculpted face, that face that was so very misleading. This was my end, this was my doom. She was going to confess her love for me, whip out a gun and score two shots right into my head, one in my chest. I was going to die. Right here right now. Or maybe I wouldn’t, maybe she was going to explain that she was impregnated with my child, a child I never had the time to conceive. Maybe she was going to say how we were soul mates and she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me. “Kaden…” she started and I winced. This was it. I was going to die. “Those dreams you’ve been having, they’ve been becoming more frequent haven’t they?” I sat there for a moment, confused. Why was she trying to talk about my nightmares? I thought she was here to kill me, strangle me with a bagel or something. Instead her lips remained in a straight line, peering at me with those harsh cobalt eyes. I let my posture relax for a brief moment, contemplating if it were better to run away full speed towards the door, or sit and indulge her a moment. After all any half-assed magician can pull a rabbit out of a hat if he knows it in there, right?
FAGATRON 3000 · Thu Mar 12, 2009 @ 06:51pm · 0 Comments |