![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
suitably_heroicTime came and went again. It was so much slower these days than Jack remembered it ever being, and yet so much faster. Music gigs, and work gigs, and just gigs, they passed on by at a rapid pace, slowing down towards the evenings and the mornings when he and Dane settled into a slow and comfortable routine.
Sitting here, it felt as if someone had hit the fast-forward button and life had rushed on past until it had suddenly stopped, jarring, in this tiny cramped burrito place buried in someone’s basement somewhere in Manhattan, blinking against the too-bright lights while Jill talked and the night slowed to a crawl outside. Like he was some kind of time traveler, lost out of time, staring at his–
Hand?
He really needed to stop philosophizing.
“Jack?” Jill said, doing her wise drummer-squint at him over the remains of her veggie burrito. “You doing okay there?”
“Yeah,” he said, and dropped his barbacoa-soaked mess into the sad little puddle of hot sauce at the bottom of his plate. “Sorry. I haven’t been sleeping enough lately, my head’s doing that thing where I lose track of the fabric of space-time completely. It’ll come back to me, I’m sure.”
She nodded, then squinted, then nodded again. “Anyway,” she said, “I think I want to see how the summer works out before I make any decisions.”
Jack scratched the back of his jaw absently. His stubble was coming back in again. Stupid new shaving habit. He’d forgotten about the futility of it all. “Well, you know we’ll be happy to keep you as long as we can,” he said.
“I just… I like my job, you know?” Jill said. “I’m not like you guys. I’m not– living for the moment where I can give it all up. If we ever can. But I just. I don’t know. We’ll see how I feel after the summer.”
“You just don’t want to miss festival season,” Jack said, fishing a piece of wet tortilla out of the gunk on his plate. “Especially now that we get to do European festival season.”
“Okay, I’ve always wanted to do European festival season,” Jill groaned, sinking into her chair with a rare sense of theatricality. “I was twelve when I started dreaming of Sziget, okay? Fuck, what if we can get to Graspop? Wacken?”
“I think if you want us to get to European festivals that big, you’re going to have to stick around for at least another season,” Jack said. He took a bite. It tasted soaked.
“But we can at least go to those in-between our stuff,” Jill pointed out. “Oh man. I keep hearing Electric Callboy has the best shows.”
“They also sound like shit,” said Jack, who’d only heard one song and bowed out of it.
“They do not,” Jill said. “I am five minutes from insisting we start adding Eurodance to our repertoire.”
“No,” Jack said firmly. “I already tolerate all the pop-punk crap sneaking into our sound because Dane and Trent can’t get over their misspent skater youth, I will not tolerate more 90s stupidity.”
She kicked him. It was not unexpected.
“Hey! I stand by it, okay?” Jack retorted. “Violence is the resort of the weak!”
“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Jill retorted.
Jack rolled his eyes. “Anyway,” he said. “I’m glad you’re not leaving the band.”
“Yet,” Jill said. “I’ll… reevaluate after the summer.”
“Okay.”
“I do like playing with Tab,” she added. “She's a good guitarist.”
“Tab is good,” Jack agreed. “Having a second guitarist is going to make it interesting if we ever record a new record.”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet,” Jack agreed. He let out a tired sigh and looked out the window. Still dark. Still off-putting. “Look, I get it,” he said. “I just… don’t think the band would be the same without you. I don’t know how big it’s going to get, if we’ll be able to contain things so you can still work your remote-9-to-5–”
“You don’t have to say that like you hate it,” Jill said, picking up her glass.
“Well, I do hate it.”
“I don’t.”
“I know.” Jack took a deep breath. “I don’t know if we can contain it,” he said. “I mean, you know Dane, he really is daydreaming about Sziget. And space knows why, but people seem to like us–”
“How about you?” Jill asked, sipping her drink. “Are you daydreaming about Sziget?”
“I’m thinking that a few years ago I didn’t even know what Sziget was,” Jack said. He looked away from the window. He stared into the blazing inferno of the half-open kitchen instead. “I just want to make music so I have somewhere to throw up my feelings, instead of going back to slowly corroding into mush.”
“I can tell why you’re our lyricist,” Jill sighed, but she had a little smile.
He shrugged. “I’m just following this wherever it goes,” he said. “But without you it’s two punk lunatics, a guitarist whose response to ‘what’s your favorite genre’ is ‘whatever’, and me. So I hope you decide to stay.”
“I’ll think about it,” Jill said. She also eyed the light glaring on the tiles of the kitchen. “After the summer.”
“After the summer,” Jack agreed.
Whenever that was going to be. Five seconds from now, or fifty years.
[[ can be open for phone calls et al ]]
Sitting here, it felt as if someone had hit the fast-forward button and life had rushed on past until it had suddenly stopped, jarring, in this tiny cramped burrito place buried in someone’s basement somewhere in Manhattan, blinking against the too-bright lights while Jill talked and the night slowed to a crawl outside. Like he was some kind of time traveler, lost out of time, staring at his–
Hand?
He really needed to stop philosophizing.
“Jack?” Jill said, doing her wise drummer-squint at him over the remains of her veggie burrito. “You doing okay there?”
“Yeah,” he said, and dropped his barbacoa-soaked mess into the sad little puddle of hot sauce at the bottom of his plate. “Sorry. I haven’t been sleeping enough lately, my head’s doing that thing where I lose track of the fabric of space-time completely. It’ll come back to me, I’m sure.”
She nodded, then squinted, then nodded again. “Anyway,” she said, “I think I want to see how the summer works out before I make any decisions.”
Jack scratched the back of his jaw absently. His stubble was coming back in again. Stupid new shaving habit. He’d forgotten about the futility of it all. “Well, you know we’ll be happy to keep you as long as we can,” he said.
“I just… I like my job, you know?” Jill said. “I’m not like you guys. I’m not– living for the moment where I can give it all up. If we ever can. But I just. I don’t know. We’ll see how I feel after the summer.”
“You just don’t want to miss festival season,” Jack said, fishing a piece of wet tortilla out of the gunk on his plate. “Especially now that we get to do European festival season.”
“Okay, I’ve always wanted to do European festival season,” Jill groaned, sinking into her chair with a rare sense of theatricality. “I was twelve when I started dreaming of Sziget, okay? Fuck, what if we can get to Graspop? Wacken?”
“I think if you want us to get to European festivals that big, you’re going to have to stick around for at least another season,” Jack said. He took a bite. It tasted soaked.
“But we can at least go to those in-between our stuff,” Jill pointed out. “Oh man. I keep hearing Electric Callboy has the best shows.”
“They also sound like shit,” said Jack, who’d only heard one song and bowed out of it.
“They do not,” Jill said. “I am five minutes from insisting we start adding Eurodance to our repertoire.”
“No,” Jack said firmly. “I already tolerate all the pop-punk crap sneaking into our sound because Dane and Trent can’t get over their misspent skater youth, I will not tolerate more 90s stupidity.”
She kicked him. It was not unexpected.
“Hey! I stand by it, okay?” Jack retorted. “Violence is the resort of the weak!”
“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Jill retorted.
Jack rolled his eyes. “Anyway,” he said. “I’m glad you’re not leaving the band.”
“Yet,” Jill said. “I’ll… reevaluate after the summer.”
“Okay.”
“I do like playing with Tab,” she added. “She's a good guitarist.”
“Tab is good,” Jack agreed. “Having a second guitarist is going to make it interesting if we ever record a new record.”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet,” Jack agreed. He let out a tired sigh and looked out the window. Still dark. Still off-putting. “Look, I get it,” he said. “I just… don’t think the band would be the same without you. I don’t know how big it’s going to get, if we’ll be able to contain things so you can still work your remote-9-to-5–”
“You don’t have to say that like you hate it,” Jill said, picking up her glass.
“Well, I do hate it.”
“I don’t.”
“I know.” Jack took a deep breath. “I don’t know if we can contain it,” he said. “I mean, you know Dane, he really is daydreaming about Sziget. And space knows why, but people seem to like us–”
“How about you?” Jill asked, sipping her drink. “Are you daydreaming about Sziget?”
“I’m thinking that a few years ago I didn’t even know what Sziget was,” Jack said. He looked away from the window. He stared into the blazing inferno of the half-open kitchen instead. “I just want to make music so I have somewhere to throw up my feelings, instead of going back to slowly corroding into mush.”
“I can tell why you’re our lyricist,” Jill sighed, but she had a little smile.
He shrugged. “I’m just following this wherever it goes,” he said. “But without you it’s two punk lunatics, a guitarist whose response to ‘what’s your favorite genre’ is ‘whatever’, and me. So I hope you decide to stay.”
“I’ll think about it,” Jill said. She also eyed the light glaring on the tiles of the kitchen. “After the summer.”
“After the summer,” Jack agreed.
Whenever that was going to be. Five seconds from now, or fifty years.
[[ can be open for phone calls et al ]]
