Trevor stood in front of the machines, a cigarette dangling off his lip. If he’d ever needed to look cool, right now was it. Adults weren’t supposed to chew gum, let alone buy it out of gumball machines. And that was assuming there were gumballs in all these machines. There wasn’t.

If anyone had been handed adult status and tried harder than Trevor Wolff to give it back, Trevor would like to meet that person and shake their hand.

He rubbed the quarter in his hand. Only one, and four things to choose from. Gum, one of those sticky hands that they loved to smack each other with, a rubber ball, and some unknown, unidentified other sort of toy.

There was no sense taking the chance on the unknown thing. Not with only one quarter. Maybe he’d be able to plant it in Daniel or Eric’s bunk, but sooner or later they’d remember they hadn’t bought it.

Mitchell had torn the fingers off the last sticky hand. He’d plastered them to the front of the microwave, trying to make the thing give them the bird, although he was the only one who’d been able to see it. Four of the fingers were still there, looking like … sticky little lines.

It was kinda cool and definitely something that got people talking, but it made the rest of the hand hard to drag across a guy’s beard when he fell asleep in the front lounge. What made it fun — and why Mitchell had done it — was the way the fingers would suddenly pull off a whisker or three. Not even the big idiot could sleep through that.

Trevor drew on the cigarette. Gumballs were fun, but it was hard to chew and smoke at the same time. Now that the band got a per diem that could stretch to cover cigarettes, chewing gum instead of smoking wasn’t as necessary as it used to be.

As for the rubber balls, the bus driver had banned them, at least on the bus. Which was where they were headed as soon as everyone finished whizzing and Trevor decided what to do with his quarter. Saving the ball for later was stupid, too. Mitchell and Daniel would grab it and play some form of tackle handball until either the ball got lost or Charlie pulled them off each other and sent them to opposite corners — and took the ball for himself.

There was no way Trevor was wasting this quarter on those two. Or the stupid-assed tour manager.

Eric came out of the rest stop and stood beside Trevor, looking at the choices. “Slim pickings,” the guitarist said, his hands jammed in the back pockets of his jeans so his elbows stuck out.

“Tell me about it.” Trevor moved slightly so he wouldn’t get touched by one of the elbows.

Eric bobbed his head and for a second there, Trevor was afraid the guy would tell him all about it. He’d done that sort of shit before.

“Maybe we should wait for the another one,” Eric said. “There’s bound to be something better out there.”

“What’s better than Mitchell’s face when he sticks his foot in a shoe and finds a sticky hand waiting for him?”

“Mitchell’s face when he’s gone a week without finding a sticky hand,” Eric said. “We’ve done that one so much, we’re all checking our shoes before we put them on.”

Trevor couldn’t argue with that. He exhaled hard, watching the smoke float past Eric’s face. It was sort of fun to see how relieved everyone looked when they didn’t see anything waiting for them. “I’m bored,” Trevor said.

“Me, too,” Eric said. He pulled his hands out of his pockets. “We need to come up with something different.”

Trevor nodded his agreement, the end of his cigarette flapping along.

“When the time is right, we’ll know what to do,” Eric said.

Trevor closed his eyes, willing Eric’s spirituality lecture to stop right there. He wanted to have fun, not listen to a bunch of bullshit.

“No,” Mitchell said.

Trevor didn’t open his eyes yet. Clearly, the big idiot thought he was raiding the sticky hands.

Eric coughed. A fake, hollow cough. The kind that said someone had detected the sort of fun that was needed.

Trevor opened his eyes and used his tongue to flick his cigarette off his lip and onto the ground. “Too late,” he told Mitchell in a sing-song.

“Trevor–” Mitchell growled.

Daniel came out and looked at Mitchell, then at Trevor. And finally at the gumball machines. He groaned. “You didn’t.”

Trevor slid the quarter into his back pocket, trying to be casual about it. “I did,” he said and shrugged.

“Me, too,” Eric said. He was smiling, like this was great fun. For him, who never did this sort of shit, it probably was.

Mitchell opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Not even hot air. He turned and walked off to the bus. Daniel did the same thing: opened his mouth. No sound, no hot air.

The drummer turned away and jogged to catch up to Mitchell.

Eric and Trevor looked at each other. “This could be fun,” Soul-boy said.

“Could be,” Trevor agreed. “At least until they dump all the shit out of our bunks, looking for whatever they think we just bought.”

“It’ll break up the boredom,” Eric said.

Again, Trevor couldn’t argue. He felt the quarter in his back pocket. The guy was right. Sometimes, it was best to wait, even a little bit. There would be better gumball machines up ahead. Better pranks.

Although, this one was off to a good start.

This bit of fun was inspired by another Easystreet Prompt. You can read a bit of the thoughts that went into this outtake at my RedRoom.com blog. If I can get it to post correctly.

Usually, when I write Roadie Poet, I try to keep his adventures as true-to-life as possible, given my experiences (or that of my sources). But every now and then, an idea like this one strikes and you’ve got to run with it.

This was written for this week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt, Listen up because this is important!

They needed someone to do it.
Four cars in the parking lot.
Eight headlights.
Glowing.
Breaking up the dark.

Make an announcement, they said.
Make people listen up.
It’s important.

Not to a guy who got here on a bus.
A bus he didn’t drive.
A bus he don’t care about.
Much.

Hambone volunteered me.
So did More.
Four sound guys.
The entire pyro team.

Lucky me.

They handed me the mic.
Let me stand off stage
In the shadows.
Gave me the sign.

And my throat
Closed
Up.

It was the sound of Mitchell walking back and forth that alerted Sonya. Either the boy was sick, which she doubted, or he was up to something — probably with Trevor.

He’d left his bedroom door open slightly, so before announcing herself, she peeked inside.

“Ow! You fuckhead, let me do it myself!” Trevor’s anger was familiar, but his voice was funny. Off, somehow.

“So here,” Mitchell said. “Do it yourself and then don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Fuckhead.”

Sonya took a step closer to the door before announcing herself. She could see the edge of Trevor in Mitchell’s mirror, and what she saw made her choke on her breath.

“Who’s that?” Mitchell asked as she coughed.

“It’s your mother, Mitchell. May I come in?”

“Uhh…”

“I think she knows,” Trevor said. He sounded stuffed up, nasal, and definitely defensive, yet at the same time, resigned. “Better let her in.”

“C’mon in, Ma,” Mitchell sighed.

Trevor didn’t move from in front of the mirror. He dabbed at a cut on the corner of his eye with a washcloth. A matching cut stretched from the corner of his mouth, heading back toward his cheek. His face was badly swollen, his eyes already blackening.

Sonya wished Patterson were home to help with this. They’d known this moment was coming when they’d have to confront Trevor about the constant bruises the boy sported, the frequent cuts, the perpetual black eyes. They’d agreed on how to handle things, but that didn’t mean Sonya wanted to do it herself. This was Patterson’s strength.

She sat down on the edge of Mitchell’s bed and folded her hands in her lap.

“What?” Mitchell muttered at her, sullen again.

Sonya shook her head and waited.

“Ma…”

“Relax, M. She’s waiting for the right time,” Trevor said. It sounded like it was supposed to be a sneer, but it also sounded like Trevor had a few teeth knocked loose. Not to mention that stuffed-up nose aspect; between that and the eyes, Sonya was willing to bet that nose was out-and-out broken.

“I’m evaluating how you are. Is there more?”

Trevor glared at her but didn’t say anything. He turned like he was going to walk out of the room, maybe to hang the washcloth up in the bathroom, but he didn’t leave. “How long before you call the cops?”

“Did Mitchell do this to you?”

The cut side of Trevor’s mouth curled up in a pained smile as Mitchell began to protest. “Chill,” Trevor told him. “Your mom’s actually got a sense of humor.”

“Well?” Sonya asked. “Did he?”

“Ma!”

“No,” Trevor said.

“Then there’s no need for me to call the police, is there?”

“You’d turn your own kid in?” Mitchell’s yelp conveyed his sense of betrayal, but Sonya ignored him. He should have known better than to believe she’d turn something like that over to the police. Patterson would never stand for it.

“Good,” Trevor said and gave a satisfied nod. “Cops’re a waste of time.”

“Sometimes,” Sonya said.

Trevor eyed her, expecting more, but she continued waiting.

“Protective services, then? You know, someone tried that once already. They came out, talked to Jenny, and decided to leave as soon as Hank came home. Left us four there, but Jeremy snuck out somehow and got away, the loser.”

“What made him such a loser?” Sonya asked.

“He should have stuck up for us. He’s the oldest. Instead, it was all on me. Eliza said it was okay, but HJ let me know it wasn’t.” He looked out the window for a long minute. “I suck as bad as Jeremy. I should be there now, cleaning up.”

“At least you’re trying,” Sonya said. “You don’t suck for trying.”

“No? I only suck for letting it happen? For not being able to protect them? Why the fuck is it my job anyway? I thought I was just a kid. I thought I was supposed to ride the bus to school and eat cafeteria lunches and do my fucking homework. Why the fuck am I the bad guy because I can’t stand being there? Because I don’t fucking want to be part of it anymore? I’ve had enough. Why can’t someone make it stop already?”

Sonya closed her eyes. Patterson had been right; the boy’s behavior and attitudes were all tied into a need to escape. To be part of a family.

She opened her eyes and tried to sort through what to say, but Trevor was giving her that uneasy look again. “So what’re you going to do?” he asked. “You can’t keep quiet about something like this. Fine, upstanding people like you–” his sneer returned — “you’ve got to get involved, don’tcha? Can’t sleep at night with that bleeding heart of yours, but your idea of getting involved means meddling, not fixing shit. So let’s hear it. Who you gonna go squeal to?”

Mitchell shifted his weight.

“No one,” Sonya said gently. “You forget who this bleeding heart is married to. You’ve got a safe haven here — a very safe haven — as long as you need it. Perhaps a measure of protection, too, but that is between you and Patterson. I suggest you don’t insult him — or me again.”

Trevor kept watching Sonya as he began to fidget, picking at folds of the washcloth as it sat on Mitchell’s dresser. “This smells,” he said at last.

“Trev…” Mitchell said.

“At some point in your life, Trevor, you will have to trust someone who wants to help you. I know you’re only fifteen, but Patterson and I believe you’re capable of making that sort of choice now if you’d like.”

Sonya didn’t expect Trevor to do much more than nod, but instead, he caught and held her eye, then slowly lifted his t-shirt and turned around so she could see the bruises there, too.

Melody had taught her girls that limitless choices weren’t overwhelming choices. They were golden opportunities, times to think carefully and try to imagine what life would be like if they chose this one, that one, or refused to consider those over there.

She’d been talking about things more vitally important than a rainbow selection of cowboy boots.

Footwear was image every bit as much as hair color or style. Melody knew that. Melody swore by it.

She’d never expected one of her girls to be standing in front of a selection of cowboy boots, rooted to the spot as though she couldn’t move until one of those leather soles slid between her foot and the floor. “Mom, I need the red ones,” Lyric said.

“Need?” Melody arched an eyebrow and cocked her head, pin-up fashion. She could all but hear the instant erection of the salesman who hovered, ready to do the bidding of these two beauties.

“Need,” Lyric said.

Melody cocked her head to the other side.

“Honey, a look like that…”

“…defines a woman.”

Lyric was smiling. Melody knew that smile, recognized it from her own youth. Lyric was coming into her own womanly power.

Red cowboy boots for Melody’s first-born, it would be.

So I found this writing prompt site, easystreet prompts. They post a picture or a group of words every day, but it’s cooler than that. Most of the pictures are vintage and whether or not the time frame’s right, they make me think of the Great Depression. Except for this one, obviously. It’s been awhile since we spent some time with our favorite porn queen and her offspring, and with Lyric’s red cowboy boots so integral to who she is…

“Here,” Mitchell said, handing her the package. “I bought you something.”

“What is it?”

“Look.” When Kerri squinted at the mailing label, he said, “Inside.”

“It’s not an envelope?”

“Not even close.” He nodded at it.

She turned it on its end and found the pull tab on the padded envelope. “You’re sure?” she asked him, raising her eyebrows. She looked so alive right then, so vibrant, he thought about swooping her up and throwing her in their bed.

“Go on,” he made himself say. “Look inside.”

She gasped when she saw it. With reverence, she pulled it out of the envelope, letting the mailer fall on the floor while she put it carefully down on her lap and stroked it. “How did you know?”

He shrugged. “I saw you looking at it one night. In that catalog you like.”

“I thought you were sleeping.”

He shrugged again. “Guess it’s a good thing you thought so.”

She stroked the book cover, then lifted it slowly, listening to the cover groan. He smiled. He hadn’t believed it was merely a stupid book on art technique when he’d seen the glow in her eyes every time she’d looked at the catalog, and he didn’t believe that it was merely a stupid book now, either.

The scene had played itself out the same way so many times, Walter knew it by heart. As soon as it started, he’d close his eyes and be transported back to that first time, when the twenty-year-old kid had stood there, splay-legged, one hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle of Wild Turkey, swaying.

“You’re gonna regret this, you old fuck!”

“Old?” He would kick himself later for not being able to come up with anything better than that, but at the moment, all he could do was wonder how on Earth someone who was thirty could be accused of being old.

“Yeah, old! Too fucking old to know what I’m worth! Either pay me more or I walk!”

Walter waved his hand in circles in the general direction of the door. “Walk on, brother. We had a good time together. I hope you learned things from me.”

The kid had thrown the bottle of Wild Turkey at the wall. The added defiance of the sound of the breaking glass and the sight of the amber liquid on the wall made him grow three inches. “I’ll show you, you stupid-assed motherfucker!”

“I hope you will,” Walter said placidly, pressing his fingertips together and touching his lips with them.

Lacking anything else to make a show with, the kid lost those new inches and stomped out of the room.

“Walter?” Rich, his bass player had said. His eyes had been big, terrified, his voice low and scared. “What do we do now? We’re on in an hour.”

“Didn’t you tell me that kid was hanging around again? The one we jammed with last week?”

Rich’s eyes widened. “But…”

“Trust in providence,” Walter said. “Or that I knew this was coming.”

“How?”

Walter smiled. “The dummy left the offer to join a new band someplace where Lila happened to see it.”

“Where was that?”

“His guitar case, in that hidden compartment we all deny having. Go get that kid. We have to go over the setlist with him.”

“Do you go through my shit like that?”

“I don’t go through anyone’s shit,” Walter said. “And you’re not using me as a stepping stone for glory, so there’s no need for Lila to.”

The bass player stopped and considered that. “No,” he said at last. “I’m not. How do we know the new kid won’t be?”

“Oh, he will be. It’s the nature of the guitar player. They want the glory, all of it, and for themselves. You watch. He was only the first. Every single one of my guitarists will follow this path.”

And they had, down to the same scene. Oh, the bottles of liquor changed. Some of them didn’t make that dramatic arc through the air. The guitar players weren’t all blonde and green-eyed like that first kid had been. And Lila hadn’t had to dig up anything; Walter had learned to read the signs, to know when it was time for them to move on.

Through all the transitions, there was always someone immediately there, ready to step in. Ready to be the next apprentice and to help Walter maintain his own glory as the guy who helped develop some of the best guitarists to ever play rock and roll.

No, he thought as the latest new guy was escorted in, there’s nothing here to regret at all.

Ahh, Walter. We don’t see him around here nearly enough, don’t you think? Use the Cast tab up top to see more of him.

She’d only cancelled her trip home because Trevor had taunted her into staying on the road with them. So far, it had been okay. The city had lost its magical hold on her; she felt like a stranger and the city felt like any other they’d been to. Nothing special anymore. Even the memories were getting foggy, drowned out by the vividness that was life in Riverview.

Only as she’d stood in Primanti’s and watched them make sandwiches for Mitchell and Trevor had she felt like she’d never left. It had been a temporary feeling; as she’d reached out to pay the woman in the greasy white apron and gotten a glimpse of her black leather tour jacket, she’d remembered why she was here, and, more importantly, who she’d become.

That didn’t mean that standing in the bowels of the Igloo, watching from the fringes as the band met with their fans, was a comfortable thing. Any one of those people could be someone Kerri knew, someone she’d grown up with. Someone like Emily van … van… van Something. Who was shimmying in front of Mitchell as she eyed his crotch between head tosses, still the School’s Top Slut eight years later.

It was all Kerri could do to stand there, watching Emily draw an index finger down the middle of her bottom lip while giving Mitchell a come-hither look. Drawing attention to herself would cause more problems than it could solve, and Mitchell was doing fine on his own. But that didn’t mean it was easy to stay in the shadows, a faceless member of the band’s crew.

Kerri watched as Emily drew the strap of her tank top aside, pumping her shoulder a few times like a model in front of the camera. It was probably habit, Kerri thought. She’d seen pictures of Emily back in high school, the illicit ones the guys had taken during drunken and drug-fueled nights, with Emily as the belle of the ball. Hell, Kerri had seen more of Emily than Mitchell ever would; what was she getting upset about?

Mitchell moved on, to a kid who looked to be about eighteen. A guy whose eyes had boggled at each of Emily’s antics and who now wasn’t sure who he should be talking to, Emily or Mitchell.

Kerri watched Emily as Mitchell dismissed her entirely. She pouted and leaned back against the wall, throwing the occasional dirty look at Mitchell. Kerri wondered what the woman would say if she knew just who it was who Mitchell had married. They hadn’t been friends in high school; they’d had to tolerate each other due to the fact of simple proximity. Kerri had been the cool chick, the one who’d fit in. Emily had fucked her way to acceptance.

As she watched Daniel come near enough to make Emily perk back up, Kerri decided that it was probably a good thing those ties she’d felt to the city were gone. While she doubted she’d have wound up like Emily if she’d stayed, the simple fact was that some ties were harder to break. She and Emily would have seen each other around town, would have still shared some friends, spent some Sunday afternoons at the same house, rooting on the Steelers. Their orbits would have overlapped and Kerri would never had escaped. She’d have turned into those people she’d hated most.

Leaving had been the right thing, even if the way she’d done it maybe hadn’t been. Letting the lies spread about what had happened the night before she’d married Mitchell had been a blessing in disguise.

Standing in the shadows, being a nameless, faceless member of the ShapeShifter crew was a hell of a lot better than anything she would have become if she’d stayed in town.

She hoped Trevor would teach Emily van Whatever a thing or two. And that Emily wouldn’t teach him about something he’d need antibiotics to cure.

This week’s Sunday Scribblings inspired this, as did the woman on the spin bike beside me last Friday. She’d toss her hair and pose for the mirror; it was an experience, watching her.

If you weren’t here over the weekend, you’ll want to scroll down or click through; you missed some Roadie Poet!

Been home longer than a month.
Promised job never came through.

Happens sometimes.

Antonio’s moved in, too.
I’ve never known Mom to be so
Happy.
She sings in the kitchen while she makes dinner.
Feasts.
We eat leftovers for weeks.

I pick up some local stage work.
The crew there,
They never been on the road.
Most of ’em won’t get there.

But they dream anyway.

Dad wants me to move my stuff
Come stay with him.
But I’m happy here.
Getting fat.
Loving Mom like this.

When I leave,
It’ll be for a tour.
But right now, it’s fun to be home.

Trevor Wolff doesn’t do reruns. And this Thursday Thirteen thing, all this dying and resurrection drama, it smells of reruns.

But Susan’s insisting. All ’cause of Robin. And Robin… Now there is a woman for you. Strong. Devoted. I bet she could teach Rusty a few things about being cool, too. Even though it was Susan who she said was cool, not me. I’ll have you know, Robin, I’m cooler than Susan can ever hope to be. Got that?

Robin got handed some blog award where she was supposed to tell ten things about herself. She wanted Susan or me to do it.  Susan thought that it’d be fun to get to know this new Thirteen crowd. Maybe remind the old crowd what they’ve been missing.

That means old Trevor gets to do the honors. Ten things about himself, not about Susan. Only, since I’m Trevor Fucking Wolff, I get to forget how to count again and turn ten into thirteen. Which is still better than Mitchell, who’d turn ten into twelve. Idiot’s got his head so far into his music, everything with him’s all about fours.

1. My name’s Trevor Fucking Wolff. Yeah, it’ll be on the quiz. Take notes.

2. I play bass in this band I founded. ShapeShifter. You shoulda heard of us; we fucking thunder. Not rock. Rocking’s for sissies. We thunder. Get the dif?

3. That dork I mentioned, Mitchell. He’s my best friend. Like a brother to me. I lived with his family for two years until I quit high school two days before graduation and Mitchell’s parents told me it was time to move out on my own.

4. I got this rinky-dink apartment over Decade. Still live there.

5.  I have a Vincent. That’s a motorcyle, for you who don’t know better. I rebuilt it mostly by myself. Hammer, Wrench, and Torque helped.

6. I star in Susan’s first book, The Demo Tapes.  You need a copy, if you don’t already have one.

7. It’s chock full of 20 of my favorite adventures. Well, favorite until Susan puts out The Demo Tapes: Year 2.  She’s working on it.

8. Before Mitchell fell in love with this redheaded artist type, he and I tore up the city of Riverview, where we live. Now that he was dumb enough to commit an act of monogamy with Rusty, I rule the city myself. It’s not as much fun as watching Mitchell be a dork.

9. If there’s a willing girl, I’m there. A woman’s body is best appreciated up close. All those curves and soft places; it’s a guy’s fantasy come true. Every single time.

10. One thing no one told us was that the groupies you meet on the way up are the ones you’ll remember the longest. That’s ’cause they do more than spend ten minutes making you happy, ifyouknowwhatTrevormeans. They give you a place to crash when you’re on tour and too broke for a hotel. They feed you after-show dinners and keep the beer flowing and give you Advil in the morning when you had too many beers.

11. Not me, though. My idea of beer’s root beer. I get to laugh at the hungover asses of those three.

12. Susan wrote a book. A novel. When you read it, you’ll get the root beer. And meatball subs. The more copies of The Demo Tapes that you buy, the sooner you’ll get to read the novel. She’s not the only one who promises. I do, too. There’s shit in that book that I’m sick of not being able to tell you about.

13.  How many of you Thirteeners missed old Trevor? ‘Cause Trevor sure missed a lot of you…

Pop quiz: What’s Trevor’s name again?

In the past, when we’ve seen Kermit Ladd on these pages, he’s been run in circles by the boys in the band. That ShapeShifter band, that is (for you who don’t know just who rules the roost around here). Kermit, however, isn’t the amateur you may think he is. Nope. The man’s won awards for his journalism, and is generally well-regarded in the field. Here’s why, in a piece inspired by both this week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt and a comment made at a new blog I’ve recently found, Metalblog.

No matter how loathesome everything else around this strip mall where the end of the line trickles into place, its beige façade faded by the blazing Arizona sun, trash bleaching in the fire lane like a dead fish washed up by a red tide, there is always something worthy of one’s attention. In this case, it is three young men, maybe as young as eighteen, maybe as old as twenty-six, who crawl out from behind the artificially green bushes near building’s side.

They are dirty. Their black hair wears a layer of brown dust, as do their tattered-in-places clothing. Their shoes haven’t escaped; rather, they bear the brunt of the damage. Holes in the soles and at the toes haven’t seen attempts at repair. Nor have the revealed nails seen a clipper, much as they need to.

Foot sore, weary, and hungry, they ask where they might refill their water bottles. They lick their lips as they eye the snacks others munch, oblivious to the new arrivals who need their money for the precious few tickets that remain.

No one jumps to help them, offer advice, or point them to a spicket. In fact, the thick crowd assembled to see Sammy Spencer perform across the street pretends these three simply don’t exist. The three are, to an extent, relieved. To be seen, noticed, acknowledged by the wrong people will mean that instead of the inside of a theater, they will be treated to the inside of a police car. Instead of the music they came so far to hear, they will hear a judge issuing the order that they be deported back home.

A reasonable person would bemoan the other side of what attention can bring: the helping hand that can shelter them, help them, provide them with what they need. Not these three.

“We used to it, man,” one of them tells this intrepid journalist once contact is made and safe identity established. “No one want help the Spics. Let these Spics tell you sumpin’, man. When Sammy Spencer get done and walk off that stage, we start our own walk back home. We don’t want to be part of no society that so mean to us.”

“We work hard at home,” the second one says. “But Sammy, he cancelled show in Mexico. This his farewell tour. We can’t miss the farewell tour.”

It is pointed out that Sammy’s already held two farewell tours, and no one has been fool enough to label this one the same. It seems that Sammy Spencer’s latest idea of retirement means three months on tour and one off, summers spent with the reunited and reconfigured Scarred Heart, and grandiose statements about unplugging the microphone that keep the fans pouring through the doors the moment they open. He now limits the countries he visits, and no longer seeks to gain visas for the many he’s been banned from. Perhaps there is even some taming of the famed Sammy Spencer, the man who once gave an interview while dining upon what he still, to this day, maintains was a dog, a delicacy in some of those countries in which the man is no longer welcome — and a few in which he never was.

These three Mexican men, who snuck across the border between our countries simply to say farewell to their musical hero, are the epitome of Sammy Spencer and the rebellious ways he seems to have, finally, thirty years later, matured beyond.

Yet it is clear to this journalist, at least, that he continues to inspire a flaunting disregard of the law, of simple things like visas and passports and lawful entry into another country.

These three young men, covered in dirt, stomachs audibly growling, are the essence of rock and roll.

Mitchell rested his hands behind his head, cradling it over the flat pillow Eric had given him. The cool night air felt good on his arms and the exposed part of his chest that stuck out of the sleeping bag. Maybe there was hope for this camping idea yet.

He hadn’t wanted to come. Hell, he’d laughed when Eric had suggested it; he liked to be outside, sure, but to find a spot in the middle of the woods and spend the night? Doing what?

The lead guitarist hadn’t backed down, no matter how grumpy Mitchell got. Camping, it seemed, was going to happen. Just the two of them, a couple of sleeping bags, a tent that Eric damn well better know how to pitch, some food in a bear-proof container, and two acoustic guitars.

It had been obvious that Eric knew what he was doing. “It’s how Dad escapes from the congregation,” Eric had said as he’d slid the poles in place. “Everywhere else he goes — even if he’s in another city — he runs into people who know him. So he comes up here instead. Jared used to come with him until he got a life, then it was my turn.” Eric had shrugged. “I may have a life, but it includes this now.”

Mitchell thought he was nuts. Once the tent was up, he got bored. Picking up firewood wasn’t exactly stimulating, although actually getting the thing started had some fun points. Like when Eric had pulled a stick out of the fire, its end glowing orange, and challenged him to a swordfight.

That hadn’t lasted long, so they’d roasted their weenies, toasted the buns, and threw a few ears of corn on the edges. Somehow, it all tasted better out there. Mitchell didn’t want to admit it, but he sort of was digging this. Being able to take a piss wherever he felt like it wasn’t a bad thing, either.

Going to bed before sunrise had sucked, but he’d actually been too tired to care. And now here he was, awake at the crack of dawn, listening to the birds start singing.

Part of why Eric had dragged him out here was because lately, the songs weren’t there. The band had a new album due, but whenever they sat down to write songs, they all sounded like shit. Flat. Or fake. Forced. Definitely not the Fuck You, World that ShapeShifter was known for. Worst of all, the music that was always playing in Mitchell’s head had stopped.

This solution of Eric’s had seemed stupid at first — songs about birds chirping weren’t exactly Fuck You, World. But now, as the world woke up and dragged Eric along with it, the birds weren’t the only music Mitchell was hearing.

Word comin’ out of Riverview this week is that the annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration hosted by Chelle’s favorite boys, ShapeShifter, was a bigger hit than ever. They pulled in more money, had more fans around, and even invited a few drag queens to dance up on that stage with their handsome selves.

Believe it or not, but there’s some bitchin’ goin’ on about this year’s shin-dig, and it’s comin’ from some very interesting places, if you catch my drift. If not, here’s a hint: it’s comin’ from every big name star who was pining for an invite to join the party. Seems like if you’re in a band other than ShapeShifter, you weren’t wanted anywhere near that Rocket Theater place the band took over for the benefit. And now there’s some mighty peeved people out there in music land.

Now, my name being Chelle LaFleur and all, I had to get the skinny about what those ShapeShifter boys think they’re doin’, tellin’ all their friends to kiss off. That ain’t no way to treat no friend.

“I know, Chelle,” that handsome Mitchell Voss told Chelle over the phone on her desk at the Trumpet’s office. “We realized we’d hit a crossroads this year. We could have made millions — I’m not kidding. Millions. We had musicians like Sammy Spencer offering to donate cash for the chance to be there. Cold hard cash, and a lot of it, too. He didn’t even want to get on stage. He just wanted in. Those guys who were coming around were offering us so much money for tickets that our heads swam. We could have helped out a ton of kids if we’d gone that way.”

So why didn’t ShapeShifter bow to the mighty dollar?

“It was Eric, so blame him,” handsome Mitchell said. “He’s always been the force behind this, and when he reminded us that the idea was to show our fans they don’t need to be millionaire rock stars in order to make a difference. That five bucks means something in this world, something more than a cup of coffee. The party’s about helping kids have the means to make music, sure, but it’s about giving hope and power to people who think they don’t matter, too.”

Am I hearing this right? ShapeShifter, one of the world’s biggest bands, went for the little guy over deep pockets?

“It’s about the fans, Chelle,” Handsome Mitchell said. “They want to believe they can make a difference, and we’re lucky enough to be able to show them that they can and help them do it. One of the hardest parts can be choosing who to support. Where do you start? Save the panda? Buy land in the Everglades? Rebuild homes in New Orleans? What about the tsunami victims from all those years ago? You think their lives are normal yet?”

To be honest, Chelle ain’t given them a thought in a long time. I ain’t about to head over to Sri Lanka and wherever else got hit with that monster wave to see, but Chelle’s bettin’ the man’s right. About all of it: that them people ain’t got their lives back any more than a lot of the folk who’re tryin’ to repopulate this city of mine. He’s right that you gotta start somewhere.

You heard it first and you heard it here: ShapeShifter’s all about giving their fans a voice. Gotta love a band who helps people believe they can make a difference.

Yeah, I was going to leave it with our last post, but blame this on Wylie and Shelley. They asked; I delivered. The mystery of where Deadly Metal Hatchet’s missing invite has been solved: ShapeShifter turned into equal-opportunity dissers. Nice to know my boys have integrity.

Springer stuck his hands in his pockets and wished for a smoke. He was out, though, dead broke — for a change. But it was worth it. Another year at the Musical Hanukkah Celebration, even if he hadn’t won the lottery this year. Can’t win what you don’t enter, Springer had told his girl, then pointed out that if she’d pay for things when they go out, maybe he would have been able to afford it.

She’d gotten all snotty about it. For a change.

Springer decided that overall, he didn’t miss cigarettes. Except for times like this, when he was waiting around outside The Rocket Theater, him and a bunch of other ShapeShifter fans, hoping to see the band when they showed up. He was bored. Smoking would give him something to do.

His girl sure wouldn’t give him something to do. As soon as she started pulling the diva routine, bitching about how they never went anywhere because Springer had no money, he tuned her out and wished she was gone.

There were some wishes Springer could make come true, all on his own. And they didn’t involve money, either.

A new, better girl was sure to appear. From somewhere. Right then, Springer didn’t much care. All he wanted was to maybe see Eric, see if the guitarist recognized him from that day at Gus’ Guitars. After all, Eric had remembered him then from last year’s Musical Hanukkah. It could happen.

He’d been looking for a limo carrying all the ShapeShifter guys, so he didn’t pay attention to the red Audi when it pulled in. No one gathered there did, really. No one in ShapeShifter drove a red Audi. Mitchell had the new Durango, Daniel had a Jaguar, Eric drove an Acura, and Trevor still had his bike.

Ten minutes later, none of those cars had appeared, but Eric came out the stage door, blinking at the light of outside like he’d been in the dark theater for awhile.

Springer stared, his mouth falling open a bit, his brain racing. When? How?

“Who has tickets for tonight?” the guitarist asked.

Without him telling it to, Springer’s arm went up. So did three others — one girl, dressed in faded jeans covered in ballpoint drawings, and two guys who were the usual black t-shirts under their flannels.

“You four, then, c’mon,” Eric said and motioned them forward.

Security appeared out of nowhere and made a line between the four of them and the rest of the group.

“Well, this is one way to get in without waiting in line,” the girl chuckled. Springer liked her; she had a flat, open face and yellow-blonde hair. Freckles over her nose and spreading across her cheeks under her eyes. She wore one earring in the lobe of her ear, a ShapeShifter dragon S. Springer knew those earrings; the band had sold them through the fan club. She had more piercings in the cartiledge of her ear, and wore an ear cuff that at first looked like a dragon.

He peered closer. She blushed and covered it with her hand, pulling it off. “I shouldn’t… not here,” she said.

But he’d seen. A naked man, quite obviously showing off her favorite part of a guy.

“Okay,” Eric said when they were inside. He’d walked them across the stage, where Springer had reached out and touched the edge of Daniel’s drum riser, and down a flight of stairs. They were now in some small room. One of those candle things sat on the table, in front of a deli tray that hadn’t been touched. “This is Daniel’s doing, so let me get him. Wait here.”

“Can we eat?” one of the other guys called out.

“Not yet!” Eric yelled over his shoulder.

In a second, Eric came back in with the famous drummer.

Springer licked his lips and told himself that passing out would not be cool.

The girl touched his hand. He looked at her; the gleam in her eyes said she was thinking and feeling the same things he was.

“Here’s the deal,” Daniel said, pushing some of his hair behind his ear. Just as fast, he shook his head so the hair fell free. It was as common a gesture as any Springer had ever seen; the guy did it almost constantly. “You heard about the recent terror attacks in India, right?”

Springer joined the others in nodding, even though he barely knew about them. Just that there’d been attacks and people had died. It sucked, but then, so did most things.

“There’s a group of ultra-Orthodox Jews, from the group whose rabbi was killed in those attacks, who’re calling for us to join with strangers and share the light and hope of Hanukkah.”

Springer wondered how this affected him.

Eric stepped to the table and picked up a book of matches. Daniel stepped back and motioned to the four fans to come closer.

Striking the match, Eric read something unintelligible from a piece of paper between the candle thing and the deli tray. He touched the match to the middle candle, then the two on the left of the candle thing.

“There,” he said, letting out a deep breath. “I hope I did it right, but if not, God knows my intentions are good.” He looked at the four fans. “You guys can dig in here and go on up to grab places on the floor. The doors’ll be open in about forty-five minutes. Oh, here. You should have these,” he said, pulling backstage passes out of his back pocket. He handed one to each fan. “Don’t try to get in our dressing room, though. Security won’t let you.”

As he handed a pass to Springer, he paused. “I keep seeing you around. What’s your name again?”

“Springer.” He was glad his tongue wasn’t taking off like it did the last time. That didn’t mean he didn’t feel like he had a second head or something; it was hard to stand here and be cool in front of your hero.

“Springer. Good name. Hey, will you make sure your friends here don’t knock over the candles? It’d be bad news if we burned this place down.”

“I’ll send someone in to get them out of here,” Daniel said. He leaned around Eric and extended a hand to Springer. “Nice to meet you and thanks for keeping an eye on things for us.”

They were gone fast like that. It felt like the air returned to the room and Springer could think and breathe again. The two guys were busy digging into the deli tray, but the girl was looking at Springer. “How cool was that?”

“How cool is all of it?”

“I’m Trinity.”

“I’m Springer.” He blushed. “I bet you figured that.”

“Eric knows you.”

Springer bobbed his head. “Seems to.”

“I need to hang around you more often.”

He could feel the blush spread down his throat. “We’ve got all night.”

And so the Hanukkah Celebration begins here at the Meet and Greet. If you’d like to know what this experience Springer last had with Eric was, go here. Remember that by buying a copy of The Demo Tapes or the Hanukkah T-shirt at the merchandise table, you’ll be helping make a real-life donation to the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation. And while we’re speaking of real life, Eric’s comment about the Chabad House’s invitation to everyone to join in the hope of the Hanukkah season by helping Jewish friends in the nightly candle lighting… that’s very real. Forget about the presents, forget about the decorations and hustle and bustle and remember the hope that this season brings with it. Happy Hanukkah, everyone.

They’d been waiting for it, saving up the gas money. Driving from Phoenix to Riverview wasn’t going to be cheap. They’d tried lining up some gigs, but it was a bad time of year to do that on your own. People were spending money on presents, not on live shows. The right-sized clubs wanted bands who could draw, not unknowns.

“But we’re not unknown!” Scott had tried arguing. “We’re Deadly Metal Hatchet!” Even telling the club owners and promoters that they were friends with ShapeShifter hadn’t helped.

Still, they weren’t going to miss the annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration up in Riverview. They’d agreed to sleep in their van if they had to, unless they could find a nice girl who was willing to let them crash on her floor. They even agreed they wouldn’t fight for her and her bed.

The only thing they were missing, really, was the invitation.

“What are we gonna do?” Lido asked. “It’s Saturday. The gig’s in two days and we gotta leave like an hour ago if we’re gonna make it there on time.”

Scott shook his head and held his hands up. “There’s nothing we can do. If they didn’t invite us this year, they didn’t invite us.”

“I thought they liked us,” Fozzy said, shaking his head. “Fuckers.”

“They ran that cartoon of the Hatchet last year,” Lido said. “Maybe that’s why they didn’t invite us this year. They need to rotate through all their friends.”

“There are an awful lot of people who are better friends with them than we are,” Scott said.

Fozzy got up and stalked across the room.

Scott shook his head, knowing what was coming next. “Don’t do it, man. They’ll never forgive us.”

“I’m not doing shit,” Fozzy said, bending over the notebook on the table, a pen already in his hand. “The Hatchet is.”

“It may not be personal,” Scott warned. “This might change that.”

Fozzy didn’t answer. He just spread his legs farther apart, bringing his face and body closer to the notebook.

Scott bent over, forearms planted down the length of his thighs, face hidden in his hands. “Fozz…”

“Not me,” the guitarist said. “It’s all the Hatchet’s doing.”

“Dude,” Scott said, standing up and adjusting his glasses. This whole scene hurt, and the Hatchet was only going to make it worse. “They gotta raise money. How much money can we help them raise? If it weren’t for our t-shirts, we’d be broke. It’s all about money, and we can’t help them much. I don’t blame them if they blew us off.”

“Maybe the invite’s just late,” Lido said, glancing nervously at Fozzy’s ass.

“Maybe,” Scott said, giving Lido a grateful look.

“I say we go anyway,” Gecko said. He gave Scott and Lido a small smile. “Maybe we can get tickets or something.”

“With what money?” Scott asked. He shook his head and turned his back on everyone. They just didn’t get it. The band wasn’t bringing in a lot of money. They should be practicing now, not waiting for Fozzy to finish letting the Hatchet destroy them. Letting the Hatchet loose on ShapeShifter… this was suicide of the worst sort.

Fozzy threw the pen down and stalked away. Scott held his breath.

Gecko picked up the drawing.

There was the ShapeShifter logo, or something close enough to it. Just like Scott had expected.

But instead of the Hatchet tearing it apart, the Hatchet lay below it, almost as if it was bowing.

And a tear escaped from its head.

“Maybe our invite is just late,” Gecko said.

“Maybe,” Scott said.

I hope you’ve been following this year’s Musical Hanukkah Celebration posts. Join the fun by getting your hands on the official 2009 t-shirt at the Merchandise Table. Remember that a portion of all profits from the sales of the t-shirts and my own book, The Demo Tapes, will be donated to the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation so that kids can make music of their own. And hopefully be better than the guys in Deadly Metal Hatchet.

Patterson didn’t mind that they’d left early. The after-dinner entertainment had been the same for years now: the men gathered around the television, the women in the kitchen, cleaning up and gossiping, the kids who were too young to do either dispersing to the basement or another round of football in the yard.

Mitchell, for all his love of baseball, loathed watching football. And Trevor’s lewd comments about the sport had been immediately unwelcome.

Frankly, Patterson had been glad to have an excuse to leave. He wasn’t much of a football lover, himself, and family togetherness had its limits when there was so much in your life you couldn’t discuss.

He pulled the Bronco into its spot on the side of the driveway and sat for a moment. Trevor, in the back seat, had gotten awfully quiet. Too quiet.

Mitchell, beside him, hopped out of the Bronco like he didn’t have a care in the world. Like leaving early wasn’t a big deal. To the boy, it probably hadn’t been. Spending the day with the family had been okay at first, with the annual flag football game and the cousins to catch up with. But if you kept Mitchell away from his guitar too long, he started to get twitchy. Once that happened, the cousins decided he was weird. Adding Trevor to the mix hadn’t helped, but leaving that one at home had never crossed Patterson’s mind. Trevor was part of the family now, no matter how hard he worked at reminding them all that he wasn’t.

Trevor followed Mitchell out of the Bronco, but didn’t wait by the back door with the younger boy. Instead, Trevor stared at the sky.

“Did you ever wonder,” he said to Patterson, his face turned upward.

“I wondered what’s bothering you tonight.”

Trevor shoved his hands into the pockets of the leather vest he’d consented to wear over his denim jacket. He hunched his shoulders.

Patterson had a few guesses. But it was best if the boy talked without prompts.

Suddenly, the hands were out of the pockets, the shoulders were down, and the boy had spun to face his guardian. “Do you have any fucking clue what it’s like to watch that table get cleared and hear everyone laugh that everyone forgot about the cranberries and this and that and everything else? Do you have any fucking clue how lucky you are to even have a fucking family?”

“Yes,” Patterson said. “And not just because this is a holiday of gratitude, either.”

Mitchell wandered closer, but stayed safely behind Trevor.

“Do you know what my Thanksgivings used to be like?” Trevor went on, his face turning red in the starlight. “Do you know what we’d have for dinner?”

“No,” Patterson said. “Tell me.”

Trevor just shook his head, like the words wouldn’t come. Mitchell sat down in the grass and folded his legs Indian-style. He began playing with his shoelaces.

Trevor pulled his cigarettes out of the chest pocket of the denim jacket. “Some years, it was us sitting around the table, watching him drink a bottle of JD. One year, he beat Mom with the bird she’d brought home and then made her cook it and stood there while we ate it. I puked it back up about an hour later.” He snorted. “And don’t forget the year there was no food because Mom couldn’t get a hold of his paycheck and he stole hers and drank ’em both.”

Mitchell shook his head and visibly swallowed. Patterson just listened. He’d been witness to scenes like this, although not at the Wolff household. It didn’t matter; the tragedy was still the same. The fact that he’d been able to make a difference in this young man’s life couldn’t even begin to make up for the families he hadn’t been able to help so directly.

“Happy fucking birthday, Trevor,” Trevor said, sniffing hard and rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his denim jacket. “They usually forgot. And there’s the Voss family,” he said, gesturing expansively, “with a birthday cake and apologies for being a week late.”

Patterson looked at Mitchell; he felt the boy watching him. He’d managed to shelter Mitchell from the worst of Trevor’s stories; this couldn’t be easy.

Mitchell was imploring his father to make it stop. To help him know what to say or do.

Patterson pursed his lips and gave the barest shake to his head.

“And all that fucking food that everyone forgot to eat,” Trevor said.

“We didn’t forget,” Mitchell said. “No one likes the cranberries. So Aunt Paula leaves ’em on the table because we’re supposed to have cranberries. She’s probably shoving them back in the container she uses every year, and she’ll throw it in the freezer until next year. They’ll make it to the table, probably still frozen, and then when we clear, everyone will joke about forgetting to eat them when the truth is, no one wants ’em.”

“Think that’s funny?” Trevor whirled and bent over to look at Mitchell, who shrugged.

“I think cranberries are okay,” Mitchell said.

Patterson had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.

Trevor cocked his head, considering.

Mitchell started pulling at the grass.

“So you’re saying I’m a cranberry?” Trevor asked at last.

Mitchell made a sound sort of like one of Trevor’s indignant snorts. “No,” the boy said. “You’re an ass who’s keeping me from my guitar. C’mon. Let’s go make music.”

Patterson moved to unlock the front door, wondering if a parent could be more proud of his son. It wasn’t likely.

It only took ole Chelle here two years to figure it out, but when there’s a message taped to her phone, waitin’ for her in the morning, and when that message don’t say nothin’ but “Be at your phone at seven, your time, Wednesday,” it means one thing and one thing only.

Time to talk up this year’s Musical Hanukkah Celebration over in Riverview.

Yeah, yeah. I know. We don’t live nowhere near Riverview. We be two time zones over and at least a thousand miles away. So what’s Chelle doin’ talkin’ this thing up?

You boys and girls who’re regulars know the answer to that. The Musical Hanukkah Celebration is the baby of the one and only ShapeShifter. And that means fat ole Chelle gets the skinny from the luscious Mitchell Voss himself. He’s probably the only man who could tell Chelle when to get herself by a telephone. He’s worth it every time.

Except, luscious Mitchell Voss… he ain’t the best with the hellos. Know what Chelle hears when she answers the phone? “We’ve got our best charity yet for this thing.”

No Hello? Where’s the How Ya Doing, Chelle?

“It’s the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation. Stable. Been around awhile. Famous ’cause of some movie I never saw. And we’re moving into the Rocket Theater this time, too,” Mr. Luscious said. “It’s bigger. The stage is bigger and it holds more people. The backstage area’s nicer, too, so we can have a few more guest stars. We’re pulling out the stops this year. And wait until you see the t-shirt. We’re making more of those, too. People want to buy ’em online and help support the cause. Since it’s such a good cause, we’re all for that.”

There you go, boys and girls. We get t-shirts this year if we ain’t gonna make the trek to Riverview. And why would we? We got us some great weather this time of year. Gettin’ on an airplane might cost so much, you gotta sell your favorite band t-shirt on eBay, and that’s before you get to the airport and they call for a cavity search. No, boys and girls. Let’s stay put. There’s a great local scene here y’all should be explorin’. Chelle’s got a rundown of who to go see later on this week.

That don’t mean you shouldn’t buy those t-shirts when word gets out that you can. Any donation’s sure to make those little kids happy and grateful. It’s all about bringin’ music to the kids, remember that. A kid who plays the flute now might turn out to be tomorrow’s Mitchell Voss. We ain’t gonna know until that kid gets the chance to make some precious music.

For now, you heard it here and you heard it first: ShapeShifter’s Musical Hanukkah Celebration. Gettin’ bigger, getting’ better and with t-shirts for all, not just the folk who make it inside. Gotta love that. Chelle sure does.

If you’re new around here, this whole Musical Hanukkah Celebration thing has got to seem as though it’s from left field. Click here to read the beginnings.

While the characters in this piece aren’t real, the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation is. Profits on the t-shirts and The Demo Tapes will go toward this great effort to keep our kids musical. There will be more details and hoopla to come, I promise. And a lot more fiction, too, building up to this fun event.

You may ask why I’m blurring the line between real life and fiction like this. The answer’s easy: Today’s clarinet player might be tomorrow’s million-selling lead singer. Every child all deserves that dream.

Got home just now.
The start of a month off the road.
I need sleep
Clean clothes
Good food.

In that order.

My key fits in the lock.
Everything inside looks the same:
Shelf for mail
The dent in the bannister from when I kicked it with a steel-toed boot.

Don’t ask.

In the living room
In front of the TV
In the recliner I bought Mom with my first tour’s pay

Isn’t Mom.
It’s some guy.
In blue plaid flannel pants.
Black socks.
Brown slippers with no backs.
Not a lot of hair.
Glasses.

I look into the kitchen.
There’s Mom’s cookbooks
Mom’s pots
Mom’s teapot.
No Mom.

Just this guy.

“Hey,” he says to me.
“You must be RP.”

“Who’re you?” I say to him.
“Does Mom know you’re here?”

He laughs.
Stands up.
Shoves his hand at me.

I stare at it.

Mom shows up then.
Dressed in a flimsy robe.
Surprised to see me.
Her second kid.

Like I’m forgettable.

She gives me food.
Takes my laundry.
Sends me to bed.

In that order.
I don’t complain.
I needed all three.
Especially sleep.

I’m awake.
Never thought I’d need earplugs at home.

Maybe
I can find
A tour
That’ll keep me busy
For a month.

I don’t really need
Sleep
Food
Or clothes.
In any order.

Aww, man! Poor RP; his mom’s got a boyfriend! There’s more to this saga, so stay tuned. In the meantime, why not check out other friends who’ve done some Sunday Scribblings? (more…)

So this was it, Trevor thought as he followed Mitchell off the elevator and down the narrow, dark hallway. This was the other love shack, the one Mitchell bonked Rusty in when he wasn’t doing her in his own place. Trevor wasn’t so sure he wanted to go in. Hell, he wasn’t sure why Mitchell wanted in Rusty, but the big idiot had never been the smartest thing around when it came to girls.

At least the door to Rusty’s place was cool: floor to ceiling and on these rollers that made a great noise when Mitchell pulled it open. It looked old and industrial and was almost as interesting as his place.

The first thing Trevor noticed was the space. Huge. Empty. A few ugly couches, a few lights set around them like he’d seen at photo shoots the band had been on. And a drafting desk, white, facing the couches.

A couple of mismatched throw rugs on the floor. Rusty’s bike by the door, and hooks for keys and shit. Not hooks, he realized as he looked closer. Carabiners. They made stealing her keys pretty fucking hard, the way they were rigged, there. It was almost a good idea.

Behind the drafting desk, he saw a couple of stools, one of which held Her Rustiness. Her shadow fell behind her on one of those screens for privacy that had some soothing nature scene painted on it. That must be her living space back there, but damn if Trevor could see any of it. Damn if Trevor wanted to see it.

He hated to admit it, but the whole place added up to some sort of artsy style. A little too serious to be a student’s digs but at the same time it was obvious she wasn’t on easy street. If this wasn’t Rusty’s place, he might even have been able to respect the person who lived here.

“Hey, you’re here,” she said from behind that drafting desk. She lifted her head and pierced him with those damn eyes of hers. Trevor still didn’t understand how Mitchell had found a girl who had the famous Voss eyes.

“Yep,” Mitchell said, crossing the couch area and going over to Rusty. He put his hands on her waist and kissed her like he was trying to crawl down her throat. All of him, not just his tongue.

Trevor looked around, wondering where the bathroom was. Just in case bad judgment got the better of him and he decided not to yak on her floor. Watching her clean up that mess would be sublime — assuming Mitchell didn’t make him do it himself, which the idiot would probably do. After all, Rusty might get her precious self dirty or something.

He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It hadn’t hit him; it couldn’t be Mitchell. That meant…

He jumped again, away from Rusty this time. He gave her a quick once-over: paint-covered sweatpants that used to be grey and a sorta snug but not tight t-shirt. He couldn’t deny she had a good shape. Even worse, the paint streaks brought that out.

That she was barefoot didn’t surprise him. Mitchell would have to fall for someone who hated clothes as much as he did. It was that simple, until you got to the eyes. That was just fucking freaky.

“Hi, Trev,” she said like he hadn’t just handed out this insult by getting away from her touch. Sometimes, he thought she was clueless, but then he looked in those eyes and knew better. The Queen of Polite, that’s what he ought to call her. Maybe he would — except Rusty fit so much better. And it pissed her off.

Trevor realized he had no cranky comeback for her. Nothing about the lack of walls helping make sure she didn’t get lost. Nothing about the high ceilings or those couches. Nothing.

Mitchell growled and stuck an elbow in his ribs. Trevor glared at him and reached for his cigarettes.

“Let’s get rolling,” Mitchell said.

“I need to change,” Rusty said. She vanished behind the stupid screen.

“You can’t change enough,” Trevor told her and placed an unlit cigarette in its usual place at the corner of his mouth.

“How did I know you’d say that?” she asked. It was weird, talking to her like this. He couldn’t see her but nothing was muffling her voice. It was like talking to someone who was invisible. Then again, life would be better if she wasn’t there at all.

“Maybe you’re a fucking clairvoyant or something.”

“Maybe I’m just smart,” she said, coming around the screen all dressed in jeans and another t-shirt, this one without paint on it. “We ready?” She held her arm out. Mitchell grabbed it and wound it around his waist.

Trevor tried not to gag. “I’m readier than you’ll ever know,” he said.
“Good thing,” she said as Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor’s head. It wasn’t hard; just enough to remind him to watch himself. Like he’d do anything else here in Rusty’s lair. If she’d used it to snag Mitchell, there was no telling what she’d do to him.

So you’ve met Trevor, Mitchell, and Kerri over the past week. Now you get to see them in action, as part of the Sunday Scribblings prompt.

I don’t know about this one. For those of you who’re regulars, I’m going to drive you NUTS when I say this: it feels like it belongs right inside of Trevor’s Song. Sorry, but it’s true.

Stay tuned for news on how to help get that book into your hands. There’s a lot brewing behind the scenes here. And yes, you’ll like it all.

In my fictional world, there are lots of triangles. One of them will only be seen when you finally get to read Trevor’s Song.

One of the other triangles involves Trevor, Mitchell, and Mitchell’s wife, Kerri. You’ve already met the boys here and here. So now it’s time for the girl.

1. Kerri Voss left her hometown of Pittsburgh because she’d been accepted at the very picky Riverview Art Academy. Kerri was going to be an artist.

2. Although Kerri liked to turn her radio to KRVR when she worked, she couldn’t have identified a single member of ShapeShifter even after the day she noticed the hot blonde in a leather biker jacket looking over the tomatoes in her favorite grocery store. And even then, it took a few weeks — and a driver’s license — before she realized the hot blonde wasn’t a struggling musician like he’d initially led her to believe.

3. Even though ShapeShifter fans are introduced to Mitchell’s wife in a variety of ways (she’ll play tech during his shows and help him switch guitars, and bands always need artwork, don’t they? T-shirts, album covers, website design…), Kerri won’t talk about her pre-Mitchell life, except to say she went to Riverview Art. Anything before that strangely doesn’t exist.

4. Trevor’s nicknamed her Rusty. Gotta read Trevor’s Song to find out why. But in typical Trevor fashion, there’s more than one easy reason.

5. The physical: she’s about five-nine, which plays nicely with Mitchell’s six-one. She’s got a willowy, dancer build although she was too busy pulling pranks to do something as serious as dance. And she’s got that deep red hair that fades to brown with age — unless it’s, as Trevor suspects, enhanced. Or is it?

Although Kerri doesn’t have a huge role in this outtake, it’s still one of my favorites. And it’ll show you a bit of this triangle in action.

If you missed the other day’s post, I’m offering a few quick notes about the main characters who run around this joint like they’re real people. To many of us, they are.

I did Trevor first, of course. No, wait. We’re talking about Trevor, so let me rephrase. I did not DO Trevor. I wrote about him. He’s not real, remember. A real person can only fantasize. But then, so does Trevor. And so does his best friend.

Anyway, that brings us to…

Mitchell Voss.

1. Let’s start with the physical: six-one. Keeps fit by spending so many hours in swimming pools, his silvery-blonde hair turns green. Hazel eyes that look right through Trevor and annoy him to no end.

2. Trevor’s the closest thing he’s got to a brother. He’s actually got two older sisters. One’s a doctor and lives nearby. The other is a mom and lives out of Riverview.

3. A large part of the ShapeShifter dynamic is the Frick and Frack, Heckle and Jeckle, Lucy and Ethel that goes on between Mitchell and Trevor. It’s been this way since Mitchell dreamed of a band and Trevor decided to make it happen.

4. It’s rare to find Mitchell without a guitar in hand. The man oozes music and for better or for worse, there’s not much more to him than music. But does there need to be more?

5. Many of my long-time groupies have come to love Mitchell more than Trevor. He’s moody, sensitive, and the calm in the face of Trevor’s storm. He’s also completely devoted to his wife, Kerri, in ways that all us married women wish our husbands really, truly were like. No matter how great our husbands.

(okay, now. Who was this post REALLY about? I told you that Trevor rules the roost around here!)

Want more Mitchell?

This link will take you to one of my favorite Year 2 outtakes.

This link will take you to his bio page. Have fun getting to know one of my favorite men.