Fiction Outtake: Chicken Scratch (the Early Years)

Another one inspired by the Weekend Wordsmith prompt, and posted in time for the Poetry Train. As always, if you’re new here and need some background about who is who, click on the names the first time they appear and you’ll be magically transported to a bio page. Just don’t forget to come back!

Mitchell was whistling when he got home after his guitar lesson; whistling was better than dancing, even though that’s more what he felt like. Since he’d graduated from lessons with Randy, things had been a million times better. Now when he and Trevor hung out down by the river and dreamed of making it big, he believed they’d get there, all right.

He stopped in the kitchen, snagged the bag of potato chips sitting on the kitchen table, kissed Ma on the cheek, and headed upstairs.

Ma called after him, “Get your homework done!”

“That’s where I’m going!” He put his back to the door, tenderly put the bag of potato chips under his arm, and shoved against the broken latch.

He turned around, stopped whistling, and dropped both his guitar and the potato chips.

Trevor was sitting at Mitchell’s desk. Well, it was supposed to be their desk now that they shared the room, but Trevor refused to use it. Something about being too cool for desks and homework and if the jackasses at school didn’t agree, they could throw him out already and save them all the daily hassle of chasing him out of the john when he needed a smoke.

“What’d Ma bribe you with?” Mitchell asked, lunging for his guitar. It didn’t matter that he had it in a hard case, it still might have been damaged.

“Nothing,” Trevor said and held up Mitchell’s civics notebook. The page was covered in what looked like chicken scratch.

Mitchell set the guitar gently down on his bed and went for a closer look at Trevor’s masterpiece. It looked even more like chicken scratch. He told Trevor so.

“Good.”

“Good?” Mitchell handed the notebook back and turned to his guitar, determined he’d actually look it over this time. No more distractions.

“Yes, good,” Trevor said with that sniff Mitchell knew all too well. “Have you seen one single rock star with an autograph you can make out?”

Mitchell didn’t bother to answer. No more distractions, he reminded himself.

“Of course you haven’t,” Trevor half-yelled, jumping to his feet and tipping the chair over backwards. “There aren’t any! And I’ll be damned if I’ll be the first.”

“Why not? After all,” Mitchell added with a sniff that mocked the ones Trevor handed out so freely, “you’re Trevor Fucking Wolff. You can’t be like everyone else.”

“Well, this time, I can be.” Trevor hugged the notebook to his chest. “Do you know how long it took me to write this messy? Fucking hours.”

Mitchell looked up from the guitar. “Shoulda spent that on your bass. You might actually get good.”

Trevor sneered and fixed the chair. “Here, golden boy,” he said. “Maybe I’ll go work on that.” He stalked out of the room, trying to slam it shut as he went. Between the broken latch and the fix Mitchell’s dad had put on it, the door just bounced back open.

In the hallway, Trevor kicked the wall. Ma yelled at him for it.

Whatever, Mitchell figured, so long as he had the desk back so he could get his homework done — once he was sure the guitar was okay. Trevor might not get any better on bass, so it was up to him to carry them both.

Maybe later, Trevor would show him ways to change his own autograph. Make it cooler. Which meant harder to read.

Chicken scratch, the handwriting of the rock star.

Mitchell grinned. That had a good ring to it.

Eeek. This is major rough draft. But it’s an outtake and that’s the idea. One day, I’ll clean these puppies up and let you take them home and sleep with them. Just don’t call them George.