Friday, June 13, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Backstage with Jen
I had my head down, which had to be the dumbest thing I've ever done. I'm supposed to walk at the back of the line and make sure there aren't any stragglers. I'm supposed to be helping out. That's part of my job, part of the price that goes with the perks of all these backstage gigs. I'm supposed to be working.
Work is what I was thinking about, too, which makes this even stupider. It's been on my mind lately. Is this what I want to spend my life doing? Seriously?
When I looked up, I'd walked to the usual meet-and-greet area, right outside the band's dressing room. Only, no one was there.
This is a problem. The backstage area in this Civic Center is huge. There were only about twenty people lined up for the meet-and-greet, and twenty people can barely fill one of the corners in here. Not to mention, they can be practically anywhere. I could spend the entire night hunting for them and still be looking when the last of the production trucks pull out.
Fortunately, before I could panic, a woman came out of the band's dressing room. She wasn't much taller than me, but she was wearing these amazingly high fuck-me heels. Skinny jeans that rode so low on her hips, I knew she couldn't bend over and keep them on. And the hair. Jet black and hanging loose, halfway down her back and teasing the back of her bustier, which, o of course, laced up the front and pushed her boobs halfway up to her chin.
I don't think I need to mention she had the nails and makeup to match.
I was staring at rock and roll royalty, only I had no idea who she was. About all I can tell you is that she was not crew. Nor was she your regular, run-of-the-mill groupie. Not with that air of belonging that she had.
She frowned at me and put the backs of her hands on those skinny little hips. I could almost see her hip bones. I didn't even want to try to compare them to mine. "Hmm," she said. "Looks like you're lost."
I nodded helplessly. There were no words for her. There were no words from me at all at that moment, which wasn't the smartest thing. I should have been introducing myself to her; I had every right to be … well, at the meet-and-greet, doing my job.
"Well," she said and turned, taking her hands off her hips and motioning me forward with one, "let's go. I'll take you over there."
There was no sigh that showed she didn't want to be responsible for me. No nothing. Just straight matter-of-fact, no big deal. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was easier than letting me be in the wrong place when the band came out. They might get a big laugh out of the record label rep who had to follow the band to get to where she belonged, or they might go ballistic that I wasn't in my place. They were, after all, the band. I worked for them, and this one in particular wasn't one you pissed off or fucked around with. Not if you want to hang on to your job.
And don't you think that us local reps forget that. Once we do, we're done.
"Hey Charlie," my guide called when we'd gone around two corners and stood in a huge open space that would soon be filled with roadies pushing road trunks to their specific trucks for the trip to the next town. "I found a lost soul for you."
"I was wondering where you'd gotten to, Jen," the band's tour manager said. I touched the girl's elbow in thanks and went to stand with Charlie.
"Thanks, Val," the tour manager called as the woman strutted off.
"Val?" I echoed. Something about the name struck a chord, but I couldn't place it.
"The drummer's girlfriend?" Charlie said, giving me a look that told me I should have known this. I probably should have; when I'd started as a record rep, I'd known everything about every band on our label. I'd probably even met this woman. Hell, I'd probably talked to her at one point. Maybe even known her name back then.
After awhile in this job, names and faces start to blend together. The troublemakers and the divas, those are the ones who stand out, followed by the cool ones. My guide would be one of them now, too. She was the exact person I'd dreamed of being when I'd taken this job.
I began handing out cover flats and talking to the guests as I pulled Sharpies out of my purse, getting everyone ready for the band's appearance. Just doing my job, basically. But part of my brain wondered if this was really what I wanted to be doing the rest of my life. I'd passed the point at which I could morph into rock royalty, like I'd once dreamed of being.
I guess the question was who was I, and who did I want to be now.
You groupies may recognize Charlie and Val (and the mention of Daniel, too), but this is really Jen's piece. I'm not sure who she is, not really, except that I CAN say she's not autobiographical, as the Tour Manager asked. And while I'd like to get to know her more, I'm not sure there's a novel in her. We'll have to wait and see.
Work is what I was thinking about, too, which makes this even stupider. It's been on my mind lately. Is this what I want to spend my life doing? Seriously?
When I looked up, I'd walked to the usual meet-and-greet area, right outside the band's dressing room. Only, no one was there.
This is a problem. The backstage area in this Civic Center is huge. There were only about twenty people lined up for the meet-and-greet, and twenty people can barely fill one of the corners in here. Not to mention, they can be practically anywhere. I could spend the entire night hunting for them and still be looking when the last of the production trucks pull out.
Fortunately, before I could panic, a woman came out of the band's dressing room. She wasn't much taller than me, but she was wearing these amazingly high fuck-me heels. Skinny jeans that rode so low on her hips, I knew she couldn't bend over and keep them on. And the hair. Jet black and hanging loose, halfway down her back and teasing the back of her bustier, which, o of course, laced up the front and pushed her boobs halfway up to her chin.
I don't think I need to mention she had the nails and makeup to match.
I was staring at rock and roll royalty, only I had no idea who she was. About all I can tell you is that she was not crew. Nor was she your regular, run-of-the-mill groupie. Not with that air of belonging that she had.
She frowned at me and put the backs of her hands on those skinny little hips. I could almost see her hip bones. I didn't even want to try to compare them to mine. "Hmm," she said. "Looks like you're lost."
I nodded helplessly. There were no words for her. There were no words from me at all at that moment, which wasn't the smartest thing. I should have been introducing myself to her; I had every right to be … well, at the meet-and-greet, doing my job.
"Well," she said and turned, taking her hands off her hips and motioning me forward with one, "let's go. I'll take you over there."
There was no sigh that showed she didn't want to be responsible for me. No nothing. Just straight matter-of-fact, no big deal. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was easier than letting me be in the wrong place when the band came out. They might get a big laugh out of the record label rep who had to follow the band to get to where she belonged, or they might go ballistic that I wasn't in my place. They were, after all, the band. I worked for them, and this one in particular wasn't one you pissed off or fucked around with. Not if you want to hang on to your job.
And don't you think that us local reps forget that. Once we do, we're done.
"Hey Charlie," my guide called when we'd gone around two corners and stood in a huge open space that would soon be filled with roadies pushing road trunks to their specific trucks for the trip to the next town. "I found a lost soul for you."
"I was wondering where you'd gotten to, Jen," the band's tour manager said. I touched the girl's elbow in thanks and went to stand with Charlie.
"Thanks, Val," the tour manager called as the woman strutted off.
"Val?" I echoed. Something about the name struck a chord, but I couldn't place it.
"The drummer's girlfriend?" Charlie said, giving me a look that told me I should have known this. I probably should have; when I'd started as a record rep, I'd known everything about every band on our label. I'd probably even met this woman. Hell, I'd probably talked to her at one point. Maybe even known her name back then.
After awhile in this job, names and faces start to blend together. The troublemakers and the divas, those are the ones who stand out, followed by the cool ones. My guide would be one of them now, too. She was the exact person I'd dreamed of being when I'd taken this job.
I began handing out cover flats and talking to the guests as I pulled Sharpies out of my purse, getting everyone ready for the band's appearance. Just doing my job, basically. But part of my brain wondered if this was really what I wanted to be doing the rest of my life. I'd passed the point at which I could morph into rock royalty, like I'd once dreamed of being.
I guess the question was who was I, and who did I want to be now.
You groupies may recognize Charlie and Val (and the mention of Daniel, too), but this is really Jen's piece. I'm not sure who she is, not really, except that I CAN say she's not autobiographical, as the Tour Manager asked. And while I'd like to get to know her more, I'm not sure there's a novel in her. We'll have to wait and see.
Labels: fiction, Sunday Scribblings, touring, Val, Writer's Island
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Val's Cake (Trevor's Song era... or beyond)
"Okay, Val! Let's see it!" Daniel called when he got home from practice, not that he'd had far to go, since the practice space was in their back yard.
She tried not to panic. "Are you alone?"
"I promised you I would be," he said. As if that meant anything; Trevor and Mitchell would ignore promises Daniel made her. They didn't care. Worst of all, they'd look at this disaster she'd made and laugh. This was one of those things they'd never let her live down.
Val looked out the window, just to be safe. Both Mitchell's Bronco and Trevor's ugly-assed motorcycle were gone. Not that letting Daniel near it would be any easier.
"Let's see it," Daniel said again as he entered the kitchen.
Val burst into tears.
The cake had been supposed to look like a Southern Plantation -- the sort of place that Val wanted to marry Daniel in, if getting married was ever something that seemed the right thing to do. But the end result hardly looked like the idyllic setting for a romantic wedding between two people who'd been together for so long, they didn't know what it was like to be apart.
"Well," Daniel said, folding his arms across his chest and cupping his elbows with his fingers. "We could always throw it in a bowl, pour some rum over it, throw in some whipped cream, and … what else do we do to your other cakes?"
"I wanted this one to be great!" she wailed.
Daniel turned his back on the cake just as the front porch finished sagging. It fell lazily to the side, right on top of what was supposed to have been some sort of shrub. He held Val by the waist, not pulling her too close.
"What's great," he said, "is that you tried." Very slowly and deliberately, he kissed the tip of her nose. "We both know that dessert is the one area you may never master. But you tried it anyway, and it'll taste just fine." He pulled back a bit and eyed her. "Won't it?"
She shrugged.
With another kiss, this time on her lips, Daniel sent her off so he could turn the mess into something edible. Val knew that once he had, he'd proclaim it a shame to not share, and while Val was working up menus, he'd call Mitchell and Kerri and invite them over for dinner.
Best of all, there'd be nothing for anyone to make fun of. Maybe the whole thing could be forgotten. Maybe she'd learn and not bother with any dessert more ambitious than chocolate chip cookies.
But most probably, she'd try again.
This was inspired by this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: Experimenting. For more Val, check out Soy Sauce, Beached Whales, and Val's Tantrum. Oh, and Smoke Break. How could I forget Smoke Break?
Don't forget to ride the Poetry Train!
She tried not to panic. "Are you alone?"
"I promised you I would be," he said. As if that meant anything; Trevor and Mitchell would ignore promises Daniel made her. They didn't care. Worst of all, they'd look at this disaster she'd made and laugh. This was one of those things they'd never let her live down.
Val looked out the window, just to be safe. Both Mitchell's Bronco and Trevor's ugly-assed motorcycle were gone. Not that letting Daniel near it would be any easier.
"Let's see it," Daniel said again as he entered the kitchen.
Val burst into tears.
The cake had been supposed to look like a Southern Plantation -- the sort of place that Val wanted to marry Daniel in, if getting married was ever something that seemed the right thing to do. But the end result hardly looked like the idyllic setting for a romantic wedding between two people who'd been together for so long, they didn't know what it was like to be apart.
"Well," Daniel said, folding his arms across his chest and cupping his elbows with his fingers. "We could always throw it in a bowl, pour some rum over it, throw in some whipped cream, and … what else do we do to your other cakes?"
"I wanted this one to be great!" she wailed.
Daniel turned his back on the cake just as the front porch finished sagging. It fell lazily to the side, right on top of what was supposed to have been some sort of shrub. He held Val by the waist, not pulling her too close.
"What's great," he said, "is that you tried." Very slowly and deliberately, he kissed the tip of her nose. "We both know that dessert is the one area you may never master. But you tried it anyway, and it'll taste just fine." He pulled back a bit and eyed her. "Won't it?"
She shrugged.
With another kiss, this time on her lips, Daniel sent her off so he could turn the mess into something edible. Val knew that once he had, he'd proclaim it a shame to not share, and while Val was working up menus, he'd call Mitchell and Kerri and invite them over for dinner.
Best of all, there'd be nothing for anyone to make fun of. Maybe the whole thing could be forgotten. Maybe she'd learn and not bother with any dessert more ambitious than chocolate chip cookies.
But most probably, she'd try again.
This was inspired by this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: Experimenting. For more Val, check out Soy Sauce, Beached Whales, and Val's Tantrum. Oh, and Smoke Break. How could I forget Smoke Break?
Don't forget to ride the Poetry Train!
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, fiction, food, outtake, Poetry Train, Val
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Beached Whales (post Trevor's Song Era)
Kerri set down the dishtowel she was using to dry Val's good china with, handed the last plate over, and walked into the family room. Daniel and Mitchell were being awfully quiet for two men who'd been all hyped about the big game.
She walked down the two steps into the sunken room and took in the scene.
The boys lay head-to-head on the L-shaped sectional. Mitchell had one leg thrown over the back of the couch; Daniel had one foot on the floor. Both men had extended their other leg, Daniel's foot dangling off the edge of the beige leather couch.
Kerri chuckled as she noticed that they both hadn't just unbuttoned their pants after that feast; they'd undone their flies, too.
"Hey, Val?" she drawled.
Mitchell's head shot up and he slitted his eyes as if shooting poison at her. She smiled; he knew her tone of voice all too well.
"Yeah?" Val asked, wiping her hands on her hot pink dishtowel and crossing the kitchen to join Kerri. She stopped on the stair behind Kerri, one knee bent, the same hip jutted out in a classic model's pose.
"Where'd you find the beached whales?"
"Wholesale district. Imported from Japan; they were cheap."
Daniel burped. Mitchell smirked and put his head back down.
Kerri shook her head. "Waste of good veal, if you ask me. Whale stuffing ought to be cheap."
"Actually, I think it's the highest praise a chef can get," Val said, tossing the dishtowel over her shoulder and pulling her hip back in line with the other. "When you can turn two grown men into beached whales, you know your cooking's good."
"Or that food on the road is that bad," Daniel said. "Really, Val, come out and be our caterer."
She winked at Kerri. As if there was any way to pry Val out of her house. "If I do," she said, "will you change the name of the band to Beached Whales?"
"We may have to," Mitchell said and, at last, burped.
The curtains fluttered, and Val and Kerri exchanged amused smiles as they went back to putting the plates away.
Want more? Click on the characters' names and be transported a quick character sketch, along with links to more fiction featuring Daniel, Val, Kerri, and Mitchell. And don't forget to take a ride on Rhian's Poetry Train!
She walked down the two steps into the sunken room and took in the scene.
The boys lay head-to-head on the L-shaped sectional. Mitchell had one leg thrown over the back of the couch; Daniel had one foot on the floor. Both men had extended their other leg, Daniel's foot dangling off the edge of the beige leather couch.
Kerri chuckled as she noticed that they both hadn't just unbuttoned their pants after that feast; they'd undone their flies, too.
"Hey, Val?" she drawled.
Mitchell's head shot up and he slitted his eyes as if shooting poison at her. She smiled; he knew her tone of voice all too well.
"Yeah?" Val asked, wiping her hands on her hot pink dishtowel and crossing the kitchen to join Kerri. She stopped on the stair behind Kerri, one knee bent, the same hip jutted out in a classic model's pose.
"Where'd you find the beached whales?"
"Wholesale district. Imported from Japan; they were cheap."
Daniel burped. Mitchell smirked and put his head back down.
Kerri shook her head. "Waste of good veal, if you ask me. Whale stuffing ought to be cheap."
"Actually, I think it's the highest praise a chef can get," Val said, tossing the dishtowel over her shoulder and pulling her hip back in line with the other. "When you can turn two grown men into beached whales, you know your cooking's good."
"Or that food on the road is that bad," Daniel said. "Really, Val, come out and be our caterer."
She winked at Kerri. As if there was any way to pry Val out of her house. "If I do," she said, "will you change the name of the band to Beached Whales?"
"We may have to," Mitchell said and, at last, burped.
The curtains fluttered, and Val and Kerri exchanged amused smiles as they went back to putting the plates away.
Want more? Click on the characters' names and be transported a quick character sketch, along with links to more fiction featuring Daniel, Val, Kerri, and Mitchell. And don't forget to take a ride on Rhian's Poetry Train!
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, fiction, Kerri, Mitchell, outtake, Poetry Train, Val
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Thursday Thirteen #55 -- Thanks for the Disaster!
Let's face it. Part of what makes Thanksgiving so much fun is seeing what sort of memories you'll leave the table with. Our friends in Riverview (and music reporter Chelle LaFleur) have had some memorable meals.
Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
If you're not sure who Mitchell is, be sure to follow the link in the first mention of his name. That'll take you to his bio page, and from there, you'll see a list of outtakes and Thirteens about him.
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1. There was the year when Mitchell and Trevor were 20 and they stumbled in to dinner, late, Trevor stoned and Mitchell drunk and stoned, and decided that turkey flambe was the main course. Sonya, who was about to put the cooked bird on the table when this happened, wasn't amused. 2. The first year that Chelle was living alone, she decided that the best way to celebrate her independence was to make Thanksgiving herself. Not sure how to cook, let alone roast a turkey, she microwaved it. For an hour. What she was left with resembled the shrunken heads she'd seen her elderly relatives use for voodoo ceremonies. Those creepy elderly relatives were all too glad to see her when she showed up for dinner. 3. One year, Pam accepted the invitation of some vegetarian friends for a Tofurkey dinner. She made sure they served fish the next time she ate with them. 4. Inspired by Mitchell and Trevor's lame attempt at flame, Val decided to try it herself. The apricot brandy glaze was a success. The flambe wasn't. The bananas foster that was an alternative to the pumpkin pie was. 5. When he was a teenager, Eric and his brothers had a pumpkin pie eating contest. Problem was, their mother had baked the pies for a church dinner. They learned fast how to bake a good pumpkin pie. 6. Amy called it a disaster the year Mitchell was allowed to carve the bird for the first time. Until he did, Amy had visions of herself becoming a surgeon. After Mitchell sliced that baby perfectly, she knew surgery wasn't going to be her thing. 7. Eric's family is still traumatized from the year the TV broke and the football game was tied, with two minutes left and the home team set to score. The ball was intercepted, the visitors won the game -- and Eric's family missed it. 8. The year Patterson was called away from the table for work. He didn't come home until after the kids were in bed. 9. The year Eric's dad decided to invite the entire congregation to a Turkey Bowl -- and broke his leg on the first play. The Turkey Bowl turned into an annual event for about ten years. The broken leg became legend. 10. The year Hank came home in time for dinner, upended the entire contents of dinner into Jenny's lap, and turned Trevor into a punching bag. Yeah. That'd be a disaster. Trevor couldn't eat solid food for a few days after that one. This is not the only time Trevor had loose teeth around Thanksgiving, poor guy. (here is the reference to the other time) 11. The second year Chelle tried to cook. Instead of making voodoo turkey breasts, she set the oven on fire. Thankfully, she was quick-witted enough to put it out before it spread and destroyed her apartment -- or worse. This was the last time Chelle tried to cook. Anything. 12. Then there was the year the band was on the road. This was before the days of nice hotels. No one was terribly surprised when they came down with food poisoning. 13. Lastly was a disaster only in Val's eyes. She made a wonderful feast for the band. And I do mean feast. They ate it all, somehow -- and ruined her night by having another of their burping fests at the table. The boys, of course, thought it was the best Thanksgiving ever. |
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
If you're not sure who Mitchell is, be sure to follow the link in the first mention of his name. That'll take you to his bio page, and from there, you'll see a list of outtakes and Thirteens about him.
Labels: Chelle LaFleur, Eric, meme, Mitchell, Pam, ShapeShifter, Thanksgiving, Thursday Thirteen, Trevor, Val
Monday, May 21, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Val's Tantrum (Trevor's Song era)
Warning: this outtake contains sexual inneundo and abuse of cookware. Please do not read further if this will upset you.
They could hear the crashing from where they stood outside the practice studio, across the driveway from the house. They'd actually congregated to listen; it was that loud.
"Sounds like your woman needs to get laid," Trevor said, bobbing his head like he knew it all. Then again, when it came to tantrums like this, he did.
"Hardly," Daniel said with a snort.
"That time of the month?" Eric asked. Like he knew about those things, Trevor thought. Mr.-I'd-rather-be-their-friend. His girls got one boringly chaste week on the bus with the band and then forever bought him dinner whenever he blew through town.
Come to think of it, having women buy him dinner wasn't such a bad thing. But that lack of getting off? For-get it. Trevor hadn't formed a band to keep his pants on. Or zipped, for that matter.
"No," Daniel said with a sigh. He hung his head and shook it, looking like a dark brown mop. Trevor snickered, wondering what sort of shit he'd have to clean up later on. Val was not a happy woman in there.
Lately, she'd been like that a lot.
"It's her fault, really," Daniel said. "She told me to make dinner, and I did. No big deal, right?"
Trevor wasn't so sure about that. Part of Val's miserable mood had started when she'd quit the restaurant. That'd been years ago now, but her mood wasn't even a bad wine -- it hadn't even tried to improve with age.
"So what happened?" Mitchell asked. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave Daniel a look like he wanted this to hurry along.
"I told her it was time to clean out the freezer. Maybe reorganize it. I swear, there were twenty pounds of chocolate in there. Candy bars, those big bricks for baking, bags of chips, you name it, it was in there. I swear, it took up half the freezer and didn't leave room for the extra sauce I made! Gram would kill me if I let it go to waste; that's her secret recipe!"
"And the frozen margarita mix took up the other half of the freezer?" Trevor asked, bored with the story of the spaghetti sauce. He'd been hearing about how wonderful Gram's sauce was for years, but every time he had it, he thought it wasn't much better than the jarred shit Mitchell's mother would stock his apartment with.
"She didn't care when I said that ought to go downstairs, too!" Daniel half-whined. Trevor cringed, but when Daniel continued, it was in a better tone. "You know, maybe we could put some food in that freezer? Food, kitchens -- you know what I'm saying here?"
"So now she's throwing things because--" Trevor asked. He needed to hear this. To make sure it was real. And to laugh his ass off when it was.
"You heard it," Daniel sighed. "She's pissed because I asked if she'd move the chocolate."
"Oh, Dans," Mitchell said. He scratched his arm, his face screwed up like he was in pain. "That's harsh. I think if I did that to Kerri, she'd take my head off. Along with other choice parts of me that I'd rather keep."
Trevor couldn't get a word in before Daniel said, "That's our roasting pan she's throwing around now. It better not go through the windows."
"Let's go make some music," Mitchell said, putting a hand on Daniel's shoulder to turn him in the right direction. Eric jumped eagerly for the door of the practice space. Trevor took one last hit of his cigarette and ground it into the gravel.
"Music soothes the savage beast," Mitchell continued, reaching above Daniel's head to hold the door open.
"The only thing soothing that beast is her chocolate," the drummer said, giving the house one last, mournful look.
"And you fuck-ups tell me how great your monogamy shit is," Trevor grumbled, resisting the urge to provoke Mitchell more severely. This would have to do for now.
Sure enough, the big idiot cuffed the back of his head as he walked by. "It is great, you loser. Just sometimes… you gotta take the bad with the great."
"And keep the chocolate upstairs!" Eric laughed.
It didn't escape Trevor that neither of the stupidly attached men in the band laughed along. In fact, Trevor thought, they sorta looked like they wouldn't mind if Eric joined Daniel's head in that roasting pan of Val's.
Just so it wasn't his, Trev thought as he picked up his bass. He had more important things to do.
Thankfully, a steady woman was at the bottom of the list.
They could hear the crashing from where they stood outside the practice studio, across the driveway from the house. They'd actually congregated to listen; it was that loud.
"Sounds like your woman needs to get laid," Trevor said, bobbing his head like he knew it all. Then again, when it came to tantrums like this, he did.
"Hardly," Daniel said with a snort.
"That time of the month?" Eric asked. Like he knew about those things, Trevor thought. Mr.-I'd-rather-be-their-friend. His girls got one boringly chaste week on the bus with the band and then forever bought him dinner whenever he blew through town.
Come to think of it, having women buy him dinner wasn't such a bad thing. But that lack of getting off? For-get it. Trevor hadn't formed a band to keep his pants on. Or zipped, for that matter.
"No," Daniel said with a sigh. He hung his head and shook it, looking like a dark brown mop. Trevor snickered, wondering what sort of shit he'd have to clean up later on. Val was not a happy woman in there.
Lately, she'd been like that a lot.
"It's her fault, really," Daniel said. "She told me to make dinner, and I did. No big deal, right?"
Trevor wasn't so sure about that. Part of Val's miserable mood had started when she'd quit the restaurant. That'd been years ago now, but her mood wasn't even a bad wine -- it hadn't even tried to improve with age.
"So what happened?" Mitchell asked. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave Daniel a look like he wanted this to hurry along.
"I told her it was time to clean out the freezer. Maybe reorganize it. I swear, there were twenty pounds of chocolate in there. Candy bars, those big bricks for baking, bags of chips, you name it, it was in there. I swear, it took up half the freezer and didn't leave room for the extra sauce I made! Gram would kill me if I let it go to waste; that's her secret recipe!"
"And the frozen margarita mix took up the other half of the freezer?" Trevor asked, bored with the story of the spaghetti sauce. He'd been hearing about how wonderful Gram's sauce was for years, but every time he had it, he thought it wasn't much better than the jarred shit Mitchell's mother would stock his apartment with.
"She didn't care when I said that ought to go downstairs, too!" Daniel half-whined. Trevor cringed, but when Daniel continued, it was in a better tone. "You know, maybe we could put some food in that freezer? Food, kitchens -- you know what I'm saying here?"
"So now she's throwing things because--" Trevor asked. He needed to hear this. To make sure it was real. And to laugh his ass off when it was.
"You heard it," Daniel sighed. "She's pissed because I asked if she'd move the chocolate."
"Oh, Dans," Mitchell said. He scratched his arm, his face screwed up like he was in pain. "That's harsh. I think if I did that to Kerri, she'd take my head off. Along with other choice parts of me that I'd rather keep."
Trevor couldn't get a word in before Daniel said, "That's our roasting pan she's throwing around now. It better not go through the windows."
"Let's go make some music," Mitchell said, putting a hand on Daniel's shoulder to turn him in the right direction. Eric jumped eagerly for the door of the practice space. Trevor took one last hit of his cigarette and ground it into the gravel.
"Music soothes the savage beast," Mitchell continued, reaching above Daniel's head to hold the door open.
"The only thing soothing that beast is her chocolate," the drummer said, giving the house one last, mournful look.
"And you fuck-ups tell me how great your monogamy shit is," Trevor grumbled, resisting the urge to provoke Mitchell more severely. This would have to do for now.
Sure enough, the big idiot cuffed the back of his head as he walked by. "It is great, you loser. Just sometimes… you gotta take the bad with the great."
"And keep the chocolate upstairs!" Eric laughed.
It didn't escape Trevor that neither of the stupidly attached men in the band laughed along. In fact, Trevor thought, they sorta looked like they wouldn't mind if Eric joined Daniel's head in that roasting pan of Val's.
Just so it wasn't his, Trev thought as he picked up his bass. He had more important things to do.
Thankfully, a steady woman was at the bottom of the list.
Labels: chocolate, creative writing, Daniel, fiction, Mitchell, outtake, ShapeShifter, Trevor, Val
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Thursday Thirteen #29 -- What's in Daniel and Val's kitchen?
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| In keeping with the theme I began two weeks ago, when we looked at Mitchell and Kerri's kitchen and its contents, this week, let's take a look at Daniel and Val's kitchen. For those of you too lazy to follow the links, Daniel is ShapeShifter's drummer and Val, his long-time girlfriend who trained as a chef but quit the restaurant business when it got too much. Look for a new outtake featuring Daniel, Val, and their kitchen over the weekend. And for you meme lovers, another one I'll let the band answer. 1. A sourdough starter 2. a windowsill herb garden (that overflows onto the patio, in ever-expanding pots) 3. A wide variety of teas 4. Phone numbers for three butchers 5. ten kinds of chocolate and/or cocoa, not counting hidden candy bars 6. A variety of wines, ports, and other highbrow alcoholic delicacies that you wouldn't expect a rock star to know a thing about. Mostly, he doesn't. Val, however, does. She's not a rock star, so your expectation here was met perfectly. 7. Locally produced clover honey 8. chick peas, tahini, lemons (for juicing), and garlic 9. Phone numbers and schedules for the local CSA 10. Ping's Soy Sauce. Lots of it. 11. Bodacious Sauce. Not quite as much of it. 12. organic cranberry granola bars (Daniel's favorites. Eric's too, come to think about it) 13. One of those undercounter TVs that's hooked up to the cable in case Daniel starts to go through CNN withdrawal. And because the voting's not closed yet... And if you've missed it somehow, Just a reminder... go vote for me!     Yes, I'm totally going to torture you with this until the voting closes on May 22. So go vote, will ya? If you've already voted, why not register under another e-mail address? You'll get to vote again that way! |
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
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Labels: Blogger's Choice Award, Bodacious Sauce, Daniel, kitchen, meme, Soy Sauce Story, Thursday Thirteen, Val
Monday, March 19, 2007
Inside writing: Soy Sauce Scene #1
It dawned on me over the weekend -- after I'd posted the Soy Sauce Story, of course -- that I could have written the same story, only fictionalized. From the point of view of one of my characters. (Isn't Mitchell the perfect naif to play the stranger?)
And then my brain really kicked into gear, which was no small feat because I'm still pretty sick and headed to the doctor today. Maybe I only reached this epiphany because I'm sick; I'm not certain. But it goes like this: many of you, when you've nominated me for various writers' blog awards, have said that you really like that I give you an inside look at the writing process. I haven't seen myself doing much of that, so I'll do it here and now.
Today, I'm going to post one alternate to the Soy Sauce Story. A fictionalized scene that shows how I take real life and put it into my fiction. Most of my outtakes are based on some real-life inspiration, you know. You just have to figure out what the real-life inspiration is.
Tomorrow, I'll post another. And we'll culminate this insider look with a Thursday Thirteen that ought to make you laugh pretty hard.
One quick note and then we'll get to the fiction: This is about as rough as my writing gets. I haven't gone over this for typos, for improvements or tweaks, nothing. So bear with me.
Soy Sauce Story -- Val's Point of View
Val sighed and pushed her hair out of her face. They were out of Ping's brand soy sauce again. What was wrong with the place, that they couldn't keep up with demand? Everyone knew Ping's made the best soy sauce.
She turned to the woman behind the counter. "Excuse me?" she started, ready to chew the woman out. She worked there; surely she had some sort of control over the store's inventory.
It wasn't overly surprising that the woman ignored her. Val figured she was probably bristling with hostility and if the roles had been reversed, Val would have been reluctant to talk to someone so ready to explode.
What did surprise was when the woman yelled to someone in the back room. In perfect Mandarin, "Anyone want to come deal with the annoying slut out front?"
Val tried not to gasp or adjust her clothes. Yeah, so she was decked out; she and Daniel were on their way to a sex club and she'd asked if they could run in since the grocery was on the way.
"The annoying slut out front is pissed you're out of Ping's. Again," Val snapped back, not caring that her Mandarin was rusty. Not caring about anything except this had been a wasted trip and that she'd have to spend half the week searching out the Ping's.
The man popped out of the back room, full of apologies in both Chinese and English.
By the time Daniel came in to see what had happened to her, Val had promises that four bottles of Ping's would be held for her on the next shipment day -- Tuesday -- and that in the future, all she needed to do was call when she ran low and bottles would be waiting with her name on them.
Even if her name would be Annoying Chinese Slut.
And then my brain really kicked into gear, which was no small feat because I'm still pretty sick and headed to the doctor today. Maybe I only reached this epiphany because I'm sick; I'm not certain. But it goes like this: many of you, when you've nominated me for various writers' blog awards, have said that you really like that I give you an inside look at the writing process. I haven't seen myself doing much of that, so I'll do it here and now.
Today, I'm going to post one alternate to the Soy Sauce Story. A fictionalized scene that shows how I take real life and put it into my fiction. Most of my outtakes are based on some real-life inspiration, you know. You just have to figure out what the real-life inspiration is.
Tomorrow, I'll post another. And we'll culminate this insider look with a Thursday Thirteen that ought to make you laugh pretty hard.
One quick note and then we'll get to the fiction: This is about as rough as my writing gets. I haven't gone over this for typos, for improvements or tweaks, nothing. So bear with me.
Soy Sauce Story -- Val's Point of View
Val sighed and pushed her hair out of her face. They were out of Ping's brand soy sauce again. What was wrong with the place, that they couldn't keep up with demand? Everyone knew Ping's made the best soy sauce.
She turned to the woman behind the counter. "Excuse me?" she started, ready to chew the woman out. She worked there; surely she had some sort of control over the store's inventory.
It wasn't overly surprising that the woman ignored her. Val figured she was probably bristling with hostility and if the roles had been reversed, Val would have been reluctant to talk to someone so ready to explode.
What did surprise was when the woman yelled to someone in the back room. In perfect Mandarin, "Anyone want to come deal with the annoying slut out front?"
Val tried not to gasp or adjust her clothes. Yeah, so she was decked out; she and Daniel were on their way to a sex club and she'd asked if they could run in since the grocery was on the way.
"The annoying slut out front is pissed you're out of Ping's. Again," Val snapped back, not caring that her Mandarin was rusty. Not caring about anything except this had been a wasted trip and that she'd have to spend half the week searching out the Ping's.
The man popped out of the back room, full of apologies in both Chinese and English.
By the time Daniel came in to see what had happened to her, Val had promises that four bottles of Ping's would be held for her on the next shipment day -- Tuesday -- and that in the future, all she needed to do was call when she ran low and bottles would be waiting with her name on them.
Even if her name would be Annoying Chinese Slut.
Labels: Daniel, fiction, Inside Writing, Soy Sauce Story, Val
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Fiction Outtake: Smoke Break
Trevor almost ran smack into Val when she stopped in the doorway. "But … it's raining," she pouted.
Trevor sighed and itched for the smoke they were heading outside for. Val was always pouting anymore. He wondered how Daniel could put up with her. He wanted to know why Daniel put up with her.
"So?" he asked, raising his eyebrows like he was expecting the back of her head to see his imitation of her own perfect bored-by-the-drama-queen airs. "You're hardly about to melt," he sneered, shaking his head and itching even harder for that cigarette.
"Says you," she shot back, not looking at him. That didn't surprise Trevor in the least. He knew he was an ugly motherfucker. He didn't blame Val for not looking. Shit, he went for days without looking. Good thing his beard grew in so fucking slow, or he'd have to do it more often. Look that was, not blame Val. Trevor Wolff did not blame others for his own issues. Not that being ugly was an issue; issues, you could fix somehow. Ugly, you were just stuck with.
"Yeah, well, look at it this way," he said, changing his stance to a more comfortable once since he had the feeling they wouldn't be going anywhere so fast. "The Wicked Witch of the West is the only person we've ever known who's melted, right?"
"Right," Val said warily, turning her entire body sideways, but letting her head turn to look at him.
Trevor was half-surprised that she didn't shudder. But then again, this was Val. She'd been around with Daniel since the drummer had joined the band. That meant she'd had a whole year now to get used to his face.
"And you're in that snobby-assed chef's school," he continued as conversationally as he could. The itch for the smoke gnawed at him; he told it to take a hike.
"So?" She arched her perfectly-plucked eyebrows at him.
"Wicked Witches can't cook. It's part of the job description." He took a deep breath and plowed on. Anything if it'd get her out the door so he could get his fucking smoke already… "I mean, they can cook gruel and brussels sprouts and beets and shit like that that nobody likes. But anything that'd get them into snobby-assed chef's schools?" He shook his head as slowly and dramatically as he could, making himself count to five as his head moved from one end of its arc to the other.
"You're not going to melt," he told her again, wishing she'd listen and go outside already. He needed that smoke and here was Val, plugging up the door and stopping him from getting his nicotine high. Bitch.
Yeah, I guess you're right," she said and took that first step into the drizzle.
Behind him, Mitchell came up and gave him a companionable slap to the back of the head.
"What was that for?" Trevor asked, giving him a reproachful look. He hadn't needed it. Hadn't particularly wanted it, either.
"One good deed deserves another," Mitchell said with a shrug, reaching for his own cigarettes as he followed Val outside and left Trevor standing there, gaping.
Don't forget about the Buy a Friend a Book Week contest! View it here or the extended version here!
Trevor sighed and itched for the smoke they were heading outside for. Val was always pouting anymore. He wondered how Daniel could put up with her. He wanted to know why Daniel put up with her.
"So?" he asked, raising his eyebrows like he was expecting the back of her head to see his imitation of her own perfect bored-by-the-drama-queen airs. "You're hardly about to melt," he sneered, shaking his head and itching even harder for that cigarette.
"Says you," she shot back, not looking at him. That didn't surprise Trevor in the least. He knew he was an ugly motherfucker. He didn't blame Val for not looking. Shit, he went for days without looking. Good thing his beard grew in so fucking slow, or he'd have to do it more often. Look that was, not blame Val. Trevor Wolff did not blame others for his own issues. Not that being ugly was an issue; issues, you could fix somehow. Ugly, you were just stuck with.
"Yeah, well, look at it this way," he said, changing his stance to a more comfortable once since he had the feeling they wouldn't be going anywhere so fast. "The Wicked Witch of the West is the only person we've ever known who's melted, right?"
"Right," Val said warily, turning her entire body sideways, but letting her head turn to look at him.
Trevor was half-surprised that she didn't shudder. But then again, this was Val. She'd been around with Daniel since the drummer had joined the band. That meant she'd had a whole year now to get used to his face.
"And you're in that snobby-assed chef's school," he continued as conversationally as he could. The itch for the smoke gnawed at him; he told it to take a hike.
"So?" She arched her perfectly-plucked eyebrows at him.
"Wicked Witches can't cook. It's part of the job description." He took a deep breath and plowed on. Anything if it'd get her out the door so he could get his fucking smoke already… "I mean, they can cook gruel and brussels sprouts and beets and shit like that that nobody likes. But anything that'd get them into snobby-assed chef's schools?" He shook his head as slowly and dramatically as he could, making himself count to five as his head moved from one end of its arc to the other.
"You're not going to melt," he told her again, wishing she'd listen and go outside already. He needed that smoke and here was Val, plugging up the door and stopping him from getting his nicotine high. Bitch.
Yeah, I guess you're right," she said and took that first step into the drizzle.
Behind him, Mitchell came up and gave him a companionable slap to the back of the head.
"What was that for?" Trevor asked, giving him a reproachful look. He hadn't needed it. Hadn't particularly wanted it, either.
"One good deed deserves another," Mitchell said with a shrug, reaching for his own cigarettes as he followed Val outside and left Trevor standing there, gaping.
Don't forget about the Buy a Friend a Book Week contest! View it here or the extended version here!
Labels: brotherly love, creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, outtake, Trevor, Val
