West of Mars -- the Meet and Greet

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.



Want to know more about who these folk are? All the info you need is at West of Mars. Go check it out.

Labels: brotherly love, creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, Patterson, Trevor

It's not necessary, but it may help if you visit The Time Before Dinner. This is a sequel of sorts. You should be able to catch on to the basic idea if you're too lazy to go look, though.


When Mitchell got up after dinner and left the house, Trevor knew exactly where he was going -- and why. He figured he'd give the idiot a while to get his head together, but Amy started bugging him, grabbing at his forearm and being so fucking whiny that Trevor left the house to track down Mitchell sooner than he wanted to.

Sure enough, Mitchell was in their spot by the river, chewing on a piece of grass and staring at nothing. He was all stretched out, his legs crossed at the ankle, the hand that wasn't playing with the grass in his mouth tucked up behind his head.

He looked like Huck Finn. He even had his shoes off.

Trevor sat down beside him and stared at the river. It was barely moving today. Even the air was still. "Yeah?" Trevor asked. "So?"

"So what?"

With a curl in his upper lip, Trevor mimicked Mitchell. Like the idiot didn't know what this was all about. "I go to all that trouble to find you a girl who's willing to take on your virginal ass and that's all you can say to me?"

"Uhh… thanks?"

Trevor grabbed the grass and yanked it out of Mitchell's mouth.

Mitchell yelped and sat up, fingers hovering over his lip. "Fuckhead!"

"That didn't hurt, you baby." He made a show of looking Mitchell up and down. "It's a fucking miracle I was able to find someone for you, and this shit is exactly why."

Mitchell turned away and didn't say anything.

Trevor let him stew. He lit up a cigarette and waited.

"So," he said when Mitchell relaxed a hair, "did you last longer than thirty seconds?"

"Fucker."

Trevor crowed, the cigarette dangling off his lower lip as he laughed. "You didn't, did you! I fucking knew it!"

"I lasted," Mitchell growled.

"One day. Two miracles. Think Hell's about to freeze over?"

Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor's head. Trevor just grinned.

"How'd you do it?" he asked when Mitchell stopped growling. "Multiplication tables?"

"Chords. I talked myself through two different Rat Catcher songs."

"What?"

"What's wrong?"

"You're there with a girl for the first fucking time ever and all you can do is play your fucking guitar?"

"It worked, didn't it? Two Rat Catcher songs… that's, like, ten minutes!"

"You stupid fuck. You've got a girl. Don't you know what that means?"

"I do now, yeah."

Trevor wanted to smear Mitchell's grin into the riverbank. "No! No, no, no!" He jumped up and pulled his cigarette off his lip. It felt like it tore and for a second, he could see a piece of grass hanging out of Mitchell's mouth. But only for a second; he had more important things to set the stupid ass straight about.

Mitchell was looking at him, his elbows hooked around his knees.

He took that as permission to rant. "Girls are soft. They smell good. They're curvy and fun to touch. They squirm. And, oh fuck, the sounds they make. You didn't notice any of that, did you?"

"Yeah. Of course!"

"Then what the fuck did you need to play your stupid-assed guitar for?"

"'Cause if I hadn't, you'd be sitting here yelling at me for being too fast and not stopping to appreciate her the right way. Why'd you come out here, anyway? Nothing I do is ever right yet you never shut up about what a perfect person I am. It can't be both ways, know that?"

Mitchell was on his feet now. His eyes had turned that dark blue that Trevor knew meant danger, and his face was red.

Trevor took a step back. Maybe Mitchell had been smart enough to figure this girl stuff out on his own. But on the other hand, maybe he hadn't been.

"And you should just stay outta my sex life anyway!" Mitchell yelled.

"If I did that, you wouldn't have one!"

He knew the fist to his gut was coming. It felt good when it landed, taking some of his breath away and doubling him over not quite in half. Instinct made him want to cover his head, but this was Mitchell, and it ended there. He wasn't Hank; he knew when to stop.

Too bad I don't, Trevor thought as his breath came back and he straightened up. "You should be thanking me."

"For the girl? Yeah, sure, whatever. For showing up here and putting on your high-and-mighty act? No fucking way. Take it with you and leave me the fuck alone already." Mitchell sat down, his back to Trevor. He was probably staring off at the river, but his back was shaking.

Trevor went and sat beside him. "Okay, I'm done being a dick now."

"Good."

"Was it?" He nudged Mitchell with his elbow and watched as the guy fought with himself. It was more fun to stay pissed, Trevor knew that. Smart people got out of the way when Mitchell was pissed.

Trevor wasn't smart. He was also Mitchell's best friend. He knew if he waited, he'd get it.

"Yeah, it was good," the big idiot finally said. He let out a deep breath and nodded. "It was good."

Labels: brotherly love, creative writing, fiction, fiction outtake, Mitchell, Trevor

Mitchell stopped at the top of the steps and sniffed, then inhaled as deeply -- and as quietly -- as he could. "Something smells," he said, wrinkling his nose and pretending the reek was bad. He even waved his hand in front of his face as he leaned forward so he could see Amy and Beth on the family room couch -- and so they could see him.

"That's why you're supposed to say excuse me when you fart, Pipsqueak!"

"Oh. Sorry," Mitchell said and shut his bedroom door behind him. He didn't have to hear Amy's laugh to know it was following him. She thought she was so funny.

"When's the cookie raid?" Trevor asked.

"Give it an hour," Mitchell said and reached for his guitar. "Don't want to strike too soon or they'll just eat what's left of the dough again and we won't get shit."

"We'll get to lick the bowl."

"Not last time, we didn't. Trust me, Trev. We lay low, we get the goods."

Trevor stood up and was out of the room before Mitchell could stop him.

"Bring me three!" Mitchell called after him, chuckling. He'd gotten them all that time.

Labels: Amy, brotherly love, creative writing, fiction, food, Mitchell, outtake, Trevor

Thirteen shows of Brotherly Love Mitchell takes a lot of guff from Trevor. And for Trevor, for that matter. It's an odd friendship they have and most would say it's crossed the line from friendship into brotherhood. Here's some of the things they do for each other. 1. When Trevor would crash on Mitchell's bedroom floor after being beat up by Hank, Mitchell would never step on Trevor, even as a joke or while half-asleep. Seems simple, but think about it. 2. When the kids at school would make fun of Trevor's constant bloody, unwashed appearance (at least until Patterson Voss threw him in the shower), Mitchell would stand up for him. This was important because as Trevor hid out at Mitchell's house and the beatings stopped, the other kids finally realized that Trevor wasn't a fuck-up at all but was actually pretty cool. 3. Speaking of cool, Trevor made Mitchell cool. Period. Talked him into growing his hair out and piercing his ear. Taught him how to smoke, get stoned, and get girls. And what to do with the girls once he had them. 4. It's well-known that Trevor's a lousy bass player. Yet he sounds awfully good on album. An excerpt from an article on the subject: Voss fixes the room with one of those stares that makes your mouth go dry. "Trevor plays his own parts." No one has the saliva left to ask about the things he's leaving unsaid. 5. Mitchell makes sure that anyone who rags on Trevor's lack of musical talent knows that he's the creative force behind the band. 6. Trevor pretends he doesn't know where Mitchell disappears to during the nights when they're recording. Or why all of a sudden, the next morning, the parts he recorded the day before sound so much better. 7. Before he gets too drunk at parties, Mitchell will drink the beer that Trevor's holding before it gets warm and flat. This works because no one pays that much attention and everyone assumes Trevor's actually drinking. And Mitchell gets blasted twice as fast. 8. When Trevor gets too cheeky, full of himself, or just plain annoying, Mitchell puts him back in his place. 9. Trevor gets too cheeky, full of himself, or just plain annoying so that Mitchell can beat him up and feel good about how manly he is. Or thinks he is. 10. When Trevor decided that running the band's business was cutting into his woman chasing and other rock star duties, Mitchell stepped in and took over. After having watched Trevor for more than a year, he had an idea of what to do. 11. One night during the early, pre-crew days when Mitchell had a cold, Trevor set up his equipment for him. He chased off Eric and Daniel when they tried to help, and then blamed the set-up on some over-eager fan who'd conveniently disappeared. 12. Mitchell's lost count of the number of irate husbands/boyfriends/fathers who've come in search of Trevor. The number who found him is only a handful; one growl from Mitchell and anyone with a brain runs the other way. The handful wasn't lacking a brain, per se. They merely got lucky and found Trevor … at an exposed moment. 13. And then there's that whole thing near the end of Trevor's Song that involves a bed. This is what it means to be a friend.

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Labels: brotherly love, meme, Mitchell, Thursday Thirteen, Trevor

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.



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Labels: brotherly love, creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, outtake, Trevor, Val