The role of the hero in antiquity 1/7
Jon was good at three things: playing bass, taking photographs and making coffee. Well, he wasn’t completely crap with bonfires and he could down the better part of a bottle of his namesake whiskey without puking, but those weren’t the kind of skills you’d brag about on a resume. So Jon stuck with what he knew and worked at Starbucks. Reliable, predictable, people-centred, minimum wage. The fact that there was a regular pay-check involved was what had sealed the deal.
While he occasionally managed to score a little freelance work or even the odd gig, that stuff couldn’t be counted on. Jon didn’t mind not being rich, he didn’t give a crap, but he liked a bed in an actual room with walls. He liked somewhere to come home to. He liked somewhere to kick up his feet and smoke a bowl without having to beg friends to let him crash. There were enough fucking hobos like that round town and he had no plans to join the ranks of Trohman and his shaggy minions, no fucking way.
So Starbucks it was. He actually didn’t hate the job, either. At least he got to be around people and there was a pretty decent employee discount on the beans. If Ryan ever got anywhere with being the next Charles Dickens, Jon would have him pay back for the gallons of black coffee Ryan downed every night while he was furiously hacking away on his battered laptop or staring into space finishing off Jon’s grass or cigarettes or both. Ryan was kinda intense.
Ryan came with no money and a bag of issues, a taste in clothes that really only could be justified by his Oscar Wilde obsession and a life-support system going by the name of Spencer. The Spencer.
Spencer could cook. Spencer made sure bills were paid. Spencer dealt with Ryan when Jon couldn’t even begin to guess what the fuck was going on in Ryan’s head.
Spencer and Ryan were dysfunctional in a surprisingly functional way, completely reliable in their co-dependency. Jon really liked them as flatmates. Still, the fact remained they were one man short since Tom had taken off.
They needed someone new. Spencer had carefully pointed that out, looking a little scared Jon would start shouting and punching walls. Which. Fucking Tomrad, seriously. They had been a slightly less nuts variation of what Ryan and Spencer had. Well, without the homoerotic subtext. Mostly. Now Tom was gone. New York. The fast, furious track to fame and fortune or at least that was what he’d kept telling himself.
Jon hadn’t pointed out that Tom had no money for that sort of thing, in fact, he hadn’t had a chance to point out anything at all, cause Tom had fucked off without goodbyes, leaving a note on the kitchen table, owing Jon both an explanation and three months rent, the fucker. Anyway, water under the bridge.
Jon knew if he wanted someone half-way sane, he’d have to be the one doing the vetting. Starbucks wasn’t a bad place for that, really. There were a lot of regulars around here, people on their lunch breaks, college students, customers Jon had had quick, friendly conversations with.
It was a better bet then leaving the searching to Ryan or putting word out to the guys Jon occasionally jammed with because that would have been a toss up between a person with glasses, a potential coke habit and a penchant for German existentialist movies from the 1920s and someone like Gabe or Beckett. This pretty much amounted to the same thing, their house turning into the next subversive bohemian clusterfuck du jour. No fucking way.
No one at Starbucks argued when Jon put up a notice, covering the fair-trade and quality-control posters on the wall right above the stand where people had to stop for sugar, napkins and straws. Their Starbucks was that kind of place. The franchise holders were two bat-shit insane brothers, one talking constantly, the other borderline autistic. They didn’t give a fuck about anything that didn’t at the very least involve a legion of plague zombies invading the establishment and Jon suspected they’d only ever bought the license cause they, too, were after the discount beans.
Before Jon’s shift was over, three people had eyed the notice and saved his number into their cells, the fourth just punched the numbers in straight away and Jon fished his phone from the pocket of his very manly green apron with a smirk.
“Brendon”, he greeted cheerfully and Brendon turned round, confused but quickly sliding into an easy smile. “Seriously, man? That your place?” He jerked his head at the ad and Jon nodded. “Tom moved to New York.”
Brendon kinda knew the basics of Jon’s existence from the countless encounters across the counter. He came in a couple of times a week, usually around five and while he was a heathen as far as his regular coffee order was concerned (there simply was no excuse for vanilla soy latte), he’d always seemed like a genuinely nice guy.
“Well, that sucks. Tom moving, I mean.”
Jon decided not to discuss it. Water under the bridge. The next time he met Tom and there was absolutely no doubt there would be a next time, he’d have Tom’s balls. Until then, he wanted a break from the subject.
“So, need a room?” Brendon eyed Jon thoughtfully for a moment, but then, he just nodded. “Yeah, I was looking.”
“It’s yours.”
Brendon blinked, obviously slightly taken aback. “You not gonna have Spencer running a background check and Ryan interviewing me about the finer points of scene composition in Metropolis?”
Jon grinned. Brendon was perfect.
“They’ll love you. That is, if you’ve got a job that actually pays the rent.”
It suddenly occurred to Jon that despite having had a lot of conversations, he didn’t actually know all that much about Brendon’s personal life. They’d have to work on that, cause Brendon seemed to recall a lot about the random idiocy Jon was facing on a daily basis, right down to the names of his flatmates and Ryan’s favourite movie.
“I’m cool about the rent.” Brendon replied evenly, not exactly inviting further questions on the subject. Only after he had left with the promise to be in touch the next day Jon started wondering if he’d ever told Brendon how much the money they were talking.
Their place didn’t exactly come cheap. Sure, the house could have done with a little renovating, but it still was a house. In a street lined with trees. There was a back porch and a yard with a green patch the size of a kitchen towel. Small luxuries, really, but they pushed the price above what your average person spent on their shitty bed-sit.
Jon hadn’t quite dared get his hopes up, but Brendon stopped by the next day, glanced around the room and nodded.
“If the offer still stands, I’ll take it.”
Spencer was watching intently and Jon could practically hear the wheels turning in his head.
“It’s four fifty a month, plus your share of electricity and internet.”
Jon wasn’t sure if Brendon had almost laughed for a moment.
“Yeah, okay. You guys want a deposit or anything?”
Jon knew Spencer was about ready to marry Brendon there and then, basically.
“A month would be good. Just… you know. Bad experiences,” Spencer explained with an apologetic smile, avoiding mentioning Tom’s name.
“No problem. I’ll get it to you when I move in?”
“When’s that gonna be?” Jon inquired and Brendon looked thoughtful, calculating.
“Saturday? I’d pay for the rest of the month.”
Spencer nodded at Jon briskly. “We’re keeping him.”
Jon giggled. He’d kinda figured that.
***
Ryan, of course, was fucking furious.
“Well that’s just fucking great, you guys. It’s not like I live here too. It’s not like my opinion actually counts for something, right?”
“Ry,” Spencer tried, but Ryan just huffed. “No, don’t you fucking start, Spence. How come I don’t get a say in this? I thought this was our place.”
Jon didn’t remind him that technically, Ryan wasn’t paying rent. He valued his life and it also felt like a cheap shot to draw attention to that fact. Spencer covered both their rent, mostly. Spencer never complained. Jon kept his mouth shut.
“Ry, we needed the cash.” Spencer was trying to be the voice of reason, Jon knew that. Just, right now? Not a chance in hell.
“You don’t even know him. He could be, oh, I don’t know. A drug addict, hooker, government assassin, serial killer?” Jon burst out laughing and Spencer smiled, shaking his head.
“He isn’t. He’s just a guy that seemed pretty decent and needs somewhere to stay.”
“My point…”
“Ryan, the point is your life’s not a Chuck Palahniuk novel. Fuck.” Ryan stared at Spencer for a moment.
“Yeah, thanks. I do know that.”
Spencer didn’t bother to hide his grin at the dejected tone of voice. Ryan almost sounded like he wanted his life to be a Palahniuk novel.
“Utterly special”, Spencer smirked and Ryan glared at him.
“Fuck you. Go work as a click-track.”
Cause that, pretty much, was what Spencer did for a living. Every band in Chicago who had a shitty drummer, so that really was every band in Chicago, got Spencer in to lay the drum track down for them. Bands with not-so-shitty-drummers got Spencer in cause they wanted to see for themselves if the rumours were true. They were. Spencer never made a mistake, not ever.
“Finish the Great American Novel and I won’t have to. Or get some tips from the hooker we asked to share our house and put your ass to a good use for once”, Spencer shot back.
“You’d hate the fact that you couldn’t afford me.”
“Point”, Spencer conceded thoughtfully.
Jon started rolling a joint. This was Spencer and Ryan having a pleasant conversation, he’d learned that. This was nowhere near a fight.
When Saturday rolled around, Brendon showed up with two duffel bags full of clothes, a laptop, a few books and a pretty battered guitar-case. The only reason Ryan didn’t point out that someone owning nothing more then that had to be a shady character was that there was a guitar involved. Sometimes, Ryan was surprisingly easy. Also, Ryan didn’t exactly have a lot of personal belongings. Jon dreaded to contemplate just where Ryan would be at if he hadn’t got Spencer.
“I’m Ryan. Do you play?”
Brendon looked at Ryan for about two seconds, as though not quite sure if he believed this really was the guy he’d heard so much about. Too much, possibly. Not necessarily all of it good.
“Yeah. I’m Brendon.”
“I know that.”
Spencer elbowed Ryan in the ribs and grinned at Brendon. “He’s not actually completely retarded.”
“No, that’d be Spencer. Who works as a click-track.”
Brendon looked at Jon, eyebrows raised and Jon giggled. No shit, they really are that bad was written all over Brendon’s expression.
Spencer snorted. “As the Dickens, Ross. What do you do, by the way? Please tell me you’re not another useless starving artist?”
Brendon smiled easily. “Music teacher, actually.”
“Ryan, fuck off and die, we’re keeping him,” Spencer grumbled when Ryan opened his mouth to reply to that revelation.
Jon grinned. “Spencer wants your babies.”
“Spencer works as a click-track,” Ryan repeated and Brendon laughed, easily and comfortably, like this wasn’t his first exposure to their madness. Like he didn’t even need time to get used to it. Jon had some serious admiration for the guy. The first three months he’d lived with Spencer and Ryan, he’d waited for punches or scratching and hair-pulling, at the very least. There had been bets running on it.
“So, um. I’m gonna… settle in. Unpack and shit. If that’s okay?”
Brendon vanished and appeared in the living room ten minutes later, throwing himself down on the couch next to Jon.
“Welcome home”, Jon smiled and passed Brendon the joint. Ryan and Spencer had retreated somewhere and apart from the low meaningless noise of the TV droning in the background, the room was quiet for once.
“This is really nice, man. Thanks.” Jon wasn’t sure if Brendon was referring to the moment of peace, the complementary dope or the fact that he was one of them now. He wasn’t fussed, honestly. All three were good signs.
“So, music teacher, huh?”
Brendon’s eyes flickered over to the infomercial on TV where some pretend Japanese chef tried convincing a pretend blonde to buy a set of pretend indestructible knives.
“It’s not as glamorous as it sounds, dude. Mostly just… you know, bored people with too much money paying to be entertained. So I dazzle them with my incredible talent and listen to their crap and they pay me for an hour of my precious time.”
“Sounds fun to me. Making money off people’s self-delusions never gets old. Trust me, I know. I do wedding photography.”
Brendon grinned. “No shit? Telling the fat chick in the white dress that no, she really does look stunning while the groom’s giving her sister the eye?”
Jon smirked. “You know it. Not exactly living the dream or anything, but artistic integrity is for people who can afford shit like that. Or Ryan.”
Brendon tore his gaze from the TV. “Yeah. So he really is a writer?”
“He is,” Jon answered simply. Ryan might be a lot of things, but he most definitely was a writer. For all Ryan’s faults, that was the one talent Jon would never question, never challenge, never doubt. Words were Ryan’s thing, if at all possible even more so then drums were Spencer’s thing. Even more then the camera was Jon’s thing.
“It’s good to have that. That kind of vision. Dream. Whatever.” Brendon commented quietly and Jon most definitely agreed, but he didn’t miss the way Brendon sounded slightly bitter about it. He didn’t ask. The guy had just moved in, it was too early stage in their relationship to jump into psychoanalysis. Besides, it was kinda the same old, same old.
Jon had been around a lot of people with dreams and visions, mostly because he was stupid enough to have dreams and visions of his own. Pretty much everyone just about scraped by with a day job while they devoted their nights to whatever creative endeavour they pursued. Collateral damage included everything from sleep-deprivation and malnutrition to estranged family relationships to aborted college educations to lost apartment leases. Shit happened.
“So, you got a band?” Jon asked when Brendon just kept staring at raw fish and vegetables being hacked to pieces on television.
“Well, I was kinda working on that. I… the last one fell apart.”
“Yeah, been there”, Jon replied, cause all the bands he’d been in so far had done more falling apart then playing shows. “Were you guys any good?”
Brendon was still surveying the chopping and Jon briefly wondered if the guy was about to order that stupid set of knives. Only then did it cross his mind that maybe Brendon didn’t want to have this conversation, the point only emphasized by Brendon biting his lip and shaking his head.
“No. We sucked. It never went anywhere.”
Jon wasn’t used to this. Jon liked to talk. Less talk then converse, actually. He enjoyed light-hearted banter just as much as deep meaningful discussions, he even settled for stupid, insulting drunken rambles. Shit, even Ryan talked to Jon.
Brendon, of all people, apparently wasn’t having much fun. Slightly taken aback, Jon nodded and got up a few minutes later.
“I’m putting coffee on, want one?”
Brendon smiled and it almost looked genuine.
“Yeah, thanks.”
Jon wasn’t one to worry. He didn’t get hung up on shit. Brendon had only just moved in and maybe Jon just didn’t really know how to read him yet. No big deal.