six. let go and the mondays
...And don't forget to come on out to the Second Street Tea Shop this Saturday night to see your favorite local indie sensation Let Go and the Mondays. All ages show, first set starts at eight -- if the band's actually there on time. Don't leave us hanging again, Let Go. That's Let Go and the Mondays, all ages at the Second Street Tea Shop at eight this Saturday, and I'm Rick Alive for Radio K-Five.
They are forty minutes late.
They are forty minutes late and Betty isn't speaking to him, instead sulking in the passenger seat of their van, trying to find a station on the radio that isn't K-Five. It's just her luck that the second preset she jabs starts spouting --
"Calling Let Go and the Mondays, come in Let Go! It's almost nine o'clock and still those guys aren't at their own show, according to eye witness accounts. My reccommendation? Blow that popsicle stand and come on down to Club Seven where DJ Six is actually on stage and rocking the mic. This is your friendly neighborhood show report coming to you from Rick Alive at --"
Betty shuts off the radio with a furious press of her thin fingers and then kicks the glove compartment with the base of her heel. "Way to flipping go, Buck," she says loudly, speaking him to the first time in all those twenty minutes. "Another show missed by Let Go, the Mondays, and Buck's shitty van."
Buck's grip tightens around the steering wheel as he turns a corner and he doesn't say anything for a moment. When he finally does, it's with an obviously strained control. "Don't --" Buck bites off his words and tries again. "Don't blame the van, Betty."
"Why not?" she snaps back, glancing darkly at him briefly before back out the window at the other cars on the road. "If the damn thing would've started, we'd be on time, wouldn't we?"
"I told you," Buck says quickly. "Don't blame Blue. She just needs some love."
"Buck. It's a car. It doesn't need a name. It doesn't have feelings."
"She does too!" Buck insists, taking his eyes off the road to gape at Betty with his wide blue eyes. "No wonder she wouldn't start as soon as you got in. You hate Blue."
"The van is yellow!" Betty shouts, frustrated with the way their argument has dissintegrated into debating the feelings of an inanimate object.
Buck sighs loudly and turns his attention back to the red light they've stopped at. "Fine, Bets. What-the-flip-ever."
"Fine," Betty agrees, her words clipped as she drops the subject as well. She looks out the window again, at a Seven Eleven where a homeless man is sleeping against one of the pumps. He's got a sign around his neck that says LET SLEEPING DOGS DIE. Betty kicks the glove compartment again, taking a pained sort of pleasure from the impact that rings up through her converse and into her leg, shivering in the yellow skinny pants all the way to her hip. "You might as well take me home, we're gonna be way too late for Barney to let us on. If there's even anybody left after Rick-flipping-Alive. This whole night's a waste."
Now it's Buck's turn to give the silent treatment. He doesn't turn the van around, though.
Betty waits for what she feels is an acceptable amount of time for a response, then, "Buck? Buck? Buck? Buck? Buck?"
Every syllable grates on Buck's nerves, just the way Betty intended, and he snaps finally, "What, Betty?" He's never been good at ignoring her.
"Where the flip are we going? Our whole audience is probably left by now, to go see flipping DJ Six or whatever that jerkface Rick Alive tells them. Take me home."
"No," Buck says simply, gasing up as they breeze through a yellow light. "My curfew isn't until one tonight, I don't want to waste it. We might as well at least go down to Second Street and sit for a while. Come on, Bets. Don't make us go home. Who cares if Barney chews us out."
Another fifteen minutes goes by and Buck's certain that Betty's not speaking to him again, when she says, "If Barney asks, we'll tell him I'm on the rag and I made you go buy me tampons."
Buck can't help but snort a short laugh, even though he's decided he's going to be mad at her until she apologizes to Blue. "Yeah, that'll get us out of trouble. Any mention of your girl-bits and Barney goes running for the nearest bathroom to puke."
A satisfied smirk appeared on Betty's garishly red lips. "My girlparts are so fearsome, they send men of any persuasion running."
Buck laughs again and forgets that he'd decided to be mad at her. Blue'll get over it. "I'm a little frightened, Bets, I'm not gonna lie."
She shoves him, and the motion of Buck's arms makes Blue swerve dangerously close to the other lane, but neither Betty nor Buck notices, too busy laughing. Buck nudges her back, pushing at Betty's narrow ribcage with his big hand. Blue swerves again in response, sending a car horn blaring in their direction.
Betty pulls a face and flips the bird at the car that honked as it rushes past. "Jerkoff!" she shouts after him, even though there's no way anybody but Buck would hear her.
"Betty, can we leave the road rage to the driver please?" Buck asks patiently, after three years of friendship entirely used to Betty's outbursts.
They are forty minutes late.
They are forty minutes late and Betty isn't speaking to him, instead sulking in the passenger seat of their van, trying to find a station on the radio that isn't K-Five. It's just her luck that the second preset she jabs starts spouting --
"Calling Let Go and the Mondays, come in Let Go! It's almost nine o'clock and still those guys aren't at their own show, according to eye witness accounts. My reccommendation? Blow that popsicle stand and come on down to Club Seven where DJ Six is actually on stage and rocking the mic. This is your friendly neighborhood show report coming to you from Rick Alive at --"
Betty shuts off the radio with a furious press of her thin fingers and then kicks the glove compartment with the base of her heel. "Way to flipping go, Buck," she says loudly, speaking him to the first time in all those twenty minutes. "Another show missed by Let Go, the Mondays, and Buck's shitty van."
Buck's grip tightens around the steering wheel as he turns a corner and he doesn't say anything for a moment. When he finally does, it's with an obviously strained control. "Don't --" Buck bites off his words and tries again. "Don't blame the van, Betty."
"Why not?" she snaps back, glancing darkly at him briefly before back out the window at the other cars on the road. "If the damn thing would've started, we'd be on time, wouldn't we?"
"I told you," Buck says quickly. "Don't blame Blue. She just needs some love."
"Buck. It's a car. It doesn't need a name. It doesn't have feelings."
"She does too!" Buck insists, taking his eyes off the road to gape at Betty with his wide blue eyes. "No wonder she wouldn't start as soon as you got in. You hate Blue."
"The van is yellow!" Betty shouts, frustrated with the way their argument has dissintegrated into debating the feelings of an inanimate object.
Buck sighs loudly and turns his attention back to the red light they've stopped at. "Fine, Bets. What-the-flip-ever."
"Fine," Betty agrees, her words clipped as she drops the subject as well. She looks out the window again, at a Seven Eleven where a homeless man is sleeping against one of the pumps. He's got a sign around his neck that says LET SLEEPING DOGS DIE. Betty kicks the glove compartment again, taking a pained sort of pleasure from the impact that rings up through her converse and into her leg, shivering in the yellow skinny pants all the way to her hip. "You might as well take me home, we're gonna be way too late for Barney to let us on. If there's even anybody left after Rick-flipping-Alive. This whole night's a waste."
Now it's Buck's turn to give the silent treatment. He doesn't turn the van around, though.
Betty waits for what she feels is an acceptable amount of time for a response, then, "Buck? Buck? Buck? Buck? Buck?"
Every syllable grates on Buck's nerves, just the way Betty intended, and he snaps finally, "What, Betty?" He's never been good at ignoring her.
"Where the flip are we going? Our whole audience is probably left by now, to go see flipping DJ Six or whatever that jerkface Rick Alive tells them. Take me home."
"No," Buck says simply, gasing up as they breeze through a yellow light. "My curfew isn't until one tonight, I don't want to waste it. We might as well at least go down to Second Street and sit for a while. Come on, Bets. Don't make us go home. Who cares if Barney chews us out."
Another fifteen minutes goes by and Buck's certain that Betty's not speaking to him again, when she says, "If Barney asks, we'll tell him I'm on the rag and I made you go buy me tampons."
Buck can't help but snort a short laugh, even though he's decided he's going to be mad at her until she apologizes to Blue. "Yeah, that'll get us out of trouble. Any mention of your girl-bits and Barney goes running for the nearest bathroom to puke."
A satisfied smirk appeared on Betty's garishly red lips. "My girlparts are so fearsome, they send men of any persuasion running."
Buck laughs again and forgets that he'd decided to be mad at her. Blue'll get over it. "I'm a little frightened, Bets, I'm not gonna lie."
She shoves him, and the motion of Buck's arms makes Blue swerve dangerously close to the other lane, but neither Betty nor Buck notices, too busy laughing. Buck nudges her back, pushing at Betty's narrow ribcage with his big hand. Blue swerves again in response, sending a car horn blaring in their direction.
Betty pulls a face and flips the bird at the car that honked as it rushes past. "Jerkoff!" she shouts after him, even though there's no way anybody but Buck would hear her.
"Betty, can we leave the road rage to the driver please?" Buck asks patiently, after three years of friendship entirely used to Betty's outbursts.