CHAPTER TWO:
Lloyd was in a bad mood the next day. He ate his eggs with malice, jugging down his orange juice like an angry lumber jack. I only watched him quietly as his eyebrow quivered from time to time. I continued to eat my Toaster Strudel in disquietude, watching Lloyd curiously to try and figure out what ruffled his feathers yesterday. The only thing that could come to mind was Christian, who, contrary to his name, wasn’t the most holy Christian I’ve ever met. But then again, I haven’t met many Christians. Anyways, Christian is Lloyd’s on-and-off again boyfriend/friends with benefits/casualty/horror-movie-buddies. I can't keep up with the latest updates.
Lloyd continued to rip his eggs apart and stuff them down his throat with a nasty chomp. Watching him made me lose my appetite; even more than usual.
“You okay, dude?” I asked.
Lloyd put down his fork and glared up at me, “I’m feeling swell. Why?”
“You’re murdering your eggs. I don’t know, I thought something might be up.”
“Bad hair day,” He said, picking up his fork. I chuckled, which made him chuckle. Lucky for me, the mood lightened up eventually. No longer did his eggs suffer, but instead were digested with the dignity and respect they deserved.
“Uh, hey, you know when you left yesterday?”
“Yeah,” Lloyd nodded.
“And how you told me I had to pick up the clothes?”
“Oh, yeah, thanks for folding my clothes, man, that was cool of you.”
“Oh, no, that wasn’t me, that was Mallory, but—“
“Wait, wait, Mallory came over?”
“Yeah, but—“
“And she was folding my clothes?”
“Yeah, she said it bothered—“
“Did you supervise her the whole time?”
“Okay, you’re being a little—“
“She hates me!”
“Well, yeah, but that’s not important. Remember the band Groovie Ghoulies?”
Lloyd was lost in his paranoid thoughts. He inspected his long sleeved shirt carefully, looking at the helm of the sleeves with close observation. He smelled the fabric too, looking for any toxins that may or may not burn his skin to the bone. Of course, Lloyd was overreacting, and a big portion of me knew he was just doing it to tick me off. In the end, he didn’t even answer my question, he just spiraled into his own state of overthinking, bug-eyed paranoia.
“Lloyd, Lloyd answer my question,” I repeated.
He looked up slowly, “What?”
“Groovie Ghoulies, remember them?”
Lloyd narrowed his brow and contorted his face, “Who?”
“You know, the pop punk band we used to listen to back in high school.”
Lloyd smiled, “Oh, that’s cute, you actually think we were friends in high school.”
After a quick lecture and recap that Lloyd so generously provided about his personal experience in high school and how none of it included the “punk pot heads” I was apparently affiliated with, I finally got my answer.
“I don’t know who the hell Groovie Ghoulies are.”
I then proceeded to explain to Lloyd how big of an impact Groovie Ghoulies had on life, starting from the minute I heard them play when I passed by a tattoo shop. I guided him through my awkward years of middle school, emphasizing how I could have basically built a shrine for the Groovie Ghoulies’ lead guitarist if I could. Then, I began explaining how the idea of starting a band slowly crawled into my brain.
“Yeah, yeah, I heard about you guys. You’ve told me about Lopsided before, Rhodes, only, ya know, like a billion times. ‘We weren’t great at playing, but we played great.’ I swear, you’re a broken record.”
“Oh,” I replied, deflated. I’ve always enjoyed explaining the story of the band, frankly because I feel like it’s a good one to tell. Still, I could see that Lloyd was already losing interest, so I decided to skip through my usual verbiage.
“Well, they’re playing their last show in three weeks, and I want to go,” I explained. I got up to put away the dishes in the sink. I plopped them in and turned around, leaning on the counter. Lloyd just shrugged his shoulders.
“Okay, so?”
“It’s in California, so I need your car.”
At that moment, Lloyd broke into hysterical laughter. He was the kind of person who slapped his knees when he laughed, making it near-to-impossible to refrain from laughing with him. So of course, I let a few chuckles escape my lips, not knowing what for.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, giggling lightly.
Lloyd took a breath and shook his head, “Oh man, oh God, you’re outta luck, dude. It just broke down yesterday, right in the parking lot.”
My shoulders hunched and my smile vanished. I glared at Lloyd, who was still doubling over with laughter. The irony was too much for him apparently.
“Well, how long ‘till it’s fixed?” I asked, aggravated.
Lloyd shook his from left to right frantically, “It died, dude. It’s at the junk yard, where old cars go to die. The Greaser will be missed.”
I let out a frustrated groan as the news sunk in. Lloyd dimmed his laughter down to a content smile, one that I really wanted to rip right out of its place. Yet, I was still set on going to California. It’s hard to explain my need to see the band one last time without explaining what their music has given me in regards to memories; memories of when everything was mapped out for me and all I had to do was follow the lines, and yet I still refused to do that, because I could. It’s different now and if I could just relieve that little slice of life one more time, I would.
“Whatever, I’m still going.”
“Oh yeah? How are you gonna get there?”
Quick; options, Arthur Rhodes, options. I could take a plane, if it weren’t for my irrational fear of flying. I could take a couch bus or train, if it weren’t for my irrational hatred for long-lasting, crowded vehicles. I could ask my parents for a ride, if it weren’t for their rational disappointment of my existence.
Then, suddenly, I got it.
“I’ll just take a taxi.”
“Across the country?”
“… Okay, maybe a lot of taxis.”
A/N: Oh man, nano is gonna kill me this year. I didn't have time to write all week; this sucks. Oh well, I try. - Parker
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Rhodes
Humor"I'll just take a taxi." "Across the country?" "... Okay, maybe a lot of taxis." || © deviltown 2014 ||
