ShapeShifter: The Demo Tapes: Year 1 by Susan Helene Gottfried
Mitchell's eyes got so big, Trevor was afraid they'd fall out of the idiot's head. "We can't go there! We'll catch something!"
Trevor lit a cigarette and blew smoke in Mitchell's face. "How can you stand being such a dork?"
Mitchell stuttered and stammered clear up until the girls came back. None of it made a damn bit of sense.
Trevor took over. "Look, we don't have anywhere better to go, so how about we do a double over at The Strand? Have some fun, destroy a room and run like hell?"
Trev's girl, a brunette who, he swore, had been a prostitute only a week before, shrugged. At least she didn't chaw on a wad of gum.
Mitchell's girl, who had boring brown hair like Trevor's but tits to make up for it, nodded eagerly. "I've always wanted to know what it's really like in there," she half-squealed. "Even if we don't get naked, it'll be worth the money, just to see the place."
"And then we can get naked another time!" Trevor told her with false enthusiasm. He and Mitchell hadn't done a particularly good job picking girls; they weren't worth much more than The Strand, he decided.
It figured it was all working out; it always did now that he was away from Hank. That guy poisoned everything around him, even before he started throwing right hooks.
Yeah, Trev thought as he slung his arm around his girl and steered her out of Decade and down the street to The Strand, life was much better away from Hank.
They paused on the street outside the front door. "We're doing this for real, right?" he asked everyone. "No wussing out?"
Mitchell looked about as white as his hair, but he nodded and tightened his grip on his chick. Taking it as foreplay, she snuggled against him and licked his neck.
The idiot blushed.
The lobby wasn't much more than an office. Not even that; just a space to stand while you signed in and paid, which Trevor took charge of. M was scared enough that he'd probably forgotten how to write, let alone leave believable lies on the register, and it was just crass to let the girls do it. Let the feminists burn their fucking bras in his face for all he cared; when it came to Trevor Wolff, chivalry was not dead.
Through the probably-bullet-proof plexiglass, the registration clerk passed him a room key. A real, honest-to-God gold key on a green plastic diamond-shaped tag. The guy behind the glass buzzed them through a dirty white security door.
Trevor and Mitchell exchanged looks as they passed; maybe this hadn't been such a good idea. But it cost a whopping seventy-five cents. How could they argue with that?
They should have, they decided as soon as they got into the hallway. It reeked -- of bodies, of sex, of piss, of puke, same as All Access, only worse, and All Access was as bad as it got. Or so they'd thought. The hallway was bright enough, though, which sorta surprised Trevor. "Aren't these places supposed to be dark?" he asked Mitchell, who bobbed his head like he was too stupid to do anything but agree.
Mitchell found Room 32 first. Around the second corner; the place made a cube. What was in the middle, Trevor didn't think he wanted to know. Probably a holding place for prostitutes or else a triple-X-rated peep show that was miraculously free for any vice cop who wanted in.
The room was about the same as the hall, only it smelled like bleach. Trev's girl covered her nose with her hand. "Okay, I've seen enough," she said with a shudder. "They only do this when someone dies."
"Maybe they just bled a lot," Mitchell laughed, peeking into the bathroom. Trevor stared at him; the guy seemed comfortable all of a sudden. Had an alien been waiting inside the room and taken over when Mitchell walked in?
"What do we do now?" Mitchell's girl asked, touching the bedspread with her long, lacquered nail. Trevor noticed it was orange and would have matched the bedspread maybe when the spread had been new -- which had probably been thirty years ago, back when avocado was a great color for a kitchen appliance.
"We should leave," Trevor's girl said. "This was fun and all, but…" She wrinkled her nose. "I don't think I'm in the mood anymore."
Trevor lit a cigarette and handed it to her. "We can fix that."
"Somewhere else. I want out of here." The girl shuddered before she took a second drag.
"We need Mitchell," Trevor said, set to fetch. Either the killer was still there, or the guy was taking a whiz.
Neither; he was inspecting the bathtub. "Can you imagine?"
Trevor didn't want to tell him it had fewer cracks than the one in Hank's house. It was cleaner, too, the bleach smell stronger.
Trevor shuddered, slammed with the memory of all the times Hank had made them get in. Less to clean up, he'd laughed as he'd gotten back to work. Trevor had always suspected the guy had gotten a bigger hard-on with every one of his son's new and desperate attempts at escaping the bathtub of horrors. He hadn't taken a bath since he'd left.
He shuddered again; that shit was best left where it belonged. Behind him. He was a Voss now, in every way that mattered. "C'mon," he said, choking on his voice. "I've had enough of this joint."
Mitchell gave him a funny look. "You okay?"
"Sure. Nothing that won't get cured by leaving this shit-hole. We came, we saw, we left. Wasn't that what we wanted?"
The kid squirmed. "I thought we wanted the girls to cough up a place. You know…"
"Yeah," Trevor sighed. "I know."
Late-Night Load Out
Were you the sort of fan who'd hover in the background? Would you get close enough to be seen but stay far enough away that you couldn't possibly intrude? And all the while, you yearned to be noticed and singled out, maybe brought into your favorite band's inner circle?
That's where the inspiration for Late-Night Load Out (first posted July 8, 2006) came from. That and the desire to show you guys some depth to Trevor. He doesn't just have a soft side, he connects with those lonely sorts of kids. No one knows better than Trevor that these kids aren't the losers it's so easy to make them into.
Plus, some Trevor-Eric interaction is good for all of us, as is getting to know Eric a bit more. Soul-boy, Trevor likes to call the lead guitarist. The name fits Eric quite well, thanks.
At first, Trevor thought it was HJ standing there, shadowing him like little brothers always did. The kid was maybe taller than HJ, but had the same boringly long, straight, brown hair that never seemed to snag on the back of his denim jacket. He had the same hunched shoulders, making his face hard to see. And he had the same skinny legs and untied dirty white basketball shoes with an inch of padding around the ankles that caught the ends of his jeans.
In a lot of ways, the kid looked like Trevor. Or, maybe more accurately, the way Trevor had looked -- and the way almost every other male metal head looked. Back before he'd thought up the band and changed his image to match it. Back when Mitchell was still stupidly dreaming of being a baseball star and Daniel and Eric were doing whatever it was they'd done before.
The kid was currently hanging around the backstage loading area, near Mitchell's Bronco, like he was guarding it or something. Trevor lit up with a thought. None of them could really afford to have their gear stolen, not even Daniel. Maybe…
"Hey," he said to the kid. "Whatcha doin'?"
The kid shrugged and turned away, like he was expecting to get hit or yelled at.
"Like the show?" Trevor asked, deliberately walking past him close enough that his bass case swung a bit and barely touched the kid's legs. Sure enough, the kid flinched.
"Yeah," the kid said, his voice trembling. "You guys rock."
Trevor shrugged. "I know. We make sure we do."
The kid shook his head. Trevor recognized his disgust, the old envy that someone had it better. He wanted to tell the kid all the truths he'd learned so far, but the kid wouldn't listen. These were things he'd have to learn for himself.
Eric came outside, a guitar in each hand. "Hey, Dans and I were talking about going to Roach's for something to eat. Coming?"
"Where's Mitchell?" Trevor usually wouldn't do anything with those two if Mitchell wa
"He found a girl," Eric said.
"A girl found him, you mean," Trevor said. He thought for a minute. When Mitchell got done -- which probably wouldn't be too long, knowing him -- he'd be hungry. And Trevor could put up with Eric until Mitchell got free.
"Hey, kid," he said with a chin jerk, "You want to watch the truck 'til we get back?"
"Won't Mitchell bring it to Roach's?" Eric asked.
"If he does, he'll give you a lift." Trevor ignored Eric and spoke right to the kid. Anything to dodge the guitarist and besides, the kid would loosen up a bit with the attention. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a pick. "Give this to M and tell him I want it back. He'll know what it means."
The kid took the pick and nodded. Trevor and Eric went back inside for the rest of their stuff, but the dressing room called to Trevor, daring him to poke his head in and watch some of the fun. Yeah, Mitchell would try to beat him senseless for it later, but it'd be worth it. That sort of free show was always worth it.
In the hallway outside the dressing room, they found Daniel stacking drums to make them easier to haul out to his car. He'd stuff everything into the trunk and back seat and be off, rattling happily down the road. "Hey, Val's tired, so we're gonna bail on Roach's," he said.
Trevor rolled his eyes. Of course Val was tired; she was always tired when they went out for food after a show. And of course Daniel would bond with her instead of with his own band. Really, the guy needed to get his priorities straight and stop being so fucking pussy whipped to Val.
"Tell her to sleep well," Eric said, handing Trevor some of the remaining gear. He picked up the rest and led the way outside, Trevor somehow feeling like a dog that would follow blindly along. It wasn't a good feeling.
Again, temptation to pop into that dressing room teased him.
"Trev, that kid outside? You've noticed him at other shows, right?" Eric paused at the door to the loading dock.
Trevor glanced outside. The kid, hands tucked into the pockets of his denim jacket, paced alongside the Bronco, his shoulders still hunched in that eerily familiar way. Fog was starting to roll across the four blocks between them and the river, and the air was growing so damp, the kid's jacket was wet. Trevor would be glad to get inside Roach's, where it was always warm and greasy-smelling. Cozy, even.
"Never seen him before," Trevor told Eric.
"I have. He … reminds me a lot of you."
Trevor narrowed his eyes. No wonder he hated the guy. Count on a preacher's son to see everyone's wounds.
"That's how I know we can trust him," Trevor said, his throat suddenly thick. He turned his back to Eric and hoped that for once, the guy would let it lie.
He almost didn't see Eric knock on the dressing room door, and then he almost didn't move fast enough to peek inside when Eric opened it just far enough to stick his head in and call to Mitchell, "We'll be at Roach's."
Unfortunately, Eric pulled his head out before Trevor got a glimpse of anything but the door. He bit back a snarl and headed back outside to put the rest of Mitchell's gear into the truck. Here he was, being Mitchell's lackey, and what did he get for it? Not even a peek.
At Roach's, he and Eric slid into opposite sides of the booth. "I'm glad you talked to that kid, Trev," Eric said as they waited for June to bring them the famous miniscule glasses of water. She'd ask how the show went, how many people were there, how it went over … all sorts of shit that only Mitchell's mom usually thought to ask. Pretty much everyone else wanted to know how much money they'd made and how many girls they'd picked up.
"What was I supposed to do?" Trevor asked, not sure if it was better to have sat across from Eric or beside him. Either way, he wished Mitchell was there to buffer them.
"Talk to him. You did a good thing tonight."
Trevor tried not to sneer.
Eric set his menu aside and leaned across the table. "Trev, it's people like him that are the reason I got into metal. I mean, I love the music. Don't get me wrong. I could never play music I didn't love. But I can't love the ministry as much as Dad, so I make music. Yet it seems to me that if we can, as a group, reach wounded people like that guy tonight, we're doing a greater good than just standing up on a pulpit and preaching to the already-converted. We're giving comfort where it's most needed, directly to the masses. And we get to have these great experiences, too. We get to make music, and that has got to be pleasing to God's ears."
Trevor fought the urge to throw up. But later that night, thinking about what Eric had said, he knew the guy was dead-on right. That as a band they could reach people and make lives less miserable, even if the misery lifted for only a little bit. Anything more than that… well, it'd be one of Eric's miracles, hard at work.
Smoke Break
Like most of us, Trevor's soft side is multi-faceted. He's also mostly bluster, which is one of the many reasons we all like him so much.
As does Val, who is usually bitchy but the more you get to know her, the less you'll blame her for it. It's just who she is.
Val and Trevor had a friendship that's mostly based on this bitchiness. Every now and then, though, something a little bit nicer, a bit softer creeps out -- of one, if not both.
Smoke Break, first posted September 7, 2006.
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 had to have outside. Not in. Out. And now Val was pouting. Again. 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 expected the back of her head to see his imitation of her bored-by-the-drama-queen airs. "You're hardly about to melt."
"Says you," she shot back, still 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 turning around. 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, thankyouverymuch. 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, shifting his weight and getting comfortable 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 when she didn't shudder at the sight of him. But then again, this was Val. She'd been around since Daniel had joined the band. That meant she'd had time 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 move her out the door so he could get his fucking fix already… "I mean, they can cook gruel and brussels sprouts and beets and shit 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 nicotine high and here was Val, plugging up the door and stopping him from getting it. Bitch.
"Yeah, I guess you're right," she said and took that first step into the drizzle.
Mitchell came up behind him and gave the back of his head a companionable slap.
"What was that for?" Trevor asked, giving him a reproachful look. He hadn't needed it. Hadn't pa
"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.
Soy Sauce
The two Soy Sauce scenes were born after I posted a true story on the blog. I've long maintained that I'm less interesting than my characters, so I rarely blog about myself. I'm discovering that as I get to you know you guys better, that's starting to change.
Still, truth is more fun when it's fiction, so after I posted the story -- requested by one of my readers, in fact, in response to a comment I posted on one of your blogs -- I began to envision the fictional possibilities. And once I'd envisioned them, I needed to share.
Since this had already become a three-day celebration, I figured one more couldn't hurt and added a Thursday Thirteen list: Thirteen things about soy sauce and the fictional scenes that came out of it. If you missed it, shame on you for six weeks -- and fix it by turning the page.
The Soy Sauce trilogy: Val's Soy Sauce Scene, Mitchell's Soy Sauce Scene, and Thursday Thirteen: More Soy Sauce Story, first posted March 19, 20, and 21, 2007.
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? Even people who didn't shop in Asian groceries knew Ping's made the best soy sauce.
She turned to the sandy-haired, blue-eyed woman behind the counter. "Excuse me?"
It wasn't overly surprising that the woman ignored her. Val was 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 Val was the woman yelling 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 stop since they had to drive past anyway.
"The annoying slut out front is pissed you're out of Ping's. Again," Val snapped back in rusty Mandarin. This had turned into a wasted trip; now she'd have to spend half the week searching out the Ping's as if she had nothing better to do. Which she did.