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OOC: So this is the first of these, rather hastily written. Hopefully people enjoy it. All comments and criticisms welcomed :)Scott R.H. - "How I Met Your Mother" It was reasonably late in the evening when I first set off from the bus to head towards what was not only a pub, but also the manifestation of an uncertain future, a threat, and a definite dent to my masculinity and my sense of self. Despite the fact that it had gone 9PM, the sun was doing its best to keep itself peeking out from behind the clouds and over the horizon that threatened to envelope it, only to be replaced by night time, its orange glow leaving a sort of warmth hanging in the air that made me believe it was a good night to walk to the scene of my meeting as opposed to catching a cab. Wearing a black summer jacket and a pair of tight jeans over a pair of worn Vans slip on sneakers, I had decided I looked perfect for the meeting which I was headed towards. I had to look good, but given the nature of the the call I had received - our ex label was unhappy that I had walked away to form Chaos Records and was threatening legal action - I also had to look like I just didn't care. I had checked myself out in the bus's vanity mirror, crudely flanked by a full frame of lightbulbs, an attempt at flattery which proved pointless for someone who had spent the better end of a decade and a half at the top of the game, and I decided that I looked good, my seemingly unkempt stubble sitting perfectly around the bottom half of my face and framing my jutting jaw, my mid-length brown hair spiked high on my head. Yes, I was definitely going to make an impression of some sort.
The road was curiously quiet for a Sunday night in London with such wonderful fall weather. We had arrived for the Mind World Tour's opening night, expecting our home land to present us with the sort of weather we had grown accustomed to in our formative years, but it chose not to; the sun had shone almost exclusively since we stepped off the plane, as if even the weather was refusing to let us remember where we came from (it seems to be a common theme when you make it to the top). I decided to make the most of the opportunity to enjoy the silence which surrounded me for what was a very rare few minutes. Without the hustle and bustle of people trying to score a record deal by handing me a CD on which they had drawn what they probably thought was a cool band logo with a Sharpie, or someone trying to direct me towards a stage for a gig, I felt sort of apprehensive, I always did when something out of the ordinary took place back then. After a while I relaxed though. I allowed myself to sigh and exhale, my breath ever so slightly visible with the slight condensation the fall was shepherding in. As I walked, the rubber soles of my shoes padding almost silently on the concrete ground save for the occasional squeak when I didn't quite lift a foot high enough, I felt the tension in my shoulders drain away, felt the every day stresses run and hide, even if I knew it was only going to be for the duration of my brisk stroll. I was pleasantly surprised; normally it would take a cigarette break, stolen in the dark corner of a venue away from prying eyes, to make me feel so loose and relaxed. I nodded to myself, promising that I should definitely take more walks in the future if this was the therapeutic result I was going to achieve.
No sooner had I thought of a cigarette, however, than the nicotine addiction within me reared its head, calling out for another fix of needless tobacco drawn effortlessly into my body. I stopped momentarily, reaching into my inside pocket and pulling out the silver card packet of Lambert and Butler, its holographic-styled packaging catching a glimmer of sunlight and shining momentarily. I opened the lid of the packet, deep in thought. For some reason I never fully removed the silver foil paper from inside a cigarette package, ever. Other people seemed to do it as soon as they opened it, but that I didn't was indicative of my entire psyche; slightly unkempt, a little lazy and decidedly more cool than other people. Pulling one of the sticks from the pack, I replaced it in my inner breast pocket and took the cigarette in my mouth, gripping it there ever so slightly, the slight sheen of saliva just inside my mouth causing it to stick in position. Reaching inside my jeans, I fished out my metallic black Zippo lighter, flipping open the lid and sparking the flint all in one smooth and sleek manoeuvre that suggested I had done it a million times before. For a few seconds I watched the wind-proof flame dance effortlessly and without worry in the increasingly dimming light of late September as I slowly rolled the light brown speckled filter of the cigarette in my mouth between my lips, before I raised the lighter, shielding the end of my cigarette with my hand and taking two quick puffs to ensure it was correctly lit. My throat reflex caused me to cough almost as soon as the first wave of smoke caught the back of my throat, and I laughed at how counter-productive my attempt at looking cool would be if someone saw me baulk at the first taste of a cigarette. The truth was that no matter how many I smoked, I'd still occasionally let out such an outburst during my first drag. It was almost as if my throat refused to acclimatise, rejected my request that it become used to my addiction, my hobby. For that's what it was. We kid ourselves that people's need for a cigarette is purely addictive, but in truth, it gives something to do, something to busy our hands when we get bored. And so while some people may opt to knit or play sports, we addicts will fritter away five to ten glorious minutes filling our lungs with toxic smoke, refusing to acknowledge the fact that it was pushing us slowly towards an early grave.
I sucked in deeply, allowing the smoke to enter my lungs, and removed the cigarette from between my lips, gripping it loosely between my first two fingers of my right hand, where it felt almost natural now. As I continued to walk towards my destination, I allowed the smoke to pour slowly from my mouth as my lungs contracted, watching the white weightless substance swirl and dance in the air like some sort of slow moving liquid before it evaporated and disappeared into the evening sky. When I arrived at the pub, I looked up at the old building and sighed. In my early years in the industry, this place had seemed like the personification of heaven on earth, the chance to meet superstars and have a drink in the company of some of my heroes probably making it seem far more glorious than I now realised it looked. I turned my gaze upwards to the sign which read "The Dirty Bastard", and wondered if it had always looked so tired. The brown wooden frame encircled the white background with black lettering that tried to welcome new customers into its facility, but despite my undying love for this old place, I couldn't help but wonder why. The paint behind the name of the place was peeling crassly, some of it even littering the floor in front of me as I got nearby, and I found myself questioning why they didn't seize the opportunity to clean it up, give it a new lease of life perhaps with a simple stroke of a paintbrush. I shrugged nonchalantly and continued on my way towards the door, wondering why I now had a slightly heavy heart over the upkeep of what was, in real terms, no more than a wooden sign. Deep down though I knew it stood for a lot more and represented almost the beginning of a journey which had now brought me almost full circle. This was the first time, I realised with a jolt suddenly, that I had been back at the old place in around five years. I almost wished that such an anniversary could be marked with more of a celebration than a bollocking, but I more than anyone else knew that this was a game that never played out the way you expected. I had long since realised that riding the wave was essentially all that one could do to survive. It was far preferable to the alternative, which was, bluntly, going mad, longing for days gone by and searching for it in the bottom of a bottle, be that alcoholic or medical.
Not everything here had stayed the same however. As I reached that familiar and iconic old wooden door, its burn marks that told the tales of a million drunken nights almost making me swell with a sense of pride and recollection, I raised a hand to walk into my favourite old haunt, when I saw it out of the corner of my eye. The text may have been inexplicably spelled out in Comic Sans font, but the message that was scrawled across the piece of laminated A4 paper, slightly damaged by a few raindrops which had squeezed their way between the heat sealed plastic encasement causing the ink to run, was clear. "No smoking," it said. I laughed out loud instantly, gripping my cigarette with my teeth to stop it from falling to the floor, and tensing my calves to stop me from walking straight into the door. I had forgotten about this ridiculous ban on smoking in public places back in the UK, it had been so long since I had been here. Those of us who enjoyed a cigarette had somehow gone from being seen as cool and living on the edge by teenagers and fans alike, and had instead been turned into social pariahs, forced into the street to stand like lepers as the judgemental among the general public looked at us with that expression that derided us and our hobby, slowly killing ourselves without the comfort of a seat and a roof that we had been used to in the past. The only saving grace was that it was dry; I could only imagine how hellish it would be to be a smoker when it was pissing with the incessant rain that the UK seemed to enjoy almost year round.
As I sucked on my cigarette thoughtlessly, I stood with my back to the wall, leaning into it and feeling a slight pang of pain as the tiny stones on the wall dug into my back. I looked upwards as I blew another puff of smoke into the atmosphere and saw that the sky was getting increasingly darker. In fact, the clouds were even closing in. Was this going to be it? I was going to feel the full effects of being home at last with the rain falling down. How poetic it would be that it would start as I stood here, my back and the sole of my left sneaker pressed lightly against the wall behind me, enjoying my first prohibited cigarette. As I looked down at my wrist, I used my free hand to pull my jacket back to check the time. The glint of the hands on my Rolex told me that I was already two minutes late. Did I really want to anger this girl? I wondered.
The truth was that I was actually very nervous about this meeting. I had spent a career dealing with angry women in the industry in my own inimitable and unique way, but this felt different. From the early days of A&R representatives at Midnight/Mythic and Spice Records, to tour managers and venue owners, my way of dealing with women who shouted at me had never changed. Meetings would always start and end with them screaming at me, and would always reach that conclusion in one of two ways. For some, a few minutes of anger would be circumvented by my undoubted charm and slick way with words, and within a matter of minutes they'd be lying back on their desk, pencil skirt bunched up around their waist. The inside of their smooth thighs would be resting against my strong hips with their feet locked behind my back as I skilfully pounded into them. For others, it would be mostly the same, except the end result would be that instead of my way with words, they would see another skill attributed to my talismanic tongue, as they gripped my head with their thighs, their hands clawing and running through my hair as I convinced them that they weren't angry after all. It was quite surprising that I hadn't garnered a reputation as some sort of women beater given the amount of screams that people must have heard coming from offices minutes after I had walked in. It was more than once that a secretary had come thumping on a locked office door at the sound of their boss lost in the euphoria of a Scott H-induced orgasm, mistaking it no doubt for me turning violent. In truth I had never raised a hand to anyone in my life, far less a woman. I always found that using my cock was a far less painful way to make sure that I could get what I wanted, for both parties. Lord only knows what lengths I'd have gone to if I had ever been confronted by an angry male record label rep. I shuddered at the thought.
I chuckled as I took a final drag from the cigarette in my hand, before I shook my head and rolled the filter between my index finger and thumb carelessly before flicking it away, watching as it struck the concrete floor of the car park, sending embers flying momentarily in different directions. For a second, I considered lighting another, my hand reaching into my jacket almost as if by nature. Looking at my watch again though, I decided against it; the fear of the girl inside and how angry she was going to get at me anyway overpowering my need to get another quick nicotine fix. Besides, it wasn't like I could sort this by just fucking her right there on a table in the middle of the bar; I wasn't 21 anymore.
I raised my hand and pushed at the old oak door for a second time, the rough splintered grain feeling quite alien against the skin of my palm. Everything about this place felt old and worn compared to the last time I had been here. Walking in to a near empty bar, I scanned the room and felt a sense of elation that little had changed. The same alcohol stained tables sat there, adorned with the burns caused by cigarettes which had long since been banned from the inside of the pub. Even the bar staff looked like they hadn't left the old place since the last time I had been here, although it was impossible for me to tell if they were actually the same people. I scanned the room, and my eyes eventually settled on her, sat in the corner, her shiny brown hair hanging long and beautifully framing her perfect face, illuminated garishly by the light from the screen on the laptop which was placed on the table in front of her. I smiled, my face must have looked nervous though, and made my way towards her, aware of the fact that my shoes, which had been almost silent outside, were making a hellish clicking noise against the old wooden floor of the sparsely populated bar. I sighed as I reached the table and placed my hand on it, trying to regain some stability in my nervously weak legs, which had turned suddenly to jelly.
"Hi," I said as I looked down at the pretty young Studio 60 boss in front of me, Gia Rose. She exuded confidence as she looked up and saw me, greeting me in words only as her stony expression gave nothing away. "Sit down," she offered me, although it felt far more like an order. So I did, almost afraid of what would happen if I refused and opted to stand, prepared and rocking on the balls of my feet in case I had to leap clear of the danger zone like a spooked antelope, even if the latter option was clearly far more preferable. I looked into her big brown eyes as she started our meeting with a threat, evidently attempting to catch me off guard and not letting me settle into the meeting and grab control. "Here's the deal; resign with Studio 60 right now, or else I'll embarrass you right here in the pub."
I was impressed. I sat back slightly in my seat, shooting her a charming smile, and then I felt it. There was a spark, right then. I know we both felt it, I could see it from the look in her eyes. Who knew though that that was set to be the beginning of the most wonderful experience and journey of my entire life.Scott R.H. Edited by user 18 July 2012 22:17:09(UTC)
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