Lamestains

Evie

I hate it when people call me Evelyn. Yes, it's my real first name, but I prefer Evie and these people know that. Still, half these jerkoffs still call me Evelyn every chance they get. I'm going to stop responding to it.

The Haven is a good place to stay, don't get me wrong. It's kept me from being entirely on the streets for the last year. Tucked in an abandoned warehouse, it's a safe space for young musicians like myself to go when we've got nowhere else. I haven't had anywhere else in a long time.

I left home a year ago after my step-dad beat me one night. That was the last straw. I'd had enough. I couldn't stick around and watch my pathetic excuse of a mother tolerate that abuse anymore. Maybe she was complacent--but I wasn't. I packed what little I could carry with me, including my guitar, and came here, where I'd been staying ever since.

"Evie, that blonde haired guy is here again," my friend Maria interrupted me from my guitar playing.

"Damn it," I muttered under my breath. I had just about gotten the chord progression right for the new song I was working on. I put down my guitar.

"Oh great. Not him again." I sighed aloud, rolling my eyes at Maria. This guy kept showing up claiming he was looking for a drummer. Aren't we all looking for good drummers? I didn't like him coming and poaching our musicians. Go somewhere else, buddy. Plus there was something about him that just rubbed me the wrong way. Today, I'd had enough.

I stood from the ground and walked out into the main part of the warehouse, where I spotted the guy making his rounds, chatting to people. He was really lanky, skinny, with long dyed blonde hair. I stomped towards him, arms crossed.

"Hey you! Blondie!" I shouted. He stared at me, dumbfoundedly. "Yeah, I'm talking to you." I stepped closer to him. The other people standing near him backed away. They knew better than to fuck with me when I was pissed.

"Uh, hey," the guy stuttered, looking taken aback. He glanced down at his tattered Converse high tops.

"Why do you keep coming around here?" I demanded. "We know you aren't homeless."

"I'm just looking for a drummer for my band." He was soft-spoken and too nice. I didn't like that. On the streets we learned to be tough.

"We're all looking for drummers for our bands," I answered him.

"You have a band?" he asked, in a tone that implied that he didn't think I could possibly have a band.

"As a matter of fact, I do," I answered. "We're called Technicolor Nightmare. I'm the lead singer." My band was well on its way to being good. Probably better than anything this scrawny little bleach-blonde boy had ever done.

"That's good," the blonde answered, trying to play nice. "I've never heard of you though." He took a jab.

"And I'm sure I've never heard of your band, either, blondie."

"It doesn't matter. I'm just looking for a drummer, not a fight." He was so timid it was practically cracking me up.

"Well It turns out that I need a drummer too," I continued. "So I'd appreciate it if you stop trying to steal all my options."

"I wasn't trying to steal anything," blondie explained. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," I answered. "Just get lost." The boy took a look around, shrugged his shoulders, and walked towards the door. I guess I had gotten my point across.

And that was the first time I spoke with Kurt Donald Cobain.