Dig Your Fingernails Into My Chest and Pull Out My Heart

Don't Stop

August 30th, 1981

Johnny dashed down the hallway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, jumping as the headstock of his guitar bounced off a doorframe. He pulled it off his back, unzipping the bag it rested in, sighing in relief at the lack of damage. Quickly pulling the zipper closed once more, Johnny jogged to the main door, grabbing the pages upon pages of music that lay next to his shoes, shouting to his mother a quick goodbye, before leaving the house. He slammed the door shut, unlocking his car, and getting in.

He takes a breather, setting his guitar in the back, next to the amp that he had "borrowed" from a friend of his back in Adwick. He just forgot to give it back to him when he moved. Oh well; what's he gonna do now? Nothing.

Anyway, Johnny needs to focus. He's got a gig with Andy and Mike tonight. Down the road from some posh bookstore, at a indie bar that allowed artists to perform freely. And while he was fully happy about finally getting to play guitar in front of a group of people with his two best friends in the world, he's a little upset over the fact that Angie couldn't do vocals for them. She's apparently busy babysitting for her cousin about an hour or two out of town, which means they'll have to go with instrumentals, but it'll be fine. It'll be fun.

The drive to Andy's flat is where he gets his anxieties out, like the possibility of him getting the date wrong, the possibility of him fucking up his parts, or him just generally getting embarrassed or scared to perform. He tells them to himself, before drowning those thoughts out with music from the radio; something from The Beatles, which, of course. The biggest British band in the world. It's all the radio had played since the sixties and Johnny could probably name every god-forsaken song on the Hard Day's Night album solely based off how many times he's heard it reran. It helps distract him though.

Andy's rather ecstatic when he comes out of his apartment. He's got a smile on his face, his bass in it's case on his back, and a small duffel bag on his side. His hands are shaky as they open the back door, setting the bass next to Johnny's own instrument. He climbs in the passenger seat, putting his bag down at his feet, grinning to his friend.

"You ready for this?" Andy asks, his thin lips curving into a curt smile.

Johnny leans back, shrugging, "More or less." His voice is a little shaky, and he prays that Andy won't be able to pick up on his anxiety.

He does, obviously, patting his friend's shoulder.

"Don't worry, man. I've got some stuff that'll help relieve the stress."

Andy slowly unzips the top of the bag, tilting it so Johnny can see. He glances from the contents in the bag, then back up to Andy, then back down to the contents.

"We are not smoking weed before our first performance."

"Ah, c'mon dude. You don't even have to do, like, a lot. Just one or two hits and you'll be good. Then after, we can get high-high. It'll be fun."

Johnny scoffs, though it's not in a dismissive way. He begins the shorter drive to Mike's house, Andy humming along with the radio; something other than The Beatles, thank the Lord. Johnny honestly thinks that if hears John Lennon and Paul McCartney's voices one more time, he's gonna kill one of 'em. Well, actually, he'd only have to kill Paul. Someone else did the work with John already. Rest In Peace, he says mentally, almost sarcastically.

Mike is already waiting outside when they arrive. He's holding his "lucky" drumsticks, the ones he got for Christmas about six years back. He could call them lucky all he'd like. It's only due to one time, the three had been meandering back to the bus stop so Johnny could head home, when Mike tripped and fell. His drumsticks rolled out into the street, cars rushing past them, stopping above a sewer grate completely unscathed. That, and Mike also won his high school talent show with them. The other two didn't have the heart to tell him that all the other performers were just bad, so they let him live on with the idea that those sticks were lucked in a way.