Hopeless Haze - Volume X (Prologue)

III: Come Humor Me

MAY - JULY 2002

"I just think a little press will help them get their name out there, y'know?" Ronnie leans with his back against the kitchen counter's edge as he continues to pester, "What other pressing issue do you have to write about, hm?"

"That's not it, dude. I just don't know if they'll let me write about a band no one knows about."

"Well, what happens if you guys become the newspaper that makes them the biggest band in Vegas?" Ronnie points finger guns at his roommate with a goofy open-mouthed grin. He really only knows how to charm through humor, but Ted's known him too long for it to work every time, "That's gotta get you a pay bump or something, yeah?"

"Not how it works, man. I'm sorry."

Ted is one of Ronnie's roommates and long-time friends, and he currently works as a writer at the Las Vegas Mercury. The paper covers the typical current events and what-not, but their main focus is on the arts scene in Vegas. Rather, that's the main reason people their age read the Mercury over other papers.

Ronnie and Ted used to be in a band together, only recently disbanded, called Expert on October. After they were written about in the Mercury, Ronnie definitely noticed a few more heads at their next show. This was before Ted even wrote for the paper, so its outreach must count for something.

After seeing The Killers perform at Tremorz the other night, Ronnie thought they could use a publicity boost. There was an earnestness in their performance that Ronnie felt he hadn't seen in a long time, and they managed to show it without a drummer. If anything, going onstage without a drummer is the definition of sincerity, albeit ballsy as hell.

That thought weighed on Ronnie's head a bit in recent days, he can't deny it. They don't have a drummer, he would think to himself, you could offer again. He's been trying to shake the idea from his head because it's selfish—you don't just invite yourself into someone else's gig.

But, a good favor could go a long way.

"Look," Ronnie concedes as he watches Ted stir his coffee, "at the very least, could you just ask your boss? You can't lose your job for asking, can you?"

"No, I suppose not." Ted steps back from the counter and sips from his mug, "But say I get the green light, what if I don't want to write about... what was their name again?"

"The Killers."

"Yeah, what if I don't want to write about The Killers?"

"I mean you have that right, of course, this is America." Ronnie ponders, "But what if I offer to take the trash outside for a whole month?" Ted chuckles curtly, "Okay, two months. And if you say no, I'll tell the other guys you passed up an opportunity for the whole house."

"Jesus, you're desperate," Ted laughs again, "Sure, okay. I'll ask."

"Thank you, man," Ronnie smiles and lands his palm on Ted's shoulder, "I really don't think you'll regret it. They were cool."

"Just don't expect me to praise them like gods, if they're weird or assholes I'm writing about them like that. I describe what I'm shown, not what my roommate tells me."

"Hey, freedom of the press," Ronnie's hands are raised at chest-level with his palms out defensively, "do as you please, Capote."

"He wasn't even a journa- whatever, I gotta get ready." Ted looks at the clock on the stove, "You do too, don't you have work in fifteen?"

"Fuck," Ronnie looks down at his pajamas, "time flies when you're a begging man."

Eight hours later at quarter-past-six, Ronnie is still in his work clothes while he eats Chinese food out of the carton. Ted walks in the front door, giving Ronnie a reason to look up from his lukewarm meal.