𝗦𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡

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26 November 1978
Call me greedy, but a girl needs money to keep herself from being a starving artist, and to help keep a roof over her head.

I met up with my band at a pizza place that was the source of dinner on way too many nights back in high school. Rather than celebrate on a gig well performed, we came in discuss the measly amount of money we earned from playing the Ruby Room.

"But they loved us!" I huffed.

"I don't think that's how it works. We're not big enough to warrant a bigger paycheck." George took a sad bite of his pizza.

For our show, we were given $60. Not each, mind you. $60 in total. We'd get $15 each, which was better than nothing, but it still made my blood boil. I made almost double what we were payed working a week at Mick's.

Joey picked at his food, resting his head in his hand.

"We were ripped off! I played me bum off for that show. Even broke me drumstick. Because that's what I need—another expense to pay."

     "Here," Jack fished a bill out of his pocket. "Get yourself another one."

     "I couldn't," Joey waved away Jack's offer.

     Jack adamently placed the bill in Joey's pocket, saying that there wouldn't be any more discussion about it. He was getting a drumstick and that was that.

     I wasn't too focused on their little argument as much as I was trying to divvy up the money I made at work and from the show. Obviously, we didn't get paid for my first show due to my nervous breakdown. There was rent, then giving some money to help out Mum and Jane (lest she put a seven-year-old to work à la Victorian Era-style). Thoughts and anxieties built up to the point where I excused myself from the table. I just needed a little space to clear my head.

     Using the restaurant's phone and rang up Bon, who always seemed to be at home and not out partying like I had anticipated.

     "Bon?"

     "Marie. What's happening?"

     "I'm coming over. I've got to get something off my mind."

     "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday?"

     I was about to ask him how he came up with such a weird response, but the silence between us allowed me to inspect what was playing on a jukebox by the window—"Friday On My Mind" by the Easybeats, another group whose records I had as a little kid.

    "Yes, Bon, you're very witty and all that," I rolled my eyes. "But I'm serious."

     He welcomed me with open arms and I returned to my food, hoping that I wouldn't choke on the cheese sticking to the plate. A cruel, tiny part of myself toyed with the idea, but I ignored it by stuffing my face anyway.

"Yeah, that's normal." Bon concluded.

"You can't be serious," I groaned before falling face-first into his sofa.

"Unfortunately it is when you start out."

I lifted my head, brushed the hair out of my face, and rubbed my hands across my face, growing hotter and sweaty.

"Marie, you look like you're going to be sick," Bon managed, looking anxious for the first time.

"I think I will be," I moaned, resting my head against the armrest.

"Marie, calm down."

"I can't, Bon," I fumed. "What if it stays like this? What am I gonna do for rent? I'm gonna wind up homeless sooner or later and be an utter failure." Feeling a familiar tightness in my chest, I buried my face bak into the pillow and sobbed ashamedly.

Bon's footsteps paced the room, trailing off to the kitchen for a quick drink, then returned to pace again. He probably thought I was nuts. I didn't even want to think of him leaving me because I was a loony.

"Christ's sake, what is up with you? I'm getting a bit worried." By the faded look in his eyes, he definitely hadn't dealt with one of my attacks.

"I'm sorry. I'll go," I got up to leave, but Bon sat me back down.

"No, you don't have to be sorry. I've just never seen someone get like that before. You're so nervous and jumpy."

I sniffed and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. "Welcome to my life."

"Listen, it's not always easy to be a musician. You're starting out, and you're not always gonna get the most money. When I joined AC/DC, I was almost 30 and went through more jobs than most people go through in their lives. Manual work, shit pay. But, if you can get food and a place to sleep, then you're doing good. I don't take you for a drunkard like me, so at least you don't have a vice burning a hole in your pocket. I don't think you'll end up homeless."

Unless record collecting counted, which it probably did.

He opened a window to let some of the cool afternoon air in, "Feel any better?"

I took a calming breath and nodded. "It's just crummy."

"That's how it goes playing in a band," he paused. "That wasn't intentional."

I smirked at the reference. When I thought about it for more than a second, who better to talk about this sort of thing with than Bon? He wouldn't steer me wrong or make anything up; he didn't seem like the kind of guy to sugarcoat, either.

"A bit of telly oughta calm you down," he proposed. "Turn off your mind for a while, you know? Now sit."

At Holloway House, we had the set in the living room that we fought over to use throught the week, each arguing over which show was too important to miss. The one thing we could all agree on, though, was Countdown on Sunday nights. Mrs. Davies didn't care much for it, so she knew to scram when the theme song came on.

Bon turned the dials on his set, channel-hopping until he came across reruns of cartoons. An interesting way to spend a lazy afternoon, but I couldn't fault him for that. He flopped down onto the couch, and I rested my head on his shoulder. My mind had gone a bit numb, slipping into a state between frustration and sleepiness. Bon asked me a question, but had to repeat it. His voice was tuned out of my ear for a minute. Must've been the heat making me feel so drowsy, or the fact that I just exhausted myself by crying my eyes out.

"I said, how's the record store going?"

I raised my eyes to meet his, "How did you know that I work there?"

"I saw you in the window once while I was driving by. I didn't want to walk in and make your nervous or anything., but it's the perfect job for you. You get to listen to all sorts of music all day every day. I wish I could've worked at one."

"It's alright, I guess. Records get sold, new ones come in, and old geezers chastise the kids for buying rock music."

"Do we ever get mentioned?"

"Sometimes. This one lady called you a deranged individual for writing 'Dirty Deeds.'"

"Give her my regards, then. You make good money there?"

I nodded.

"If music fell through for me, I'd be back at some factory working until I'm old and grey. The guys there would have a laugh about it. Bon Scott the rock star washed up at some dead-end job."

"Even if you did end up at some factory, I'd still love you." I smiled, feeling his arm hug my waist.

"And I for you, but you just gotta keep trying. Promise me you won't stop going after your dream, okay?"

"Scout's honor," I promised. He kissed me on the cheek.

And we spent the rest of that day just laying next to each other and watching mindless cartoons. Very romantic.

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