DECEMBER 8, 2004
Every laundromat across the country is the same. You can expect the same thing from all of them with small deviations from the normal-a snack or soda machine buzzing in the corner. But here, at home in Las Vegas, there is nothing out of the normal. The only thing buzzing here is the slot machine in the corner.
"We should call maintenance so we don't have to do this next time," Ronnie says, unloading a damp pile of clothes and transferring them to a dryer. "I knew that thing was old but damn."
Brandon sighs-another thing to worry about. The washing machine at home was out of commission, likely due to age and how little it was used nowadays.
His eyes glide back to the slot machine, the lights displaying a range of emotions. "Did you hear about the guy in Henderson who won a million last week? It's been on the news."
Ronnie whistles, "Imagine the taxes on that."
"Where does that money even come from?" Brandon frowns, "You've got people struggling to make ends meet and then some jackass stumbles upon a million by sheer luck." He's seen the darker side of gambling thanks to his job at the Gold Coast, and sometimes it leaves a poor taste in his mouth. The people who are so desperate that they travel west to bet away their earnings-sometimes they don't make it home.
You could argue that Brandon did a similar thing by moving back to Vegas and joining a band, but he won't entertain the thought.
Ronnie asks, "What time are we meeting for the thing?"
The thing is the Billboard Music Awards, of which they have been nominated for nothing. The only reason they're going is because Island invited them and it's (coincidentally) being held at the MGM Grand Arena and they're already home. They'd arrived for their short break four days ago, flying out of Virginia, and tomorrow morning they'll be leaving for a short stint across the West Coast. So, laundry. There will be no time to call maintenance now-it'll have to be done during the Christmas break. That is, if someone will come to look at it during the holidays.
"I dunno, six?" Brandon answers. "That's when I told Mark to pick us up."
Ronnie snorts, "Is he our designated driver?"
Brandon is sitting on one of the machines, being of no help to Ronnie, "No idea. We may have to get a taxi."
"You should go easy tonight," Ronnie says cryptically. "We have to get up early tomorrow." Brandon makes a noncommittal noise in response. "Did the pharmacy call you back this morning?"
Brandon purses his lips, "Hmm... yep."
Ronnie gives him a dry look.
He's run out of Xanax-been out for a while, actually-and talked to his doctor about getting a refill despite the fact that he'd been told he wasn't allowed anymore until he saw that psychiatrist he was recommended to-a woman called Dr. Sanchez. For whatever reason, no one in Vegas seems to understand that he isn't actually aware of or in control of the tour schedule, and thus cannot schedule an appointment to do so anytime soon. Long story short, he'd managed to beg for a shorter supply just to last him until Christmas. And then it was called into the wrong pharmacy.
"It won't be ready until tomorrow," Brandon says.
Ronnie nods, "That's alright."
"We leave before they open," he continues. Ronnie grimaces at this. "I'll get on fine. I did before."
Ronnie starts the dryer and leans against it, crossing his arms, "But it helped, right? It seemed like it."
It had helped. Sure, he's still scared on the planes, but it's calming. Back before he ran out, it was tempting to take some outside of the planes. Before a big interview or something. Brandon hadn't noticed how generally anxious he was about everything until he felt this relief, but now his miracle pill is gone.
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Hopeless Haze - Volume I: Hot Fuss (Remastered)
Romance"If Brandon cared, he would wonder if Ronnie was also deep in thought about something and has only just absentmindedly found something for his hands to play with. But as Ronnie runs his fingers through his hair, Brandon finds that he does not care a...
