“Get in here before the doors crush you. Well, Jim Morrison would never crush you, but you know what I mean,” I said as Jake hurried to join me in the elevator. He laughed, a hearty sound that filled the cramped space. “Yeah, I know.”
As the elevator began its ascent, we fell into easy conversation, reminiscing about past concerts and bands we loved. I couldn’t help but bring up that one show we paid $60 to see at UCF. It was release day for their album Amo, and the show was total shit.
“Worst $60 we ever spent,” I said, shaking my head. “That $15 we spent to see Le Special was way better.”
“Right? Who knew a tiny show at a dive bar would blow Amo out of the water,” Jake grinned, the memory lighting up his face.
There was an ease in the way we talked now, like the years we hadn’t spoken didn’t really matter anymore. It felt nice. Really nice.
As the elevator continued its ascent, we reminisced about the time we wanted to start a band after staying up all night watching American Satan. “Remember when we were trying to be The Relentless or whatever? We stayed up planning cover songs and brainstorming a band name, Saving Fate, but neither of us could really sing,” I said, a smile spreading across my face.
“Yeah,” he replied, shaking his head. “I don’t know why we thought that was a good idea. Though, my metal growls were going to be killer.”
I laughed, the memory vivid. “Yeah, just like that time you metal growled to Mr. Roboto because your little brother said it couldn’t be done.”
“Lol. Yeah, just like that,” he said, chuckling, the sound warm and familiar.
It was that familiarity we’d missed for so long, and it felt nice to have it back in our lives. We’d spent so much time apart that sometimes I forgot what having conversations with him was like. This one felt just as natural as those nights we’d drive around town at midnight, listening to song after song, the windows of his car down, just talking and singing.
As the elevator dinged and the doors opened, we stepped off at the ground floor of the Museum of Pop Culture in Seattle. We were there to visit the Nirvana exhibit, hoping to see the letters from Cobain, his guitar, and other memorabilia. We believed firmly that his wife, Courtney, had murdered him, along with their best friend, and this trip was our chance to see his things—and his house—in person and prove ourselves right.
We just knew this trip would do that. As we stepped off, Jake remarked, “I still can’t believe you believe in this Cobain thing so firmly but had never seen Soaked in Bleach. That’s wild. At least I showed it to you, and now you feel even stronger about it.”
I laughed slightly. “Yeah, it just made me angrier and shit. That woman deserves every bit that’s coming for her when we get his case reopened, lol.”
I looked over at him and said, “We always do museums, don’t we? Like the Civil Rights Museum when you visited me in Memphis, and the World of Coke when I came to Atlanta with you. Remember when you took that photo with Drunk Rick afterward in the CNN building, and we got those pressed pennies from the machine?”
He laughed, a warm sound that echoed the memory. “Yeah. We met the Coca-Cola Bear, and you discovered the secret ingredient to Coke.”
I smiled, feeling the familiarity wash over me. “And we figured out that Sprite from around the world tastes better than Coke.”
I laughed, feeling even lighter and more nostalgic. “At least we could taste the Cokes, unlike those times at New Smyrna, where we’d jump waves before dinner and end up so full of salt that we weren’t hungry anymore.”
He chuckled along with me. “Yeah, but we figured that out. We started eating before swimming and found that pizza place we loved with the Alfredo pizza.”
“Oh yeah! I love that place. Best damn pizza on the planet.”
As we stepped into the museum, the atmosphere shifted, a sense of anticipation electrifying the air. The moment we entered the Nirvana exhibit, our laughter faded into awe.
“Look at that sweater,” I breathed, staring at Kurt Cobain's iconic green cardigan displayed under glass. Beside it, the Jag-Stang guitar gleamed, a piece of music history that felt almost sacred.
Jake and I exchanged glances, the excitement evident in our wide eyes. “I can’t believe we’re finally here,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“This is what we came for,” I replied, my heart racing. We stood there, lost in the moment, ready to delve into the world of one of our biggest musical influences.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
