How Not To Be A Groupie

Chapter Sixty Five: Stevie

Bon was still sleeping when I set the folded note on the coffee table. His light snoring under his hair and blanket faded as I left the room, laundry bag slung over my shoulder. This room didn't have a washer like Stelle's so I'd have to find the laundromat downstairs. I left early enough so I could still meet Angus for the fancy breakfast.

After countless searching, asking around, and one young child mistaking me for Santa Claus, I found the laundromat in a nondescript room with the AC on way too high. Inside, some swear words echoed off the walls. "Come on, ya' fuckin' thing..." Nervous, I peered around the corner to see a young man with long brown hair standing over one of the washing machines, appearing to beat the shit out of it. He wasn't wearing a shirt and I thought he must have been freezing in this room. "Ya' know, the least ya' could fuckin' do is give me my fuckin' money back."

Without making a sound I looked for a machine on the other side of the room. The man turned around anyway. I had to double check but I could have sworn he looked just like....Malcolm? But it wasn't Malcolm, it was....

"Sorry 'bout that," he said, crossing his arms. "Word of advice, don't use this one." He pointed at his machine.

"I won't," I said. The laundromat was empty except for us. I shivered as a particularly chilly breeze poured on me from a ceiling vent. Without him knowing, I tried sneaking glances at him to see if he really was who I thought he was.

"Don't mind me, jus' here for a shirt," he said. "Was at breakfast with an uncle of mine an' he spilled his wine on me." The man may have been scowling but affection laced his voice.

I smiled at the thought of Malcolm teasing his nephew and making a mess as a result. But I had to be sure this was Malcolm he was referring to. "He did, did he?"

"Practically poured it all over me," he said as I opened my bag and started pulling clothes out. "Now he's put a curse on my machine." I held in my giggles as best I could. "Don't let his rockstar charm fool ya', Miss, he's a menace."

"Your uncle is a rockstar?" I asked, playing coy. The man nodded and hit his fist on the machine again.

"Yeah, big tour's about to start," he said. "Came for a short visit while the band's still here. AC/DC, ya' might have heard of 'em?"

"They sound familiar," I said and the man cursed under his breath and kicked the washing machine. With a groan and a shudder, it started up. The man grinned in triumph.

"An' there ya' have it," he said. I pulled a bit of spare change from my pocket and pushed it through the slot. "What's your name?"

"Hannah Ruth," I said. And just to make sure.... "What's yours?"

"Stevie," he said. Unless Cliff also had a nephew named Stevie, this was Stevie Young himself. "Nice to meet ya'."

"You play anything?" I asked, trying my hand at conversation." Stevie shrugged.

"Bit of guitar here an' there," he said. "Nowhere near as good as these guys." I wondered if I should continue my charade or admit that I had been a groupie for the band for the last few weeks. How would that go over?

Truth is, Stevie, I'm a huge fan of the band and have a burning crush on your uncle.

Yeah? Get in line, which one?

"You're an American," he observed, looking me over.

"I am," I said.

"How do ya' like that? Ya' jus' here on holiday, or...."

"Yeah," I said quickly. He nodded and looked down at his machine. Mine started up right away and I hoped I had used enough soap. Better than using too much, I supposed. These machines were green and had some sort of label marked 'permanent press'. Back in my 2024 days I'd spend time on YouTube watching old sixties and seventies commercials. The doting mother would always reprimand her sticky son how to properly wash his jock strap and they'd mention permanent press. Something about wrinkles? "I guess I'm on an adventure," I said.