What We Trade Our Hearing For (a North and South Story)

3. Shameless

"Now you're so much older, so mature and insecure

You've grown out of yourself and into something else

Oh you crazy rebel tell me is this what you want to be

Would it kill you to be shameless?"

-Say Anything

John

The Mill was quiet, a rare occurrence on a Friday night. An unfortunate occurrence, as well. John rubbed his temples, elbows leaning against his desk. It was summer, at least one stage at The Mill should be booked every night. He hoped tonight was a one-off situation; at least he had a good lineup for tomorrow and through the next few weeks. Competition was fierce among the venues, bands were skipping Atlanta on their tours, ticket prices were going up while people's budgets were going down. He didn't like the trends he was seeing.

After leaving the Hale's, he'd thrown himself into his work for the rest of the evening. Now the sun was setting, and he'd made little progress trying to book bands for the fall. At least had the forethought to pick up some Chick-Fil-A on the way home. He smiled, remembering something his father used to say: "When you've had a shitty day, you need some fucking Chick-Fil-A." That was the kind of man he was, the kind that let his children stay at The Mill to listen to questionable bands and who wasn't averse to cursing in front of them. Looking back, John wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

With a weary sigh, he pushed away from his desk and walked from his office into the hall. It was still muggy outside, making him glad once again that he'd driven the short distance from his house to The Mill. He didn't technically have to be at The Mill at all, since no one else was there and he had an office at home. But something about being on site motivated him, away from the distractions at home of his mother and sister.

Mrs. Thornton had left him a plate in the kitchen when he got home, figuring he would be at work late and be hungry when he was finally finished. As with most things, she was right. He scarfed down the home cooked meal in just a few minutes, then grabbed a beer from the fridge before heading up the stairs to his music room. Music was what he needed after the odd and distressing day he'd had. Music made everything better.

He flipped through his vinyl collection, searching for just the right record to help him relax and clear his mind for a little while. He finally decided on one, a classic, one of his father's favorites, and he popped it on the player and slid his headphones on.

When John was a little boy, he'd sit on the floor in the music room with his father, close his eyes, and listen to his dad sing along with the lyrics. Now, some 20 years later, he still preferred to sit on the floor next to the big chair that still smelled of his father's pipe tobacco. Of course, he couldn't do that when he had colleagues around, and was usually embarrassed to do it when his family was with him. But when he was alone, and the rest of the house was tucked into their own corners for the night, he still slid to the floor, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back, breathing in the familiar scent of his father.

That's where his mother often found him in the morning, long after the record had played itself out. This morning was no different; she knew it had been a rough day whenever it happened. So, she'd creep back out, not wanting to disturb or embarrass her strong young man. And today, like most mornings, he stayed asleep, memories of his father singing mingling with images of a girl with fierce eyes and a sharp tongue.

Maggie

This Sunday brunch wasn't the kind that Maggie was used to back home. Of course, she'd heard of chicken and waffles, but always assumed it was a strange novelty and not something people actually ate. And she was slightly suspicious of the contents of the gravy that was smothering her biscuit.