Rock N Roll Fantasy

This wasn't going to be the first time Brynn Paters had played the famed Roxy on Sunset, but it was going to be the most memorable. He used to lie awake late at night when his parents were fast asleep, expecting him to be the same, with his seven dollar, uncomfortably fitting earphones cranked up to unhealthy decibels. The heavy bass emitting more distortion than rhythm in the inadequately-prepared buds thumping away against his ear drums. The screeching of Umar Brendl's high-pitched grasp at notes no man should ever hit, let alone one who sings in a metal band, leaves traces of an incessant humming in Brynn's ears long after the album has ended, while the hypnotic and formulaic pounding of the drums usually results in a subconscious air-drum clinic performed for no one. The posters adorning the walls in his room depict the fashions stereotypical of 80's metal, unabashed rock star poses shrouded in all the glitz and glamor associated with the appropriately labeled glam rock culture.

Brynn's parents never really took an interest in the things that interested him, which, coupled with their complete lack of awareness surrounding how the real world exists for most people led them to believe that this whole metal phase was completely harmless, and, in fact, led them astray in believing that all the colors and flamboyance of the scene were more or less synonymous with children's television. They felt it kept him from playing in the streets and basically being a nuisance to the other parents in the neighborhood, so they let him indulge in his little fantasy until, they figured, he would grow out of it and find a calling more apropos to his upbringing. They splurged on the fender he wanted and paid for the lessons he claimed he needed, even applauding when he was eager to showcase what he had either learned from his teacher – a burnt-out ex-junkie named Karl, who used to be in an REO Speedwagon coverband and who's greatest achievement in music was getting arrested for trying to cut a lock of Brian May's hair when he was soundchecking for a solo gig over at the House of Blues. Truthfully, neither parent had any idea if Brynn was actually getting better or if that's just how it was supposed to sound, but nevertheless they encouraged his prowess and clandestinely breathed sighs of relief that he wasn't more interested in that “gang music” making waves over on the other side of LA.

However, unbeknownst to his parents, Brynn had already succumbed to the lifestyle both good and bad. Even though he was only twelve, he was already drinking, albeit moderately and not because he enjoyed it, but because it was almost a prerequisite. Karl always had cold beer in the fridge courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Paters' guitar lesson money, so the least he could do was allow Brynn the opportunity to indulge. It wasn't long before Karl offered Brynn a toke, opening up a whole new world for the kid sixteen years his junior. Within weeks of their introduction, Brynn went from being an enthusiastic, innocent kid with an affinity for metal to rolling perfect blunts in the home of an ex-con. Karl had no remorse as theoretically he was doing what he was being paid to do - teach Brynn how to be a Rock N Roll musician. But unexpectedly to Karl, something happened that forced him to take a step back and open his eyes, even if it was for just a brief moment.

Brynn had become fucking good.

Like not just learning the notes and understanding the basic chords for the most simplistic of songs good, in a span of weeks Brynn had managed to transform from a little kid that didn't even know how to hold a guitar properly to well beyond even Karl's level of skill. He was able to mimic anything that Karl would play and, not long after, anything he heard on the radio – impeccably. The roles of teacher and student had soon turned into two musicians just jamming – feeding off whatever the other plays. Karl would watch in a stoned haze as Brynn's fingers would slide effortlessly along the neck of his jet black electric guitar, almost as if in slow motion, even though the blistering pace was unlike any he had ever witnessed. Karl was witnessing first-hand a child prodigy in the making, with a sound and skill level prime for the spotlight. Only problem was the kid was only twelve.

“Dude,” Karl would say, his attention focused on picking up the last few crumbs of weed on his wooden coffee table and depositing them into a Zig-Zag. “You're, like, really fucking good.”

And Brynn wouldn't even look up until he smelt the familiar odor of burning herb, preferring to remain attentive on the six strings resting underneath his chin. “Yeah well, I could be better.”

Karl would light up, take a deep hit and pass it over Brynn's way. “I dunno, man,” his voice unrecognizable, hesitant to exhale. “You're pretty fucking good.”

Brynn would take a drag off the poorly rolled joint and let it dangle from his lips, grey ash silently floating down and crumbling onto his hand as he swayed along to his own music. He barely acknowledged Karl now as anything more than a guy with a weed and a place to smoke it. Karl didn't much care seeing as how he was still getting paid for supposedly giving lessons. It wasn't long before Brynn got bored of hanging out with this nearly thirty year old never-was and soon found himself auditioning for local bands around the area looking for something fresh.

And it was when he met Alvin that everything changed for both the better and worst.

Man Like You

“I'm never gonna get through all this goddam bullshit by the end of the day,” Peter Jr. thinks to himself as he casually leans back in his Italian leather-dipped reclining chair, crosses his arms behind his head, linking his fingers and slams his feet down on the one compact corner of his mahogany desk that wasn't saturated with paper and various debris.

“I'm going to have to come in on another goddam Saturday and finish all this bullshit.”

Peter Jr. is no stranger to working beyond the limits of what is expected of him. He's always prided himself on his “team-first” work ethic and his willingness to go beyond the call of duty. It's the way he was raised, to never settle on squeaking by through the bare minimum of effort; a trait he learned from his father, Peter Sr., who epitomized the sob story of a single parent raising two kids after mom suddenly but not completely unexpectedly took off to parts unknown with an old co-worker. Peter Sr. was a conflicted soul in that he was a very ambitious individual who's love of success and stability was only bested by his love for his family. He worked long hours at McMueller and Scotch accounting firm, but no matter how stressed or preoccupied work made him, he never failed to fulfill his obligations as a father. There were nights, especially around the tax season but still consistent throughout the rest of the year, that would keep him in the office until the wee hours of the morning, but that would never hinder his enjoyment of being woken up by two energetic and rambunctious boys who worshiped their father in every way. He told himself that the day he was too tired or too moody to enjoy the time he was able to share with his children was the day he would quit working altogether, even though he knew that the financial burdens of feeding and clothing two constantly growing boys on his own made that dream an impossibility. But still he knew that point would never come as he loved being an integral part of the firm he worked for and he relished the time he spent with Peter Jr. and his brother Patrick.

“I'll sleep when I'm retired and it's your turn to take care of me,” Peter Sr. used to tell them with a mischievous smile, even though the thought of retirement, even 30 or 40 years down the road turned his stomach.

Even when Martha left him wasn't enough to deter Peter Sr., no matter how grim and selfish the circumstances surrounding the whole ordeal. Despite Peter Sr's insistence on Martha not working so the kids had “a parent to come home to after school, not some 'rent-a-mom'”, Martha grew bored and lethargic performing the same repetitious and mundane chores on a daily basis. She felt it was a thankless role where she felt the only promotion she would ever see would be the day the kids “learned to make their own lunches and learn to clean up after themselves” - a concept that flabbergasted and bewildered Peter Sr. He just couldn't wrap his head around why a parent would not jump at the opportunity to spend time with their kids without worrying about the other burdens that came with trying to raise a family. But he could not convince her that it was a blessing so she went out and got a job working as an assistant editor at a magazine highlighting the finer things in town. Unbeknownst to her or to Peter Sr. was the person to whom she would be assisting – Greg – who was one of Martha's junior professors back when she was still studying the techniques of the English language. The hardest part of the whole ordeal was how Peter Sr. was able to see through the facade of their relationship and was forced to watch it all unfold in front of his very eyes over the following months. Peter Jr. never knew if Martha had told Peter Sr. that she was leaving or if she just decided to do it on a whim, regardless, he remembered waking up one morning and she was gone.

Despite the circumstances, Peter Sr. created an environment that most children in even the most stable of homes would be envious of. He gave his children everything, everything except a mother to grow up with. At least that's what he wrote in the suicide note he left not long after Peter Jr. had moved out to College (Patrick was already in his third year out at UCLA). Peter Sr. explained in great length his struggle with dealing with never being able to provide for his children despite the fact that neither Peter Jr. nor Patrick could have asked for a better childhood. Clinically it was a classic case of severe depression, something that Peter Sr. had apparently been dealing with since Martha left him.

Not surprisingly, it had come as a complete shock to both children, but it had affected Patrick in a much more profound manner and a year to the day after Patrick Sr.'s suicide, Patrick celebrated at a bar out in the Hollywood Hills and proceeded to careen his car off the side of Laurel Canyon into the abyss below. It was ruled an accident, but Patrick Jr. was well aware of the struggles Patrick had endured since their father's death.

At 21 years of age, Peter Jr. found himself without a family. Instead of allowing this sudden realization to inhibit life, he used it as motivation and pushed himself to be like his late-father. Now, at 26 he was putting in 50 hours a week at the firm, while trying to be a good father to his own two children.

He looked at the generic clock situated directly above his door in a mockingly manner, ticking away second by second. It felt both achingly slow and blindingly fast – a constant reminder of how quickly you lose track of what matters the most by getting blindsided by the monotony of so-called “life”.

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, blinded by the sea of numbers shrouding his desk. When the world came back into focus, his eyes veered towards the hinged double picture frame peeking out from the debris – one side consisted of a picture of him with his father and brother while the other was of his two children. His eyes darted back and forth between the two, coming to the terms with the possibilities of life and the unpredictability that tends to follow suit.

He grabbed his jacket lounging on the back of his chair, hit the light switch and sighed deeply...