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by Kellyanne Lynch 25 April 2001, 1:15 - 11:29 PM Disclaimer: The events of this story are VERY loosely based off real occurrences; however, this is not exactly how they happened. This is how I imagine it might have happened. I do not know matchbox twenty, am not matchbox twenty, was not matchbox twenty in a past life, and will probably not be matchbox twenty in the future. This story was written as an attempt to improve my writing skills and to humour others and myself. No matchsticks were harmed in the making of this story. Unless you count Paul breaking his ass. Summary: The band gets together to decide what to put on their new album, but will they ever agree? Rating: PG Please e-mail dearjoan@mikeypower.com with questions, comments, theories, complaints, or words of wisdom. --------------------------------------------------- "We get along so we shouldn't argue" - matchbox twenty, "Argue" 1: Bent Rob sat down on the back steps of the ranch house. Holding a joint to his lips, he lit it. 'This is f***ing ridiculous', he sighed. This was supposed to be his break, a couple of weeks or so of pure, unadulterated relaxation on his manager Michael's ranch. Instead... sh**, this was more stress than being out on the road! Taking a deep drag on his joint, Rob gazed onto the horizon. The California sun, a brilliant orange coin, illuminated the starched sands of the west as it dipped behind them. Colours whisked across the sky, somber purples, pinks, and grays, a light show of day's grand finale, its way of saying goodnight to everyone before stepping offstage. Such beauty, such perfection in the sky! Exhaling through a puff of smoke, Rob hung his head. Such perfection, to which he felt he could never aspire. His dark brown hair clung to his scalp, drenched with the perspiration from a day filled with bitter conflict. He twirled the sweat-encumbered curls that covered the back of his neck. A breeze wafted through his hair, carrying with it Paul's voice, still yelling inside the house. The breeze tickled his damp neck, and he shivered. Once, this Santa Ynez cattle ranch had carried only joy with its remembrance. Rob's eyes fell upon the place where he and Marisol had been married. Tents had lined the area, glowing with candlelight beneath them. "One big fire hazard," he had called them in jest. He smiled. So romantic though, he had to admit. But all he had needed that day was to be with Mari, just to hold her. Proclaiming his love for her in front of so many people had been a bonus. "Mari," he whispered into the wind, closed his eyes, and sighed. Of course, Rob was here, in California, while his love was home in New York. He barely ever saw her anymore. 'Damn, what kind of a husband am I?' "F*** you!" Paul's voice again carried outside. Rob dug the toes of his tennis shoes into the dust. Who was Paul cursing out now? 'I swear, these past couple of days have been one big f***ing mess.' He brought the joint to his lips and breathed in its calming drug. "Take me away," he whispered to it. "Damn it, get me out of here." Rob held his head in his hands, the joint swirling smoke over his fingers. Back when they'd just started this band, they had all decided that, if success got in the way of their friendships, the band would go. 'The band will HAVE to go.' He drew the hand holding the joint to his lips, sucking the last ounce of life it still contained. "Sh**," he sighed, tossing the paper remains to the ground. Scooting on his backside to the bottom of the steps, Rob glanced out into the distance again. The land was dark, the sky even void of stars. And the sun had left him. She would be back tomorrow, only to leave again, a vicious cycle he knew too well. He wasn't ready to break from his friends, but he was sick of countlessly sliding through this routine with them. And it seemed that the good times were shortening. Rob lay down in front of the bottom step and stared into the empty expanse of space before sleep overtook him. |