Fanfiction : Music / Sports : Rock Star
By Kellyanne Lynch
15 March 2002, 4:50 – 5:45 AM
Beta Reader: Christy Gordon (thanks!)
Disclaimer: Dale Earnhardt, jr. was my best friend in high school, and Fred Durst used to bully the two of us. He was such a mean kid, that Fred. He used to trap me in my locker and flush Junior’s head in the toilet. Then Fred and all his friends would call Junior a toilet brush. Just like the above “vignette”, the following story is a COMPLETE work of fiction. Not a stitch of reality, although I tried to portray both Fred and Junior true to themselves. Fred Durst presumably belongs to himself, and, according to some race-wear that I purchased recently, Junior apparently belongs to DEI. I know neither Fred nor Junior. Never even met them. This fanfic is for entertainment purposes only.
Summary: A NASCAR fic, where Dale Earnhardt, jr. just wants to be a rock star
Author’s Note: Having finished writing my FIRST NASCAR fanfic last night, “ “The” Accident ”, I laid me down to sleep. Only to get blind-sided by this story. VERY vivid, detailed scenes came into my head, and I knew I wasn’t going to rest until I had written it all down. So that I did, stayed up an extra hour to do so. I haven’t had such a lucid vision for a fic in a LONG time, and I’m hoping this kind of thing happens again. Sleep can wait.
Author’s Note #2: Although this fic really had nothing to do with the song, the title sure had a lot to do with “Rock Star” by everclear. The song’s running through my head, and I thought it would make sense to at least get you thinking about it too when you read my fic. So I’m going to start off with the lyrics, okay?
Dedication: Again, to fanfiction.net’s amazing NASCAR team, who all ROCK!!!
Rating: PG
* Please e-mail dearjoan@mikeypower.com with questions, comments, theories, complaints, or words of wisdom.
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I don't want to be a loser...no!...
I don't want to be an almost was
I don't want to be a white trash, working class chump
I don't want to be a loser anymore
That's why I want to be a rock star
I want to be the king, I want to be on top, yeah
I just want to be a rock star, Yeah...
Now I just want to be famous
I want to be the guy that everybody wants [laughter]
I want to be on TV shows, and wear designer clothes
I want a girlfriend who does not drink beer
I want to drive a fast car, and sleep with certain movie stars
I want to sing the songs that all those little people want to hear
I just want to be a rock star
I want to be like all those people up in first class
I just want to be a rock star
I want to tell the little people
They can kiss my ass
I just want to be a rock star
I just want to get laid
I just want to be a rock star
A different girl, for every day
That's why I want to be a rock star
Be like all those guys on the MTV
I just want to be a rock star
I want to make those girls on the Real World
Fantasize about me
I just want to be a rock star
I want to be the king, I want to be on top
I just want to be a rock star
I just want to be famous
Everybody everywhere wants to be famous
And everybody everywhere wishes they could tell
Everybody everywhere
To go to Hell
I just want to be a rock star
I just want to get high
I just want to party like a rock star
Until the day I die
I just want to be a rock star
- everclear, “Rock Star”
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Fred Durst closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. Jerking his head side to side, he cracked his neck. He leaned over his desk and pressed a button on his telephone.
“All right,” he murmured into the speaker phone. “You can send him in.”
“Yes, Mr. Durst,” the receptionist’s tinny voice replied, eliciting another heavy breath from the singer/producer. He folded his hands. Stretched out his arms in front of himself and cracked the knuckles in his fingers, then lowered his hands to the desk top.
KNOCK KNOCK!
Eyes fluttered shut. Yet another sigh. “It’s open,” he called out with a weary voice.
The door slid open, across the plush, teal carpeting. Adidas bearing feet strode across the floor. Fred watched the figure approach. Winced at the baggy jeans that hung loosely about the individual’s slender waist, at how they bunched horribly around the knees and flopped over the tops of the sneakers. Cringed at the navy, oversized Home Boy jersey. Scrunched his nose at the other’s backwards red cap. The figure adjusted his hat on his sandy haired head. Right side of his lips curved up as he nodded at Fred.
“Hey,” the newcomer drawled. “Wassup?”
Fred got to his feet, leaned across the desk and extended an open palm. The other accepted and shook Fred’s hand.
“Um, Dale,” Fred voiced when the hands had disbanded, “have a seat.”
Dale Earnhardt, jr. glanced over his shoulder, at the black leather chair just behind him. His hands reached for its arms, and he eased himself into the slick cushion. He shifted about in his seat, taking up several awkward positions. The chair, not the Junior, emitted a series of flatulence reminiscent sounds. The NASCAR Winston Cup driver squirmed about in the chair, until he finally just propped his left ankle over his right quad and relaxed.
Fred took in a breath through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. He trained his sights on Dale’s blue eyes for several seconds, trying his best to be brave, mustering the courage to say what he had to tell the race car driver.
“Dale,” Fred huffed, breaking eye contact with the other. He focused on a chip in the paint of the white wall by the door. “I’m sorry. But… the answer is no.”
Dale raised his brows, accommodating for his bulging eyes. His sights locked on Fred. “No?” he squeaked. His hands gripped the arms of the chair, ran up and down them white-knuckled. “B-b-but why?”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Fred shook his head. “I just, I just can’t…”
“But…” Dale raised his right hand, palm up. “But you heard the demo?”
Grimacing, Fred raised and lowered his head. “That I did.”
Silence.
“You’re a good race car driver, Dale,” Fred mumbled, watching as the other’s face fell, and head and sights lowered. “Damn good, in fact. You’re one of the best…”
Dale heaved a sigh. “You didn’t like my song,” he whispered.
“It was…” Fred furrowed his eyebrows. “It was interesting. It was definitely… interesting…”
Dale’s left ankle fell off the other leg, and he fidgeted about in his seat once more. Fred sighed.
“I just don’t think the world is ready for a singing Dale Earnhardt, Jr.”
Slowly, Dale nodded. Glossy eyes darted to Fred’s, then back to the carpet. “Was it… was it really THAT bad?”
Fred swallowed hard. He pursed his lips and looked into his hands. “Do you want my honest opinion?”
“Was it the lyrics? The tune?” Dale raised his eyebrows, and his hands into the air. “The way I sing? What?”
“Um…” Fred took a breath of stale air. “Well, Dale… it was kind of all three. Your lyrics were kind of cheesy, even a little too cheddary for the Backstreet Boys. The tune was…” Fred furrowed his brows. “It was a cross between country and Linkin Park.” Eyes widened. “Which I think was interesting, but awkward at times. And as for your singing…” Fred grimaced. Inhaled and released several breaths. “Dale, you’re an amazing race car driver…”
Dale jr. huffed a sigh, and he bowed his head into his left palm. The fingers of that hand caressed his temple.
Fred echoed the sigh. He tapped a pen on his desk as he watched the other. Cocking his head to the side, he said, “Dale, it’s okay. You don’t have to be good at everything.”
Closing his eyes, Dale scrunched up his nose. “I just wanted to be a rock star.”
“A lot of people do,” Fred replied, laying down his pen. “But not everybody’s meant to be. Very few people should be crossovers.” Fred’s eyelids fluttered. “Still don’t mean there ain’t a ton of ‘em out there anyway,” he muttered.
The two sat in silence for a full minute before Junior raised his head.
“Hey, if I polish up what I have, will you give it another listen?”
Fred forced himself to smile. “Um, okay. Just bring it by when it’s ready.”
Dale got to his feet, and Fred followed suit. The two shook hands before Dale pivoted on his heels, and swaggered toward the door. Fred eased himself back into his leather seat.
Fingers wrapping around the doorknob, Dale turned his face toward Fred. “Hey, I can still go with y’all to parties at the Playboy mansion, right?”
“You bet!”
A smile illuminated Junior’s features. He nodded at his friend. Then turned back to the door, opened it, and slipped out of the office.
Fred wagged his head and returned to his paperwork.
THE END
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A/N: Aw, poor Junior! Again, this is purely fiction!!! I have NO idea if Junior has really tried to get a record deal, or if he’s ever even aspired to be a rock star. This story was too much fun to think about NOT to write down! I hope you enjoyed this little piece of oddity. Please review!
