My story begins on the night of December 30th, 2000. It was a long night, a cold night, like the kind you find in songs. I, being rather bored, decided a trip to my brother David's apartment might liven up the evening. I called him up to find that he and and Nick the Log were planning on leaving shortly to visit some other friends in a sort of musically inclined gathering. He said I could come along, and so I was on my way.
As usual, the parking accommodations at his place of residency were sub-par. I parked the equivalent of a few blocks away, bundled myself up, and began the short hike to his apartment. Upon arrival, I find Nick, Nick the Log, David, and Mr. Matt B. Lovin engaging in their usual Saturday evening activity; watching TV, playing playstation, and smoking pot.
Nick was his usual studly self and Mr. Lov
in had his standard seat on the couch, puffing away at his cigarette and injecting a humorous comment into the conversation whenever he felt the need. Nick the Log was drinking a beer and talking to David.
The Log worked for the airlines "juicin' planes" which, he would claim, was a good job if you didn't mind being covered in gasoline and grease every working day of your life. He was one of those incredibly eccentric beings that you would expect to find on a street corner downtown at age 50 with a full head of white hair in the flavor of Albert Einstein. You could almost see him sitting at "his" corner selling hemp necklaces while playing his guitar for tips, occasionally begging a passerby for the last slice of pizza in his leftover box from Uno's.
Mr. Lovin was the oldest of the bunch, a few years my senior. He had been a disc jockey at local clubs and raves for a good portion of the last half of his life, yet had decided his true calling was stand-up comedy. So, he took to waiting tables for a few pennies a week waiting for his big break.
Nick and David were both your average young adults. They didn't know exactly what they were doing in life, where they were going, or what they wanted to become. So they spent their days working odd jobs, keeping the record companies in business, smoking pot, and waiting for their life to hit them on the head like a sack of bricks dropped from a fourteenth story window.
Eventually, it was time for us to head over to Shane's house. Nick the Log, David and I piled into my truck (there was no way I was getting into either of their vehicles) and made the fifteen minute drive to Shane's.
Shane, who I had never met before that day, still lived with his parents. We arrived at his house and my brother was uncertain whether Shane was there yet or not. Wanting to avoid the uncomfortable situation of knocking on the door, only to have Shane's parents answer to inform us that Shane was not home yet, David opted to stand in his driveway smoking a cigarette and wait for his car to pull up. I eventually convinced David that we should try knocking, as my fingers were going numb from the cold. Shane, almost immediately after knocking, opened the door and led us to a room in the back.
The room had three other occupants:
a young man by the name of James, who worked with Shane at the Black Eyed Pea, and two other girls, to which I was never properly introduced. In one corner was a meager drum kit, the skins worn from heavy use. In another, a stack of amps, a few bass guitars, and one electric guitar, all decorated with wires, straps, and various stickers. In the center of the room was a pool table, at which the two girls continued to poorly play, without even saying as much as "Hello".
After a little conversation, a few beers, and an occasional cigarette, David, Nick and James began playing the instruments, each of them with a different song and a different rhythm. Thankfully, Shane entered before long and tried to put some order to things.
Shane was your typical ex-highschool band member. He could play trombone, trumpet, the piano, a guitar, the bass, and the drums. Though I wouldn't say he was incredibly gifted, he at least has a sense of what collaborative music should sound like and attempted to force this belief on the rest of the group. They, of course, would hear nothing of this.
Most of the musical confusion was due to James. The poor soul had no sense of rhythm, and couldn't keep a beat with his heart if he had a pacemaker. Eventually we were able to coax him away from all musical instruments. I took a seat behind the drum kit, Shane had the bass guitar strapped around his neck, and my brother was seated in the corner with the electric guitar on one knee. Since David refused to attempt to collaborate in order to produce something that sounded even remotely like music, Shane and I took to following his lead.
Now, with myself having only played a drum kit once before, and Shane being merely an amatuer at the bass, following my brother as he went off wildly with various melodies and riffs that had no static concept of time, I would say we sounded okay.
Around two in the morning, we decided it was time to leave. We all shook hands and parted. Not having anything better to do, and not being very tired at all, I chose to return to my brother's apartment and wait for Julie to come home from work, in order to say "Hello". Nick the Log went home.
Almost immediately after we had sat down, Matt, Nick and David decided it was time to use their favorite lady, Miss Mary Jane. Mary was a bit stubborn, but after a little cleaning, according to the group, as I didn't partake in her abuse, she performed rather well.
David then went into a ten minute episode of his "three toed sloth performance". Because they never had anything better to do, this particular group of people spent a lot of time watching "The Discovery Channel", "The Travel Channel", and "HBO". This of course led to tons of trivial knowledge. Nick informed me that the average sloth moves at a rate of three feet per hour while climbing a tree. After watching David's performance it became apparent to me that this was common knowledge amongst the group.
Eventually Julie arrived. As she opened the door I shouted, "Juuuuulie".
"Daaaaaniel," she replied. She took off her jacket and turned towards me quickly. "I swear to god I am going to kick your fuckin' ass if you don't ask Ashley out," she threatened.
I responded with nothing more than a chuckle.
"She talks about you all the time," she said, while lighting a cigarette.
"Bullshit," I proclaimed, as Julie took a seat next to Nick on the couch.
Julie glanced over at nick who then added, "Dude, she does. You should totally go for it."
It was common knowledge that I had had a thing for Ashley since the day I met her five months prior.
At that time, she was involved in another relationship, and the relationship I was in had started its end only a few days before. There was never really a good time to suggest the idea of the two of us, until about a month before this day when she and her boyfriend called it quits. I, being too much of a chicken, had never seized the opportunity to ask her on a date. The only times I would see her, would be if Julie happened to be around, as then I felt more comfortable calling her and telling her we were all hanging out and that she should come over. I continued my shyness in this conversation. "Well she has never given me any indication that she is interested what so ever," I stated.
"She's shy," Julie said and then added, "And besides, she used to guys asking her out all the time. She probably doesn't know how to make the first move." This didn't raise my confidence level at all.
"I don't know," I sighed.
"You should just call her," Julie said.
"I don't officially have her number," I responded with the first excuse that came to mind.
I nodded and decided it was time to go. I said my goodbyes, bundled myself up, and headed back to the truck.
