She’s a rocker chick who’s had a crush on Jared Leto since Fight Club.
She hands me a shirt with Scars on Broadway written across the front. “It fits tight and your boobs are perfect.”
“How about something that doesn’t have some random band plastered across the fromt?” I say. “It’s Brandon Boyd,” she says, her eyes bugging out at me. “How can you not like Brandon Boyd?”
I winched when I heard someone else day it, or when that guy sang Feel like Makin’ Love from my dad’s car stereo every morning on the classic rock station.
I don’t have classic rock, but I much prefer newer stuff. Give me Muse, Pink or The Civil Wars and I’m happy.
“You’re probably better off anyway,” he says, putting the MP3 player in his bag. “I don’t listen to Justin Bieber or that crazy meat-wearin’ bitch, so I guess you’ll just have to do without.”
“Classic Rock is where it’s at.” He says matter-of-factly and then gazes ahead. “Zeppelin, the Stones, Journey, Foreigner.”
“Name one song by Bad Company and I’ll leave you along.” “Ready For Love,” I say because it’s the only other one I can think of. “Are you?” he asks.
“That new stuff kids listen to these days is shit music, son,” he said at least once a yuear. “Get the Led out, boy!”
It only takes about an hour of constant conversation about everything from what all of his favorite bands are, to why I like Pink and how much better her stuff is than Boston and Foreigner who sound the same to me.
I think my MP3 player is biased though because the first song is almost always between
Kansas’s Dust in the Wind, Zeppelin’s Going to or something by The Eagles. California
Ah, good choice. Aerosmith’s Dream On.
He practically died when I said that I’d listen to Pink over The Rolling Stones, any day. I mean, I literally think I wounded him.
I just grin and walk toward the jukebox by the window. I slip the money in and scan the titles, finally choosing one song and pressing the buttons. Raisins In My Toast starts to play and I make my way back.
“Hotel California,” she says. “The Eagles.” I look at her, I’m impressed. “That’s one classic song that I like.”
“I guess it depends on your definition of romantic, I say. “If a girl expects a candlelit dinner and Michael Bolton playing in the background, she’s definitely got the wrong guy.”
“One ta woo da’ladies wit like you did las’time.”
“Rolling stones?” Andrew asks.
“Uh huh,” Eddie says. “Dat da one, boy.”
“Which one?” I ask, propping my chin on top of my knuckles.