THIRTEEN
Penn has a completely disgusted look on his face as he watches Professor Dog play. He didn't think they were going to care enough to get other instruments. He thought they would be too worried about the lost car and instruments to care at all about Battle of the Bands. He didn't think they really cared that much about the music. Unfortunately for him, he was wrong.
Penn still managed to stay positive, although his plan went awry. As powerfully as his mind could, he hoped that they would still win. “I mean, The Chinese Takeouts are just the better band, right?” This is the thought Penn tenaciously clutched to keep his sanity.
Despite their unfamiliar instruments, Professor Dog is playing well: Damn well.
“Thank you!” Jones yells to the audience. “We're Professor Dog! Come see us at the 24-Hour Coffee Shop every Friday night at eight! Goodnight!”
The audience cheers as they proudly carry their equipment into the wings. After they clear the stage, the host announces the last band.
“Oh jesus,” Doug says, “You don't understand how happy I am that you got here when you did.”
“I'm just as happy as you are, buddy,” Jones says as he sits down a piece of the drum set.
“Oh man, fuck yes!” Doug says, unable to control his satisfaction. “We seriously did it. We did it. Hell yes, motherfucker!”
“You happy, Doug?” Arielle asks with a bit of a laugh in her voice.
“Yeah man, you seem a bit happy.” Calvin adds.
“Thats because I fucking am, dude! Yes! Jesus fuck, man!”
“Jesus fuck? Really?”
They carry their equipment back out to Barry's car and light up several cigarettes. Leaning against the car, Jones says:
“My parents were all, 'You never come to visit and now that you're finally here, you just want to leave as soon as you possibly can.' And I'm just like shit, man! I really gotta go! But they just would not take no for an answer. I explained the situation completely to them, but they couldn't seem to grasp the concept that I needed to be here to perform tonight. Good thing I'm real good at outspeeding cops, or I never would have made it in time.”
“Technically, you didn't make it in time,” Doug corrects, “Technically, I had to go out on stage and stall the audience with some stand-up comedy before you made it here.”
“Well, technically, I win this argument automatically because I was the one who said you should be a comedian. And don't even try to say you would have thought of doing it anyways,” Calvin concludes in an attempt to take credit for their success.
Arielle drags on her cigarette and asks, “So, do you guys think that we're going to win?”
“Probably.”
“Hopefully.”
“Definitely,” Jones says.
After they put out their cigarettes, they arrive back inside to see the final band's last few songs. Calvin, while listening to this awful band, realizes how they actually do reign over the local music scene, and earns a bit of arrogance from it.
Penn sits quietly in the back until the final band concludes their set. His mind is filled with reassuring thoughts that, sadly, are not at all based in fact. The stage is empty and silent for a few moments after the final band has cleared the stage. Tension is in the air throughout the auditorium, but mostly concentrated to the row Penn is seated in. The host soon slowly walks out to the microphone.
“Hello everyone,” he says, “Thank you very much for heading out here tonight to support the college and our thriving music scene. Can I get another round of applause for all of the great bands that played tonight? Yeah!”
The audience does what they are told, and slaps their hands together like a seal taught to put on a good show.
“Cross your fingers!” Arielle declares positively to her band members.
The host crouches down to the furthest downstage spot. He receives three envelopes from the judges below him.
“Are you all ready to hear the winners of the sixteenth annual Luthor College Battle of the Bands?” Scattered cheers and applause shoot out of the audience. “Alright the third place winner is...
“The Postage Stamps!”
Two bearded men in matching attire, yellow suits with purple shoes, march up onto the stage and are handed a check.
“I give you a thousand thank yous,” one of them says in an odd accent.
The other blows a kiss to the audience and says, “Yes, thank you all so very much. Goodnight, all.”
They plant themselves to the left side of the stage and earn a bit of applause, to which the two respond with smiles and several more blown kisses.
“Another round of applause for the Postage Stamps!”
How much applause does one third place band really need? Okay, that was rude. I apologize. They were actually pretty good. At least, Doug thinks so.
After the audience quiets down the judge opens up the next envelope.
“Okay. Now, our second place winner is...
“The Chinese Takeouts!”
The words drift in and out of Penn's ears for a few moments. As his fellow band members walk onto the stage to be given their prize money, Penn leaves out of the auditorium's front doors. Noticing his odd departure, Doug follows him out. As Doug walks out through the doors, he notices Penn already sitting silently against the bricks of the building, smoking a cigarette.
“Hey man. Are you alright? Why aren't you up there with the rest of your band?”
“Because-” Penn hesitates and takes another long drag off of his cigarette. Doug stands staring at him, awaiting a response, as Penn looks straight across the street.
“Because I'm not fucking number two, man.” Penn begins to tear up. “Because I fucking work and work and work and still don't ever fucking win. I never fucking get the position I really deserve! If I always try as hard as I goddamn can, and still don't fucking get first place, what does that say about my damn worth? What the fuck does that say about my value as a human being?”
Shaking a tad violently, Penn brings the cigarette to his lips with the intent to smoke it, but accidentally drops it to his lap.
“Fuck!” He yells as he retrieves his cigarette and stands up, in a failed attempt to stay calm. “God fucking dammit! Augh!” He wipes away the continuously streaming tears from his cheeks. He grunts and takes a drag off of his cigarette.
“Everything is alright, man. You tried your best, that's all that matters, dude. Winning really is not everything,” Doug says in a futile attempt to comfort him.
“Easy for you to say, man...” Penn sighs, “You probably just fucking won first place.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because you guys are way too fucking good,” Penn unintentionally compliments. “Because you guys are like the only band that comes close to as good as us. If we got second, the only band at all really deserving of first, would be you guys.”
“Well... thanks.”
“But, for the record, we should of won.”
Doug quietly laughs to himself. Penn momentarily feels a hint of guilt for stealing their van, but this soon dissipates after Doug asks for a drag off of his cigarette, and Penn feels as if it is an equal trade off. A few moments later, Penn stomps out the cigarette.
“You want to go inside now?”
“...Sure.”
As they step inside, Doug realizes that was right: they had won. The other members of Professor Dog are standing on the stage with smiles on their faces, as Jones is handed a check for two-hundred dollars. Doug jogs up to the stage and joins his band members.
“Sorry, I just needed some air,” Doug says to his friends as an honest smile arises on his face.
Still standing by the doors in the back of the auditorium, even Penns red, wet face nearly forms a smile.
Penn still managed to stay positive, although his plan went awry. As powerfully as his mind could, he hoped that they would still win. “I mean, The Chinese Takeouts are just the better band, right?” This is the thought Penn tenaciously clutched to keep his sanity.
Despite their unfamiliar instruments, Professor Dog is playing well: Damn well.
“Thank you!” Jones yells to the audience. “We're Professor Dog! Come see us at the 24-Hour Coffee Shop every Friday night at eight! Goodnight!”
The audience cheers as they proudly carry their equipment into the wings. After they clear the stage, the host announces the last band.
“Oh jesus,” Doug says, “You don't understand how happy I am that you got here when you did.”
“I'm just as happy as you are, buddy,” Jones says as he sits down a piece of the drum set.
“Oh man, fuck yes!” Doug says, unable to control his satisfaction. “We seriously did it. We did it. Hell yes, motherfucker!”
“You happy, Doug?” Arielle asks with a bit of a laugh in her voice.
“Yeah man, you seem a bit happy.” Calvin adds.
“Thats because I fucking am, dude! Yes! Jesus fuck, man!”
“Jesus fuck? Really?”
They carry their equipment back out to Barry's car and light up several cigarettes. Leaning against the car, Jones says:
“My parents were all, 'You never come to visit and now that you're finally here, you just want to leave as soon as you possibly can.' And I'm just like shit, man! I really gotta go! But they just would not take no for an answer. I explained the situation completely to them, but they couldn't seem to grasp the concept that I needed to be here to perform tonight. Good thing I'm real good at outspeeding cops, or I never would have made it in time.”
“Technically, you didn't make it in time,” Doug corrects, “Technically, I had to go out on stage and stall the audience with some stand-up comedy before you made it here.”
“Well, technically, I win this argument automatically because I was the one who said you should be a comedian. And don't even try to say you would have thought of doing it anyways,” Calvin concludes in an attempt to take credit for their success.
Arielle drags on her cigarette and asks, “So, do you guys think that we're going to win?”
“Probably.”
“Hopefully.”
“Definitely,” Jones says.
After they put out their cigarettes, they arrive back inside to see the final band's last few songs. Calvin, while listening to this awful band, realizes how they actually do reign over the local music scene, and earns a bit of arrogance from it.
Penn sits quietly in the back until the final band concludes their set. His mind is filled with reassuring thoughts that, sadly, are not at all based in fact. The stage is empty and silent for a few moments after the final band has cleared the stage. Tension is in the air throughout the auditorium, but mostly concentrated to the row Penn is seated in. The host soon slowly walks out to the microphone.
“Hello everyone,” he says, “Thank you very much for heading out here tonight to support the college and our thriving music scene. Can I get another round of applause for all of the great bands that played tonight? Yeah!”
The audience does what they are told, and slaps their hands together like a seal taught to put on a good show.
“Cross your fingers!” Arielle declares positively to her band members.
The host crouches down to the furthest downstage spot. He receives three envelopes from the judges below him.
“Are you all ready to hear the winners of the sixteenth annual Luthor College Battle of the Bands?” Scattered cheers and applause shoot out of the audience. “Alright the third place winner is...
“The Postage Stamps!”
Two bearded men in matching attire, yellow suits with purple shoes, march up onto the stage and are handed a check.
“I give you a thousand thank yous,” one of them says in an odd accent.
The other blows a kiss to the audience and says, “Yes, thank you all so very much. Goodnight, all.”
They plant themselves to the left side of the stage and earn a bit of applause, to which the two respond with smiles and several more blown kisses.
“Another round of applause for the Postage Stamps!”
How much applause does one third place band really need? Okay, that was rude. I apologize. They were actually pretty good. At least, Doug thinks so.
After the audience quiets down the judge opens up the next envelope.
“Okay. Now, our second place winner is...
“The Chinese Takeouts!”
The words drift in and out of Penn's ears for a few moments. As his fellow band members walk onto the stage to be given their prize money, Penn leaves out of the auditorium's front doors. Noticing his odd departure, Doug follows him out. As Doug walks out through the doors, he notices Penn already sitting silently against the bricks of the building, smoking a cigarette.
“Hey man. Are you alright? Why aren't you up there with the rest of your band?”
“Because-” Penn hesitates and takes another long drag off of his cigarette. Doug stands staring at him, awaiting a response, as Penn looks straight across the street.
“Because I'm not fucking number two, man.” Penn begins to tear up. “Because I fucking work and work and work and still don't ever fucking win. I never fucking get the position I really deserve! If I always try as hard as I goddamn can, and still don't fucking get first place, what does that say about my damn worth? What the fuck does that say about my value as a human being?”
Shaking a tad violently, Penn brings the cigarette to his lips with the intent to smoke it, but accidentally drops it to his lap.
“Fuck!” He yells as he retrieves his cigarette and stands up, in a failed attempt to stay calm. “God fucking dammit! Augh!” He wipes away the continuously streaming tears from his cheeks. He grunts and takes a drag off of his cigarette.
“Everything is alright, man. You tried your best, that's all that matters, dude. Winning really is not everything,” Doug says in a futile attempt to comfort him.
“Easy for you to say, man...” Penn sighs, “You probably just fucking won first place.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because you guys are way too fucking good,” Penn unintentionally compliments. “Because you guys are like the only band that comes close to as good as us. If we got second, the only band at all really deserving of first, would be you guys.”
“Well... thanks.”
“But, for the record, we should of won.”
Doug quietly laughs to himself. Penn momentarily feels a hint of guilt for stealing their van, but this soon dissipates after Doug asks for a drag off of his cigarette, and Penn feels as if it is an equal trade off. A few moments later, Penn stomps out the cigarette.
“You want to go inside now?”
“...Sure.”
As they step inside, Doug realizes that was right: they had won. The other members of Professor Dog are standing on the stage with smiles on their faces, as Jones is handed a check for two-hundred dollars. Doug jogs up to the stage and joins his band members.
“Sorry, I just needed some air,” Doug says to his friends as an honest smile arises on his face.
Still standing by the doors in the back of the auditorium, even Penns red, wet face nearly forms a smile.
