* CROWE'S WINGS !

          Vernon Kennedy might not be the most successful coke dealer in the world, but he’s a very good one to have, because he picks up the phone whether it’s Friday night or 7am on a Wednesday, somehow never wears the same outfit twice, and has the memory of a goldfish when it comes to who owes him money. He is also always infuriatingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when he finally shows up. He’s late, but what can he say? He likes doing house calls. Makes him kinda feel like a doctor.

          “What’s cookin’, good lookin’? Guess you just can’t get enough of me, huh? It’s your lucky day.”

           He waltzes around like a rooster that owns the place, and triumphantly throws down a baggie so it skitters across Martin’s coffee table like a rock skimmed on water.

          “Ta-da. That, mon ami, is a whole lot of bang for your buck. Go easy on it. That stuff’s so clean it had me doin’ my second bump on the shitter, you know what I’m saying? Haha. Groovy. Anyway you mind if I stick around? I ain’t even a beer-drinkin’ kinda guy but I’d kill for an ice-cold brewski right about now.”

     “vern - you sexy thing - god bless ya.”

    after being surrounded by a now absent company that always looked closer to the living dead than the bacchanal vibrancy of drug-exploring youth, martin’s relieved to have some colourful energy in his beach house – it’s even better that it’s accompanied by a bit of that special white stuff. the drummer looks rough after sweeping the partygoers out onto the beach, a shadow of stubble across his cheeks and upper lip. the ornate cherry and turquoise silk robe hangs off him like his body’s a coat tree. “ohhh-ho, what a beaut–!” there’s a whine of salvation the moment the coke hits the table. like clockwork, the cash is handed over and the curlyhead gets to his knees to break into the bag with frenzy, prepping it on a dish sprinkled with remnants of his last batch. vernon’s warning is hardly heeded, marked by a frivolous smile: “if ain’t the coke that’s got me on the throne, it’s those nasty deviled eggs simone made me last night.”

Welcoming the hand shake, Whitney immediately gathered that this was a southern gentleman- he seemed quite polite, and had the most welcoming smile… hopefully he’d be the perfect company for how the night had already treated her. “Mark,” With a nod, the girl listened as she followed her new acquaintance down to his room; it didn’t take her very long to finish her apple with a few chomps before responding. “Oh yeah, I see- something about tonight just isn’t letting us rest, hm? And yes! I’ve had this little thing with me for about a year now- it has all my ramblings in it of course,”

The petite brunette made sure to adjust her dress and couldn’t help but let out a little laugh as her doe eyes peered around the room, only to focus on the curls tucked into the covers- perhaps that one was the partying friend. “Oh my- okay, noted!” After slipping off her sandals, Whitney still tried her best to be polite and stay somewhat soft-spoken, she didn’t want to wake the stranger from his sleep, no- even if Mark was sure he couldn’t be bothered. Ever observant, the girl gathered that Mark was the more organized and orderly one of the two; from the way he kept his clothes folded in his luggage, and even the tucked bag of green between his colorful shirts. It was honestly refreshing, since she would consider herself more on the calm side of the spectrum rather than a wild child.

“Mind if I have a seat?” She asked softly, that friendly smile still upon her face- the girl was raised to be polite to strangers like most and it never faltered, continuing on to her adulthood. She always tried to be kind. “Oh, Hmm.. I guess a couple would be good, yeah- and if we don’t smoke it all you can always save the rest for later!”

    mark broke from concentrating on getting the bag open to look up at the brunette again from under a lifted brow, hardly expecting such manners – it wasn’t that the people in the band’s circles were rude, but they were leisurely and much less concerned with etiquette.  “not at all, go ahead ‘n’ make yerself at home, sweetheart.”  taking her suggestion into account, he went quiet for a moment as he rolled a few joints between thumbs and forefingers; his sinewy tanned hands appeared to have retained a muscle memory for the process. like someone in the midst of an artistic approach, he spoke inattentively, doing his best to maintain conversation and fill the unassuming silence expanding between them.

   “so ‘bout that journal–,” he murmured, casting a curious glance towards the book clutched in her hand, “–whatcha got in there ? writin’ a manifesto ?” a clean, jowled smile spread into his cheeks with a sleepy yet playful air as he finished up a fourth joint and set it amongst the others. on the other side of the room, martin stirred in his bed again, flopping within the covers before settling again with a strident snore. ideally, mark would’ve had a record on instead of a soundtrack of his drummer’s unconscious sounds. in one swift motion, his lithe body was up again, taking a pair of the joints and handing one off to her on his way towards the sliding window just beside her chair. he opened it quietly, took in a breath of the clear indigo evening air, then fetched his matchbook from the breastpocket of his ochre button down. 

     the  drummer’s  voice  is  groggy  and  hoarse,  an  ode  to  his  expected  forty-eight  hours  of  hard  drugs,  cigarettes,  and  yelling  over  loud  music.    ❛❛  –  hey  man,  i’m  out  again...  i  know  it  was  only  a  week  since  i  last  bought  from  you  but  that  shit  goes  fast  when  you’re  havin’  fun.  whaddya  got  for  me  this  time  ?  better  be  good. ❜❜  

Nearly 1 am already..? Whitney tried for hours, but she just could not get ready for sleep. Maybe it had to do with the fact that she wasn’t at home in her own bedroom, comfortable and cozy with her record player; without her usual routine. Her friend suggested they get a hotel the night before they ventured out to the concert in the city, and while the brunette was excited, it became more and more difficult to keep herself entertained- with a friend already passed out in bed, Whitney resorted to snacking on an apple and writing in her journal…maybe she just needed to step out- maybe people-watching was an option…even though it was this late..

Deciding to do just that, the girl opened the door, apple and journal still in hand, and rested against the wall. It wasn’t long before a tall figure appeared in her peripheral vision and she heard them speak; she turned to the voice and a friendly smile spread across her face as well, what a cutie! Taking another small bite of the fruit, the girl chuckled and thought about his offer; it would allow her a small change of scenery and pot definitely would help her sleep….her friend wouldn’t even know she was gone!

“That sounds good to me, I don’t mind at all,” She smiled softly, running a hand through her slightly tousled hair before walking toward the new acquaintance- she was still in her long-sleeved mini dress, never changing into pajamas; restlessness filled her chocolate eyes but they mirrored kindness nevertheless. “I’m Whitney, you can’t sleep either?” She asked, holding out her ring-adorned hand for him to shake.

      mark always expected the best out of any stranger he came across, but at the height of his band’s fame, the texan was often confronted with awkward situations where feverish fans crowded him for autographs and left him crestfallen – and feeling slightly used. to have someone respond with such a welcoming tone was refreshing and the tension of his shoulders left him in a relieved sigh; he brandished a smile and accepted the small hand held out to him, enveloping it in a warm and gentle grasp. “how’dya do, miss whitney – i’m mark,” he nodded and shook her hand once, his smile showing he was pleased that his search for a smoking companion had been short lived, “couldn’ sleep a wink, i got words in my head an’ they ain’t comin’ out quite the way i wannem to.”

      the lean bassist started on his way back to his room, expecting her to tail him while he fished for the door key in the back pocket of his faded levi’s. “i see you got yourself a journal there – you write some?” with a little fumbling, the door was opened and mark peeked inside to see if martin was still sleeping - a loud snore announced that it wasn’t likely they’d wake him. they entered the room, which was relatively well furnished with chairs and bedding in matching canary yellow and redwood. in a classic case of opposites, martin’s suitcase sat exploded beside his bed, while mark had already tucked his neatly away beside the television set.  “my drummer’s passed out there, but he came home drunk as a skunk so don’t you worry ‘bout whisperin’ or nuthin’. y’ won’t wake him.” with a soft huff, mark sank down into one of the chairs and drew his simple brown suitcase to his boots, opening it quietly. its contents disclosed his love for patterns and western shirts, and like any rural man from el paso, his belt buckles were golden, ornate – and very large.