#wumbo-calling

“I gotta admit it, Murderface,” Pickles began, ripping a piece of his breadstick before dipping it into a small cup of ranch dressing, “this is real nice. I didn’t think ya would do this, but–”

Murderface watched with the cheekiest grin as Pickles lifted his free arm, gesturing wide at the scenery. His lanky appendage waved upwards, catching the eyes of friendly waiters and waitresses, all of whom were in no way intimidated by the klokateers hidden in the corners, guns raised at the slightest warning. Besides the armed men were warm, sunset walls plastered with standard Italian imagery: worn brick layouts, pictures of various pastas, old women hovering over stoves, and painted grapes ripening on vineyards. Under the arches were bottles of wine and baskets of carefully selected artificial flora. Above their table, a gaudy chandelier hummed a delicate light, both complementing and making up for the single, fat candle glowing between them.

Across, Pickles flashed an impressive grin, and the bubble of nervous gas and acid rupturing in Murderface’s stomach immediately began to resolve itself.

“This is pretty neat, dood,” Pickles said. His head shifted, turning away from the light to hide away the sincerity now chipping away at his demeanor. “Prolly da nicest thing ya ever did...”

Murderface wriggled in his seat. “Could you shay that again?” 

Pickles’ piercing shimmered as he raised his brow. Amused, he snickered at the question. “Were ya not listenin’?” 

Murderface was caught up with every word, had it carefully memorized and practically embroidered into his miserable heart. Finally, after so many tries, he had Pickles with him. They were out together. Just the two of them. And Pickles, the esteemed and talented man that he was, had actually gone and complimented him. Would it be too much to say he wanted to milk each line, saturate himself in that creamy voice, and even sweeter words? Did he have the courage to admit to Pickles that he craved his acceptance more than the fried mozzarella and chicken parmigiana, savored his presence more than the three bottles of moscato they’d already consumed?  

The answer came swiftly in the form of a nasty buildup in his intestines. Just taking him to this Olive Garden had caused so much anxiety, tormented Murderface with long, sleepless nights filled with hypothetical rejections. 

“No I wash, I jusht like hearing your voishe,” Murderface replied collectively, never giving the slightest indication of how terribly nervous he was to be sitting across from Pickles.

A waiter approached their table to pick up the emptied bread basket. “Would you care for more breadsticks, sir?”

Pickles stopped to shake his head. “Oh, nah. It’s—“

“Pickles, pleashe,” Murderface interjected. He flashed the most polished grin he could muster which, under the dim lighting, almost looked palpable. “It’sh on me.”

“Sir, our breadsticks are unlimited.”

“Oh, uhm.” Murderface stammered as he tried to think of a quick save. A funny line. An admittance of defeat, but not without ruining his already questionable reputation. “Yeah, I knew that. I wash jusht–”

“It’s cool,” Pickles interrupted, capturing Murderface’s hand in his, and guiding it back to the table. “I’d, uh, like another basket.”

Slack jawed, Murderface brought his attention to their coupled hands, face breaking into a sweat while Pickles carried out the door, totally unaffected. 

“An’ another bottle,” Pickles tacked on, teeth biting his bottom lip as his stare met with Murderface’s. “Jus’ one though. It’s gonna be a long night… don’t wanna pass out too early, right?”

His small, bony fingers squeezed Murderface’s.

28. First kiss

It was the first band Pickles joined a few years after Snakes N’ Barrels disbanded. It was a band that would disband not long after being signed and before they could even produce their first album. The genre didn’t felt like it belonged to him compared to his previous band’s genre and it felt more like a job than anything else. However, it paid the bills and got him to at least work with music once again. Even if it felt like he was once again working from the bottom up, at least he wasn’t entirely lost and was knowledgeable on how the music industry was. He hadn’t really tried to get back into making music after Snakes N’ Barrels disbanded. Despite the offers from various groups, he had ignored them all without even giving a response. He ended up shifting from a music-related job to a non-music related job and dealing with the horrible addictions that never left his side. As if by fate, it took one DUI related charge to end up having Charles Foster Offdensen, a freshly graduated law student, to take his case. Somehow, he ended up winning that trial and Charles asked for no money but simply to be his manager and lawyer. It was honestly laughable. He hadn’t worked with bands or even gone solo so how could someone even want to risk their career by being associated with him? He was serious and spoke in a way that meant he looked at every outcome and wanted it regardless. It took a few days of convincing and Pickles agreed even though he was sure he was a lost cause (pun intended). His new manager proved his worth and got him band auditions fairly quickly as a lead singer. As quickly as they happened, they quickly ended successfully with tons of accepted phone calls. Pickles never really did felt like he fit in with any of them, however. There was no spark he felt playing with them like with his previous band and he was wondering if it was worth straggling in some newly licensed lawyer to his troubles. Charles never did judge him though unlike his previous managers. He listened to his complaints and how he felt with an open mind and tried to adjust the best he could. However, he had a feeling that most likely the ‘heavy’ sound Pickles was looking for wouldn’t be available or at least for the moment. At the advice given, he had accepted the offer from the next band he passed the audition for. It was a rock band that was a bit heavier sounding but it was better than the other bands, and he tried to make his peace with that. It didn’t take long for them to record a single, send it to record labels, and soon get signed. He thought he would be happy that a record label signed onto their band so quickly but he found himself not feeling that euphoria once felt when his first band was signed. The moment he signed his name on that contract, it felt like he was just signing up for a job above all else. The fear that perhaps he just simply overstayed his welcome and would never be able to make music again was running through his head. If not music, then what else was there for him? As the other band members began pestering the poor secretary for directions to the nearest bar, Charles trailed behind to keep up with Pickles. He wanted to say something; he could tell he didn’t seem happy but the only words that came out of his mouth were, “Well, ah, how about I buy you a drink? To celebrate?” That seemed to be enough for Pickles as he turned to look at him with a small smile, “A free drink and getting signed? Sounds like a good day to me.”                                                          ____ If Pickles had to be reminded further that the band most likely had the same behaviors as his previous one, it was their excessive drinking and somehow finding someone to buy coke off before the drinks even arrived. Within minutes, they were already high, and trying to out drink the other. Even for Pickles’ standards, they weren’t worth trying to keep up with. Pickles sat alongside him, taking advantage of the free nuts that were provided as he drank his beer. He was surprisingly quiet for once; he barely spoke a word since they arrived and mainly just asked the bartender for more drinks. Charles didn’t say anything either. Not that he didn’t want to but what could be said when he’s forced to watch his new clients already drink their first potential paycheck away? Like watching the same movie for the umpteenth time, unsurprisingly came the women and men. He found himself not even surprised when one by one his new bandmates began leaving with said people. They were either making out with them, taking them to one of the bathrooms, or leaving the bar altogether to some nearby hotel or something. That didn’t mean he wasn’t asked to go along. An occasional bandmate would remember he existed or one of the people drunkenly recognized him and asked him to join. He was reminded way too much of the nights spent in shitty hotels with people whose faces he’d barely even remember. It felt like as he aged those memories became less and less positively memorable and only left a bad taste in his mouth. He politely declined and watched his last bandmate leave the bar with some girl close by him. He was ready to leave to go home himself, “I guess we should call it a night,” He finished his beer quickly, ready to pull out his wallet. “I did say I would be paying,” Charles answered as he pulled out his own wallet, “And if you’d like, we can go to my place. It’s quieter and we can discuss a bit about the meeting with the record execs tomorrow.” “You did say it was for only my drink. Not the rest of the guys,” He grinned at him as if having won some game of thinking one step ahead, “But sure, could use some company.” There was a slight back and forth over who was paying the tab but eventually settled on a compromise that they would pay for half of it as they both knew the other bandmates would never pay them back. Hopefully, the revenue from the new album would be more than enough to cover that expensive tab. The two walked out of the bar and into the pouring rain that almost came out of nowhere. And unfortunately, Charles’ car was parked at least four blocks from the bar. Even though he had offered to make the run himself and drive back to get him, Pickles went with him. He hadn’t drunk himself to oblivion and at least didn’t slip on the mud or complain about getting wet. By the time they reached his car, they were soaked to the point where air-drying wasn’t much of an option. Charles had to turn on the AC to prevent the windows from fogging up. The cool air, even if it was as low and away from them as much as possible, did nothing to help relieve them from being soaking wet and cold. He didn’t have a blanket or anything with him, so he had to hope for the best that a near-half-hour drive wouldn’t result in them getting sick, “Sorry, I have to keep the AC on for a while.” “It’s fine. Do you have clothes I can borrow when we get to your place?” “Of course.” Between the sound of rain hitting against the car, the windshield wipers, and some Creedence Clearwater Revival song playing from the radio, it filled the silence when they didn’t talk. What they did talk about was trivial things or light jokes about getting sick. It had eventually died down when Pickles quietly dozed off. They reached the apartment a bit longer than usual because of the rain and sudden heavy traffic. Pickles had woken up just as Charles was beginning to park his car in the lot. He stretched as he got out of the car, adjusting his wet clothes that must’ve stuck to his skin like glue. To say he was cold was an understatement but the beers he drank thankfully didn’t keep him from freezing. The elevator was working this time and there was no one else there or when they reached his floor. It was as silent and eerie as walking into some unfamiliar hallway at night could be. The sound of wet shoes and socks against the floor was audibly heard, squeaking against the floor but was muffled by the bolt of lightning that came by. Even though it wouldn’t make much of a difference aside from mud, Charles told him to take off his shoes and leave it by the doorway when he unlocked the door to his apartment and let him in. As directed, he took off his shoes and left it to the side as the other did the same. His apartment was as ordinary as it looked for a lawyer just starting out. Nicely put together furniture and decorations that did make the place look a bit more put together. Maybe it was all Ikea furniture or something, Pickles wasn’t really one to keep track of furniture brands and shit. Either way, it looked nice and inviting to him compared to his own shitty studio apartment. He followed him to his bedroom where he had shown him a drawer that was full of warmer clothes. He found an old college sweatshirt and pants to go with. It’d probably be loose on him but anything was better than the wet clothing that was only reminding him further of how cold he was. Charles showed him where the bathroom was to change, “You can leave the clothes by the sink, I’ll throw them in the wash. Make yourself at home,” He told him before he went to his room to change. He put on whatever casual clothing he had and towel-dried his hair as much as he could. It was still damp to the touch, but he could live with that. He did see the bathroom was open when he stepped out, grabbing his clothes and putting them in the hamper. He’d take them to the washing machines downstairs when he got the chance. He went to the kitchen, grabbing two glasses, and poured brandy in both of them. Coffee or tea was his usual go-to when he had guests over but he knew Pickles enough on what he would prefer,  and that was neither most of the time. He found Pickles in the living room, staring at the collection of law textbooks and framed awards that were either in the bookcase or framed near it. “You did fencing in college?” He asked as he looked at one of the plaques on the wall. He took the brandy Charles offered with a quick ‘thanks’. “Yes, actually. I was president there for the last, ah, two, or three years of college.” “Wow. You’re really full of surprises.” He laughed. “How so?” “Well, you’re some lawyer who wants to be a manager and for a has-been like me. That’s gotta be costing you more than if you just stayed as a lawyer. Recording that single must’ve not been cheap. And that bar tab either. ” “I’ll admit these expenses weren’t cheap but I have had money put aside for it. We’re signed now, so I’ll be getting that money back soon.” He answered. “You’re a little too optimistic about this, chief. You’ll be lucky if we even get a hit single.” “Well, it’s a risk, isn’t it? Working at an industry like this is a risk and I’m well aware of that. I might get that money back. I might not. We’ll see.” He answered, “but I suppose that’s where you come in if you want me to get my money back.” Maybe, it was the beer, brandy, and the eventual sickness looming over but it was hard to take him seriously, “You’re really putting so much confidence in me that it’s funny, really. Y’know there are people I know that do what you’re doing and before you know it, they’re stuck working at 9 to 5 jobs down at Santa Monica instead of retiring. At least you’re...like the same age as me? I won’t fuck your life up that much.” “You’re not gonna fuck up my life. I have a plan for this, Pickles. If the next band doesn’t work out, we can try another. You still have a name-” “A name?” He laughed bitterly, “What name, Charles? The one where the news talk about me with a DUI charge? Or a drug overdose? Or the one who sang for some stupid band with a stupid genre that’s clearly a joke now! Hair metal. that’s what they call it now! What kinda person would take someone who sang for hair metal seriously?” Charles knew he was right. His name in headlines was almost never for anything good. But all it took was one look in him to see that he still had...something. Something that not a lot of musicians had and something he’s probably yet to discover himself, “But you still have a chance, don’t you? You still have a voice to sing with and that should be more than enough to make a new name for yourself. The only person isn’t really believing this is you.” “What do I have to believe in myself for, Charles?” He shook his head as if he had mentally answered his own question, “God, I’m such a fucking idiot. I shouldn’t have let you get dragged with me. I should just go and quit or something. I’ll be saving you a lot more time and money if I just-” The lights flickered for just a moment but a clap of thunder quickly shut them off. Charles cursed under his breath as he went over to one of the switches to flick them on and off. It was completely off, “Guess we’re stuck like this for a while.” “Just fantastic,” Pickles muttered. He finished the rest of his brandy, “Look, I’ll just go. Save yourself the trouble-” “It’s literally pouring out and you’re drunk. I’m not letting you leave,” He answered. He watched his expression and sighed, “But clearly...there are things that you need to talk about, right? I mean...if you really did want to quit music altogether, why did you say yes when I asked to work for you?” He wanted to say it was just because he wanted to humor him. But even then, was it really the answer? He looked down as he shrugged, running his hand through his hair, "I dunno. I guess I thought I was getting a second chance. Some good job I’m doing at keeping that second chance, aren’t I?"

“I think you’re doing well with what you can do. It’s just hard to find a good band to blend with nowadays I suppose,” Charles said. He approached him closer. He wanted to help him but he was scared of having him run off when he was so close to having him open up to him, “But you still have the same potential as you did when you started in the band.” But you clearly need to work out whatever you’re going through just let me help you-

Pickles at least didn’t try to leave and instead agreed to coffee. He sat in the kitchen chair as Charles boiled water on the gas stove. There was a comfortable silence between them as they didn’t say anything and only listened to the relentless rain hitting against the window and the thunder that occasionally sounded. He poured the water and instant coffee to two mugs, letting him use the milk and sugar to his liking which was borderline sweet.

Charles used the rest of the milk for his coffee and threw the carton out. He sat in the chair opposite him, taking a sip of his coffee that quickly warmed him up. Pickles didn’t say anything and he didn’t want to pry so he didn’t say anything either.

“Can I ask you something?” Pickles asked as he stared at the mug. He couldn’t meet his gaze.

“Sure.”

“Why did you wanna work for me? Any other band or celebrity with a cleaner record could easily take you in.”

It was a question that Charles knew would come up inevitably and he had prepared for it in advanced. Prepared professional and cordial sentences that might not mean much but would at least mean something meaningful to Pickles. Though, that was with the implication that they would’ve been in some professional setting. Not in his apartment with Pickles wearing his old clothes and after he had probably poured out more of his feelings than he had intended to. It was only fair he did the same, “Well, to put it bluntly, your music saved my life and I only wanted to return the favor I suppose.”

Whatever Pickles had expected, definitely wasn’t that. He looked up to meet his eyes, green eyes somehow illuminated by whatever light the window gave. “What do you mean by that?” 

“I was a teen too when you started with the band. Probably just as angry and misunderstood as you were. Didn’t have a family or really anybody to turn to or much hope for my future. I just never understood when people said that music saved their life. Until I came across that first album and I really understood the feeling. It was made me decide to go into music business though I honestly admit I didn’t expect to ever be working with you until I was assigned your case.”

“And I’m guessing you took it as a sign or something?”

“Something like that. I mean, I would’ve been working for someone who basically shaped my career. It would be ironic, wouldn’t it be?”

Pickles was silent afterwords for a good while. Most likely to take the words in and realize just how much Charles meant it when he promised him he would find him a band and get his career started again. Charles was legit. Charles wasn’t saying this to get something out of him. He was being genuine and it brought in a whole new swarm of thoughts he hadn’t thought of in a long time. He looked at him with a sad smile that told a thousand words even if he said only ten, “I wish we met earlier. We could’ve had fun together,”

He must’ve been lonely, Charles quickly realized. And it was for good reason too; his band members were nearly a decade or so older than him and he most likely never talked with people around his age. As fun as it must’ve been getting to feel like an adult talking with adults, it could get tiring too and sometimes makes one wish they spoke about bullshit to someone their age. He knew that all too well, “Me too. But, at least we know each other now and I promise that it’s only going to get better from here.”

“You really believe in me, don’t you?” Pickles asked.

If the months and money and time Charles did wasn’t enough, he didn’t know what would. He knew that sometimes words just confirmed the actions so he nodded, “Of course I do. I wouldn’t be taking such a risk if I didn’t.”

What he didn’t expect to happen though was for Pickles to being to cry. He had his hands on his face, elbows on the table, and tried not to show he was crying. But his sniffles and tears seeping through his hands easily gave it away. The tears weren’t of sadness and Charles knew that well enough. It was enough though for him to still go over to him and hold onto him tightly. He felt him wrap his arms tightly around him as the cries turned to sobs as he let however many years of pent up feelings and loneliness finally resurface and wash away like the rain.

Eventually, they pulled away. There were no other words that really needed to be said. It was just one look that said what they wanted to say but neither had the words to say it. It was Pickles that kissed Charles. It wasn’t those kisses that were meaningless and full of absolute desperation and hastily made to get on to the point. It was full of a tenderness and warmth that neither hadn’t felt before or for a long way. It was warm and against the coldness of the apartment from the rain and darkness, it was enough.

                                                        ____

They lied down in Charles’ bed with a blanket covering them. Even if the room was a bit chilly, the warmth from the blanket and each other was more than enough.

“You could always go solo.” Charles said as he stared up at the ceiling.

“I guess...but I’m kinda tired of being in the spotlight. I mean, I like it and all but being at the center of it? Gets exhausting.” “Hm, there’s guitar auditions you can always do. You can always do that,” Charles pointed out.

They know it’s not gonna last. The band, that is. Most likely the band would fizzle out into obscurity and never be remembered within a month.

“True. Probably still have my Les Paul in my apartment somewhere.”

Charles honestly wished he could make him actually be happy. He did know that this was a problem he couldn’t exactly fix. As much as he wished he could be, there was a limit and he was sure he already was nearing it. He could only help as much as he could and be content with it; convincing Pickles to get back into music and letting him take direction in how he wanted to pursue music was one of the only things he could do. Being there for him, not as a manager/lawyer, but as someone who cared for him on a personal level also was something he could do. And he could do both; he was great at multitasking. “For the next band, I wanna play drums. I wanna be in the background this time,” Pickles murmured sleepily as he wrapped an arm around him.

“I’ll look into drum auditions tomorrow,” Charles answered. He would’ve protested at them breaking boundaries, it certainly wasn’t professional, but who conducted meetings in bed anyway? He held onto him, feeling the slight dampness of his dreads that were still not completely dry but didn’t care. Mentally, he reminded himself to find that newspaper he looked at the other day. He vaguely remembered an ad trying to find a drummer for some metal band. Hopefully, they wouldn’t be too late and that they would need a lawyer or manager as well.