Distant Stations

Distant Stations

Sitting, wishing, waiting

By the telephone

Hoping, dreaming, praying

I wasn't so alone

"Shit."

Olivia let out a little sigh and then went back to tapping her pen on her notebook. The sound went from assorted, atonal thumps into something of a good beat. Thump-thump-thump-THUMP. Thump-thump-thump-THUMP. Soon, she was tapping her foot along.

Wow, this is actually a pretty good little beat. Huh. Maybe I shouldn't have given up on the drums so quick. Nah, Mom was ready to kill me after a few lessons. Guitar lessons were probably for the best. Wish Ms. McKinney would teach me something besides two chords already, but, hey, what do I know? I'm just the snotty teenager- she's the "classical" guitarist with "conservatory" training. Ugh, and that fake fucking accent of hers- "Oh, Olivia, when you have shown me mastery of the C and A chords, then we shall move on to the D. But, when I say mastery, I mean massssterrrrry."

Bitch, we live in OHIO. You're from Dayton, for Christ's sake.

And I pay your salary- well, Mom does. But still! You should do what I want, not make me sit through the privilege that is going through your "famed  Berklee College finger exercises," when I can just go Google how to play the chord- which, news flash, I have! Stuck-up bitch. You know what really helps with the strengthening of phalanges? Playing the fucking guitar! Shit! And not that loopy, up and down the frets chamber, flamenco music shit. Real music- The Ramones. The Pixies.  P.J. fucking Harvey. Who, I promise you I won't forget, you literally snorted and rolled your eyes at when I played you "Sheela-Na-Gig." You asked for something I thought had a complex chord structure in it- and then you turn it around and play it in a few minutes on your little twelve string like it was nothing. And then you basically said it was nothing, too. "Really? Just some third-rate coffee shop poetry garbled over some effect-laden basic configurations lifted from some poor forgotten bluesman, who most likely died a penniless share-cropper, whilst this woman and others of her ilk reaped his suffering for their own reward. But, this selection doesn't particularly surprise me- after all, what could really be expected of the daughter of the working class, hmm?"

I hope she knows that apology was forced. Mom had to literally grab my ear to make me to back. God, that was so embarrassing. Wish I could've just left all bad-ass and Bob Dylan like- flipped the teacher off, yelling "Fuck you!" as I snatch my record off the turntable. But no, Mom had to remind me how much money it was costing and how much she and Dad already spent. "Bob Dylan might have done that, but Robert Zimmerman's Mom would have washed his mouth out with soap and walked his little ass back up there and made him say he was sorry." I figured she was just talking tough- until she showed me the chunky bar of Irish Spring.

Oh God, that was so disgusting.

I really should try to write something to this beat, though. It's nice. Perfect actually. Sounds like something from the 50's or something. Ooh, that'd be perfect. Put a little soft guitars on it, maybe with a surf echo to them, and have me and Peggy singing about some poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Man, they would eat that shit up in Cleveland. I bet we could have gigs in no time.

Why does this beat sound so familiar though?

... aw shit, it's that old Crystals beat. Dammit!

Olivia dropped her pen, and slumped down on the couch, her sigh almost sounding like air escaping a balloon. She eyed the knock-off Felix the Cat clock on the wall her Mom had won at a work raffle a few years ago: 8:35.

Ugh.

Those bitches need to get here already.

The bitches in question were Peggy and Marissa, the bassist/keyboardist/backing vocalist and drummer, respectively, for her band The Gumballs.

The group was in its third year of existence; it was originally started as something of an in-joke between the three friends, started after they kept getting asked if they were in a band just before their sophomore year. Mainly, it was due to their falling somewhere on the social spectrum between the various cliques that make up the typical suburban high school, as well as their unique sense of style they shared, built off of looks from B-movies, cartoons, and the occasional old music or fashion magazine. Day-Glo bandanas wrapped around the knees of frayed acid-washed jeans, mixed in with leather vests sporting spikes and frayed strips of animal print, along with patches featuring the likes of Hello Kitty and Sailor Moon, along with make-up tricks from Aladdin Sane- era Bowie and Roxy Music, led to many an awkward stare and unrequited crush.

None of them could remember how it was they ended up hanging out together, or how it was that they got so close so quickly, outside of the obvious similarities: latchkey kids, the youngest or only child (in the case of Marissa,) and no sisters (save for Peggy, but it didn't really count. Jane, the oldest, had a full 11 years on her, so she was really more of a second mom than a big sister.) Just, in that odd sort of way things happen when you're young, some inertia pulled them to one another. They went from eating lunch alone to hanging out in Peggy's beat up '83 Caprice, which they came to affectionately term "The Heap," smoking clove cigarettes and talking about a new comic book or TV show they had fallen in love with as they blasted the music their brothers had left behind when they moved out.

Music had always been a big part of the girl's friendship. Their first big bonding experience (a term their mothers had used, much to their shared embarrassment and derision,) was to see Juliana Hatfield, whom Olivia had gotten the others into after stumbling across a copy of her CD Become What You Are. They had stayed behind after the show to meet Hatfield, who found the sight of the three teenage girls singing along to all her songs, both old and new, to be quite heartening. Even though she said she could only "talk for a minute or two," Hatfield ended up talking to the three of them for the better part of an hour. After she fielded a lot of personal questions, she turned the tables and asked the girls about themselves. They told her that they were just the prototypical outcast rebels in a suburban town, making sure that there was enough of an ironic and snarky inflection to their towns to make sure she knew that they weren't serious about their self-fulfilling prophecies (and for her to, hopefully, find them cool.) Hatfield perked up when Peggy mentioned they were in a band together.

"Really? That's good. I kind of figured from the outfits. But I like it though- kind of a classic vibe to it. I wish more bands would go back to wearing uniforms."

"Well," Olivia said, chuckling as she blushed and brushed her bangs away, "it's really more of a joke than anything."

"What is?"

"Our band."

"Why is it a joke?"

"Because," Marissa said, "we would always get asked by these people around town if... we were... in a band."

"So," Peggy continued, chipper and unaware of the sudden mortification Olivia and Peggy were feeling, "we started to tell people we were!  And that's why it's a joke! 'Cause, you know, we don't really know how to play instruments or anything."

"So, you like people thinking of you as a joke?"

"No. I mean, they don't think of us a joke," Peggy said, "I mean, I don't think they think of us as a joke. It's more like, a joke between us."

"Oh, so an inside joke."

"Right."

"And your aspirations, your wanting to be in a band- that's just something that's a joke, huh?"

Olivia asked, "Are you trying to use pretzel logic on us?"

Hatfield shrugged. "Nope. Just a harmless little game of devil's advocate is all."

"Ok. But, why?"

"Because, I don't enjoy seeing people write off their dreams as sarcastic jokes. Because I think that anyone who wants to make music could and should be able to. And mostly, clichas it sounds, because the three of you remind me a lot of myself when I was your age."

"Oh."

"Wow."

"Geez."

"Uh huh. So, any excuses you want to throw at me as to why you haven't actually made a serious attempt at being a band?"

Olivia said, "We don't know how to play instruments."

"Take lessons. If you can't afford lessons, use Google and just find lessons online."

"But," Marissa added, "we don't have any instruments."

"Go on eBay or Craigslist."

Peggy asked "Really?"

"Sure. There's always someone done with a midlife crisis who's got a wife yelling at him to clear out space in the garage, or some instrument shop that didn't make it looking to unload merchandise, or the always popular 'ex looking to sell off their old wannabe rock star's stuff super cheap.' It's much simpler to get stuff now- cheaper too."

Peggy asked again "Really?"

"Uh huh. If your parents couldn't afford to take you to a music store when I was a teenager, you had to either buy it from some sleazy pawn shop or one of your slacker friend's friend. I wouldn't recommend either- you end up getting ripped off and feeling dirty."

"But," Marissa asked, "how will we know we won't be getting ripped off?"

"Do some research. If the ad just says 'guitar for sale,' don't even bother. But if the ad gets into a little more detail, copy and paste the key phrases in the ad into a search engine and see what comes up. You should get some results from a guitar collector website, telling you if it's good or bad. Really though, long as the guitars or drums aren't made of tin and don't fall apart in your hands the first time you try to play it, you're good."

The girls were looking at one another, nodding, all of them sharing a thought along the lines of:

Wow. Why didn't I think of that?

Hatfield asked, "Any other questions?"

Olivia had opened her mouth right when her cellphone went off- it was a text. She read it, sighed, and looked up at Hatfield.

"That's Mom."

"Gotta head home, huh?"

"Yeah, along with the usual- it's late."

Marissa added, "It's just the three of you, alone at night in the big bad city.

Peggy continued, "Drunk college guys are on the prowl, looking for girls like you."

Hatfield said, "And let me guess: 'If you don't get home now, die on the way home, I'll kill you?'"

All of them started laughing.

"Yes!"

"Exactly!"

"That's so weird."

"Not really- I remember going to shows in high school. That, and as it turns out, moms never change. Well, I don't want to get you in trouble. It was nice meeting you... hold on..."

She pointed at them one after another as she said:

"Peggy- Marissa- and Olivia."

Peggy and Marissa grinned; Olivia, the only one who answered back, said "Nice to meet you too- Juliana, right?"

Peggy and Marissa gasped; Hatfield smiled at Olivia. "Right, And you three really need to work on that band, because you," she said as she pointed at Olivia, "are a lead singer if I have ever seen one."

"Thanks. And, uh, could I ask you one more thing real quick?"

"Sure."

"H-How..." Olivia trailed off, blushing.

"Oh, don't go getting bashful now."

Marissa's phone went off. She looked at it and groaned. "Aw, that's Mom. 'Are you home yet?'"

"Well, it's kind of a stupid question."

Peggy was reading the text from her mom. "'Are you home yet? If so, call me. If not, you better be.'"

"There's no such thing as stupid questions."

"Come on, Olivia."

"Yeah, we've got to go."

"Ok. Uh, how do you write a song?"

"Same way you get to Carnegie Hall."

"How's that?"

Hatfield got up from her seat with a smile. "Practice."

Olivia groaned and laughed.

"That's terrible."

"Yes, yes it is. But, it's true too."

Marissa took Olivia by the hand and started to pull her away. "Ok, time to go." She looked over at Hatfield and said, "Thank you again, Miss Hatfield."

"You're welcome."

"Yeah, thank you!"

Olivia called out, as she was being drug out the door, "Thank you, Juliana! You're music is great! 'Spin the Bottle' is one of my favorite songs ever!"

Hatfield was packing up the left-over shirts from her merchandise table real quick when she heard a voice behind her: "Hi."

She looked over her shoulder and saw Olivia. "Hey. Thought you had to leave."

"Oh, I do," Olivia said, wheezing, "I just had to ask you something else. Real quick."

"Why are you panting?"

"Ran from the car. We're parked a couple blocks from here."

"Ah."

"Yeah, my friends are probably pissed."

"Probably. But, what's your question?"

"What should we name our band?"

"Really? Why are you asking me?"

"I- I dunno. You're a cool musician. Cool musicians are usually good at this kind of thing."

"I see your logic, but wouldn't it make more sense to name it yourselves? You know, something with meaning to you?"

"But didn't you get the name for Blake Babies from Allen Ginsberg?"

"Oh, good point. All right, uh- let me think. Hmm... the Gumballs."

"The Gumballs?"

"Uh huh."

"Ok," Olivia said with a nod.

"Makes you sound like a 60's garage rock group or something. Plus, who doesn't like a gumball, right? Makes you think of innocence, youth, fun times."

"Wow, you're good."

Hatfield laughed. "Well, I try. And, you might want to turn around now."

"Why is that?"

"Your friends are here."

"Oh. Shit."

"Yeah."

That moment, that whole experience, was like a godsend for Olivia. She used the money she had saved form her Sweet 16 and work as a babysitter to buy herself a Gretsch Princess from a nice gentleman on Craigslist who went under the internet handle of "Moneybone31," and (following a lot of encouragement/badgering from her) Peggy and Marissa bought a bass and drum set as well. After a few lessons, Olivia began to pound out a gaggle of songs at a frantic pace, taking authorial pride as she played back the hiss-filled recordings she made on her crappy boom box of songs like "Tectonic Shift (in My Loins)," "Fiery, Fiery Death," "The Whir & Clang," and the touching ballad "Dumb Cocksucker." Olivia's mother, impressed by the efforts she had heard coming from her garage, got together with Marissa and Peggy mothers and the three went in together and bought the girls studio time at a studio called "The Blue Room." Though it was primarily used by hip-hop artists, but the engineer with whom they booked the session with assured them that their studio was more than equipped to handle any type of music.

The girls had taken the news with the sort of giddy excitement that only teenaged girls can manage to create. Certain that the demo they created on that day would surely propel them to stardom, they left the session four hours later surly and irritable with one another to the point that Olivia found herself hating the way Peggy and Marissa breathed. The demo itself was a serviceable exercise in combing 60's girl-group style songs with a punk sensibility; in particular, "Fiery, Fiery Death" stood out as a possible single, like something a young Joan Jett might have come up with. However, Peggy and Marissa found the recording process to be extremely tedious, the fever dream-like visions of not too distant fame and riches cooling off somewhere around take 22 of "The Whir & Clang."

Olivia, on the other hand, was riveted by the experience, convincing her mother to let her turn the spare room in their house into a makeshift studio, complete with a vintage four-track recorder from the 70's, salvaged from a shady pawnshop for a measly $20. When she told her band mates the news, they were less than enthused. Peggy, who had taken up the keyboard in hopes of phasing out the bass (it was killing her fingers) asked, "Don't you think it would be a better idea to try and find shows to play first? You know, before we sit down and record a whole bunch of albums or something?"

That led to a 20 minute lecture form Olivia on the importance of defining your sound early on, how they shouldn't waste time trying to be a cover band, and how a great number of new bands got record deals and a lot of fame without playing a single show, among numerous other topics. Fearing another rambling discourse should they speak up again, Peggy and Marissa took to keeping their heads down and mouths shut. They the parts for whatever songs Olivia came up with gamely, hoping that this would be just another phase of Olivia's that would soon be left behind in favor of being a painter, or writer- something that didn't involve them having to play the same riffs and fills over and over.

A year and a half of serious effort into the venture led Peggy and Marissa to a grim conclusion: The Gumballs weren't going anywhere.

Over the past few months, it had been increasingly difficult for Olivia to schedule recording and practice sessions for the band. It seemed as though the others always had some sort of after school activity to get to, some younger sibling's sporting event to attend, some relative in the hospital that needed visiting (Peggy especially seemed to have an awful lot of sickly aunts.)

It was fine though.

Shit happens; Olivia knew that.

She put aside the fact that there was a severe lack of enthusiasm on the part of her band mates, not to mention an endless parade of excuses and reasons as to why they hadn't gotten their new parts in a song down yet, in the name of keeping group harmony and their friendship intact.

However, a real strain in the group started to form towards the end of their sophomore year. Peggy and Marissa were seemingly never around anymore, jetting off right after class together, eating lunch in some distant part of school Olivia could never seem to find, and speeding out of the parking lot after school, leaving  Olivia to walk, eat, and ride the bus home alone.

There could be one explanation and one explanation alone.

Boyfriends.

After asking around, and a bit of snooping online, her suspicions were confirmed. Peggy and Marissa were both dating. Peggy was seeing Joe, music critic for the school paper and aspiring author who had managed to get a few short stories published in the local university's literary magazine. Marissa was seeing Tom, a moody, angst-ridden artist who worked mostly in abstracts, who had actually had a gallery show and sold a few pieces for ungodly sums of money for a 16 year old to make. Olivia couldn't figure exactly when and how they met and began dating these boys: all she knew that it was trouble for the band.

In the last month of her sophomore year, Olivia had mostly reverted back to her loner state, defiantly still wearing her strange and wonderful outfits, even though Peggy and Marissa had begun to dress in a more neutral, conspicuous way. They gave each other a nod or wave of recognition in the hallways, and then went on their spate ways. Peggy and Marissa had introduced Olivia to their boyfriends once, hoping that she might hit it off with them and they could start all hanging out together. That plan fell through quick when Joe offered to set Olivia up with one of his friends from the paper.

"I think you'd like him. He's very... quirky. Like you."

Olivia stopped tuning her guitar and looked up at him.

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, he's like you. Funny, loves music, has got an interesting sense of style- he actually likes to dress up like he's a man from the woodsy, outland areas of Quebec from the 20's. Isn't that-"

"I'm sorry, do you think I'm not happy?"

"What?"

"I mean, you must. After all, why else would sit there, relevant to nothing, just blurt out an offer to set me up with one of your friends?"

"I was just-"

"Just what? Taking some pity on me? 'Oh look, a girl with multi-colored hair. Clearly she can't find anyone, and must be lonely. Oh, I'll just take it upon myself to set her up on a blind date with my hipster douchebag friend, who I'm pretty sure has a Golden Girls tattoo somewhere on him. That'll just make her weird little day!'"

"Olivia," Peggy said, "he was just trying to be nice."

"Nice? Nice? He was just trying to be nice?"

"Yeah," Marissa added, "nice. You know, that thing you used to be before you started this band?"

"I started? WE started this band, remember? WE started this band as a joke, but excuse me for thinking we have some talent and trying to make it. But it's always been fun, right?"

"Not since you wanted to start recording all the fucking time," said Marissa.

"What? Look, I know that it can be a bit annoying sometimes-"

"A bit?"

"Just a bit?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"How about," Marissa said, "the fact that the other night, I had to record a drum intro 11 times. And it was just me  hitting the kick drum!"

"You weren't keeping the rhythm!"

"It was four fucking beats, Olivia."

"Not to mention," Peggy added, "you get super bitchy when we're recording."

"I do not."

Marissa then said, in a surprisingly good, but very mean-spirited, impersonation of Olivia's high-pitched, slightly nasally voice: "Ok, Peg, gonna need for you to pick up speed on the bass line. Remember, this is an angry song, not you chilling out in front of the couch, watching Gilmore Girls.  Marissa, you're doing pretty good on the timing there, but you need to hit those high-hats hard. I mean, hard as FUCK, ok? This is a 'fuck you' kind of song, so I'm gonna need some 'fuck you' drums behind me. Ok! Take 14, here we go!"

Peggy cackled, the boys smirked, and all three of them clapped as Marissa took a little bow. Olivia, twirling her hair for a moment, waited until they finished clapping and said "Well, dynamite impression there, Marissa. Bang up stuff, really. And, first, let me just apologize for being kind of testy when we record. I hope the both of you know that I don't mean to be mean intentionally, I just want everything to sound great and go great, so I get a teensy bit frustrated when things don't go exactly to plan. And I know that it can't be frustrating to do the same song over and over. But, remember what Juliana said: we have to-"

"Oh," Marissa said with a roll of her eyes, "enough about 'Juliana' already, Olivia. It's been like, a year, and you still haven't shut up about meeting over her. We've been to other concerts since then, and met other people: stop being so fucking hung up on her. And stop calling her Juliana, too- you act like you two are best friends or something."

"Yeah," Peggy said, "I mean, she just had like two songs in the 90's nobody remembers anyways."

"Hey, she is a highly under-appreciated singer-songwriter, as well as the main reason this band turned into something we can be proud of."

"You mean something you can be proud of."

"What?"

"You can't be that delusional," Marissa said. "I mean, I know you've seen how miserable we look all the time when we're recording, right?"

"Yes, that's the exhaustion that comes with trying to get a song right."

"No," Marissa said, "that's the exhaustion that comes with dealing with you."

Peggy added, "We love you, but you can really be a pain in the neck when we're in here."

"Uh huh," Marissa continued, "nothing's ever good enough for you. We can play our hearts out on a song, get all the way through, and then it's 'Ok, that was all right. But let's go through it one more time. And with more energy on the chorus, ok Marissa?' Do you know how fucking frustrating that is, Olivia? Do you know how many times I have wanted to fucking strangle you with your God damned microphone chord? Ask Peggy! One time, she literally had to physically stop me from bashing your skull in with my cymbals."

"It's true," Peggy said with a nod. "You had gone to the bathroom and I had to pry them out of her hands. Remember? You came in and asked why she was all sweaty, and I said it was because she was tightening her drums up?"

"I do," Olivia said after a long pause, studying the grim expressions on her friend's faces, "and that's- well, to be honest, that's a little rough to hear. By the way though, Marissa, one cymbal by itself is a cymbal. When there's two of them like that, it's called a high hat."

"See?"

Marissa pointed a finger at Olivia.

"That's what we're talking about! Right there! You could have just said 'Wow, one of my friends wanted to murder me- I need to work on the bitchiness.' What did you focus on? Correcting my fucking terminology! Do you realize how insane that is, Olivia? You are such a God damned know-it-all! All the time, too! You can never let shit like that go! You know how embarrassing it is to be corrected all the fucking time?"

"Well, maybe if you put a book up to your face instead of a dick in your mouth every once in a while, I wouldn't have to correct you all the fucking time? Ever think about that, you bitch?"

Everyone else in the room looked shocked, with Peggy, Joe, and Marissa gasping- Tom let out a little laugh and mumbled "Holy shit" to himself.

Marissa asked, through clenched teeth, "What did you just say?"

"You heard me."

"At least I can get a man interested in me, you judgmental little prude."

"Oh, so since I don't spread my fucking legs for every guy who smokes cigarettes and talks about how no one understands him, that makes me a prude?"

Marissa just shook her head and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Olivia asked, "Where are you going?"

Marissa opened the door and said, "Home."

"We have practice."

"FUCK your practice and FUCK this FUCKING band, you hateful fucking bitch.

Marissa walked out the room again, this time slamming the door so hard the paintings on the walls in the house shook.

Tom, smirking, said, "Well, I think I need to go. Nice meeting you."

He left.

Joe and Peggy left together, with Peggy not saying a word. Joe waved goodbye and mouthed "Sorry."

Olivia flipped him off.

That was three weeks ago.

Summer was in full effect, and Olivia hadn't even tried to call for a practice or rehearsal session since then. She saw postings from Peggy or Marissa on Facebook now and then, usually just random photos of their cats or talking about how awesome and great their boyfriends were.

Olivia kept thinking of unfriending them, but decided it would look like a super bitch move on her part. So, she chose to put up with the pangs of anger and same that their postings gave her, choosing to instead focus on building up The Gumballs song bank and presence online. So far, the ride to music superstardom was extremely slow going, but littered with a few promising moments here and there. A nice message or two from  people who'd stumbled on their music on one of the web sharing sites, a couple dozen downloads of the demo; seeing something like that always seemed to put Olivia in a great mood for a few minutes, but soon send her longing to have her friends around again.

Following a review on a popular and influential music blog, which had called "Fiery, Fiery Death," a "great little pop-punk nugget, like the Go-Go's on day two of a three day bender," downloads of The Green Ones Are the Best (Olivia's name for the demo, based on a childhood preference of gumballs,) had spiked severely. Peggy was actually the first one to try to make any contact, with an e-mail stating simply: "Just saw four of my Facebook friends share our song. WTF? LOL. I think that's pretty awesome. ?. I know you're definitely happy. I think we should get together and talk about this. I can probably get Marissa to come, but don't hold your breath on that. What do you say?"

Olivia was over the moon at that little e-mail.

Sweet little peace making Peggy, I knew I could count on you to try to make nice.

However, her reply was a glib:

"I know, right? So crazy. And as far as a meeting: yeah, sure. Sounds good. This Friday sound good? Say, 8-ish?"

Peggy wrote back: "That sounds GREAT! I'll see you then."

Olivia looked at the clock.

10: 15.

She clicked her tongue and went back to looking at her notebook.

Sitting, wishing, waiting

By the telephone

Hoping, dreaming, praying

I wasn't so alone

Olivia sighed, and wrote:

Looking for your friends

That never come

Waiting for a call

There's never one

Like Cyndi said

Just want to have fun

What's a girl to do

When she can't have none?

Olivia looked the verse over and nodded.

Not bad.