Jukebox Saturday Night 1
“Yodeleeeeheee
I’m a rootin’ tootin’ cowboy, they call me Sundown Slim
I hail from out in Texas, and I ride a seven M”
I’d woken up, for the first time since I could remember, crying.
I don’t think I had done that since I was a little kid, maybe ten or twelve.
My brain was so scattered that I couldn’t really comprehend where I was, what was going on… just…
Distraction is what I needed. It was about five in the morning. For the first time in years, I was waking up sobered, not from lack of drinking but from the situation. I needed to go back to a before time, back to when my life was still doing what I’d become used to, comfortable with…
Complacent.
It had been a hot minute since I’d actually just relaxed. Granted, I relax more often than I care to admit, but it’s not just being. I’m playing a video game, or cleaning the mess that’s my fathers house, or my mothers.
I used to say it was my house, but now… I don’t know where I even live.
This couch, as worn and blown out as it was, was a grounding point for me. I like to think that, anyway. And the one thing that always relaxed me, was sitting here, listening to my music of long dead people.
“You’ve been gone for some time.”
It’s weird, hearing that voice again.
“Yeah, I could say the same.”
Not needing to even look at her, I knew she was looking away from me, bashful, or maybe sorrowful?
My attention was focused on another task, one that I’d neglected for way too long.
She huffed at me. “Well, I’d like to say for good reason, but honestly… I felt like you needed space.”
I shouldn’t have snorted a laugh, especially with how serious Twilight Sparkle’s voice sounded. Sorrowful indeed.
“Naw, I get it. I’m best handled spread out over time. All at once I tend to scare or scar people.”
She was quiet at that, which was fine with me. It was simply… nice? Yeah, it was nice to know someone else was sitting on the couch with me.
Even if it was a technicolored equine who always showed up at the weirdest times.
The record had stopped, so I set the one I was cleaning to the side and flipped it to play the B side. Or was it the A side? I hated how some record labels didn’t note which was the primary side. Or if they did, I didn’t know where the marker was.
“Davey… Davey Crocket
King of the wild frontier
Born on a mountain top in Tennessee
Greenest state in the land of the free.”
“Are… are you okay?”
I hesitated, looking at the record in my hands I’d just been scrubbing clean.
Was I okay?
I laughed a little, then continued the strokes of the tooth brush. “No, never have been.”
I swear I could feel her eye roll.
“I don’t mean the normal not okay. I mean… you don’t seem like yourself.”
“That's a lot to assume since we’ve only talked a dozen times at most.”
I could feel a weight shift on the couch, like she’d just raised her forehooves up into the air. Probably a shrug.
“Well, like you’ve tried to explain to me before, I’m possibly a figment of your own imagination. So I’d actually know about you more than you know.”
“Yeah, that’s honestly true. Then again, anymore I don’t know what’s true, what’s a lie.”
I scrub the last of this side of the shellac, then take an old sock and start strubbing at the residue covering it.
It’s quiet while I do this, and again I don’t mind the silence. Quiet company is still company, and I’ve missed having someone that’s old, familiar, around me for longer than a few minutes.
Satisfied with the outcome, I flip the record over. There’s no particular song tonight that I play on repeat, instead I’m doing what I used to do many, many years ago.
Alone (sorta), cleaning “new” records that I’ve not yet listened to, and then playing them while I start on the next one.
“I have to admit, I’ve never seen you do more than just listen to them. This is… strangely fascinating.”
I removed the James Brown record, placed it onto the stack of what I deemed “Miscellaneous Labels” that I need to organize, and placed the Les Brown record I’d just been cleaning onto the turntable. Sadly, I’d still not fixed my grandmothers, but this newer one still held fond, and welcome, memories of a good friend.
Shame we’d only met in person once, but they’re important to me all the same.
This particular song held no lyrics, only being instrumental. Out of Nowhere. It was a nice tune, then again, to me they’re all nice tunes.
My thoughts returned to Twilight’s words as I sat down.
“Yeah, I used to do this a lot. Before you showed up, or well, more so before, and tapering off as time went on. Anyway, I’d get these bunches of records and go through them, one at a time. Sometimes they need cleaning, because mold.”
Twilight seemed to nod at this, as I’d finally seen her, and accepted that I’m either not drunk enough, not sober enough, or a mixture of the two. It was Saturday, so fuck it, I took another drink of my SunWhisk and beer, then grabbed the next record.
“So that means, you’ve listened to every single record you own?”
I nodded. “At least once. Usually all the classical ones, after that, my big band ones I pick and choose my favorites. You, and the others, usually caught me being melancholy over a particular song so I’d just play it over and over again.”
This next record I didn’t recognize the artist or song name. Hell, I didn’t even recognize the label, so this would either be meh, or a banger. Either way, they all needed cleaning.
“This box,” I said as I pointed to the half chewed box beside me on the floor, “is falling apart thanks to Stinkie Pete’s anxiety attacks, and it’s also the last box of 78’s from my grandmother, so they’re mold covered. Figured it’s been too long since I did any records, so I wanted to do some.”
She hummed at that, and I took the record in my left hand, toothbrush in my right.
I couldn’t see her reaction, but I could hear her gasp as I spat a wad of saliva onto the record, then began working it into the grooves with the toothbrush.
Before she could make any remarks, I started talking.
“I tried cleaners. Most of them didn’t really cut the mold, others seemed to ruin the quality of the record. So, I went wit the tried and true Fuck It method and spat on one, scrubbed it, and it amazingly works well.”
Twilight seemed to grimace at me, and I couldn't help but smile.
“So, you mean all of these…” she looked around, eyes growing big.
“Naw, only the shellacs. The vinyls I have actual cleaner for, and it works good. They also don’t mold like these do,” I wave the record in my hand. “Well, they can mold, but I think it’s a different mold.
“For a while I thought maybe it was because of my alcohol intake, so I tried to clean them with just straight beer. Didn’t work out so well. Liquor seemed to also degrade them, so I figured Fuck It and do it this way.”
I was finished with the first side, so I took my old sock and began scrubbing away, being mindful to not apply too much force so I didn’t crack or shatter the record.
“That just seems so… unhygienic.”
I paused, looking at her with a raised brow.
“Okay, that’s fair, this is you after all.”
With a nod, I stood up and flipped the Les Brown record to the other side. Sunday was the title, unsure if it was a vocal or not.
“I ain’t gonna get those Sunday blues no more,
I ain’t gonna walk that lonesome tear-stained floor.
I never knew much about love,
Till you walked into my heart.”
Apparently it had lyrics. Who knew?
Sitting back down, I flip the record in my hand and begin the process anew. Spit, scrub the brush with the grooves, get halfway and spit again, scrub. Then I took the old sock and began wiping it down, still following the grooves.
“This reminds me of airplanes, too. You know I work on them.”
“Of course,” Twilight confirms with a nod.
“I’m following the grooves. You always gotta go with the flow. When cleaning windows on an airplane, you always go with the airflow. No swirls, no criss cross. Any horizontal imperfections will glare and blind the pilots.”
I don’t think she really understood me, but she didn’t press it so neither did I.
Satisfied it looked better than it did, I stood and swapped the records. This one is a Hollywood label, The Red Callender Sextette.
I also couldn’t help but snicker at how they introduce the song.
Blows.
Back in the day, that word held a different meaning. This is probably a wind instrument song, so it makes sense. But nowadays? I can at least find the humor in it.
Apparently they’re first going to blow Poinciana.
Honestly, once it began spinning up and I heard the instruments being played… I’m at a loss. Not what I was expecting, but it’s also nice.
I can even see Twilight moving with the beat, small things but still like her wings twitching, she enjoyed it too.
“I’d think Pinkie would enjoy this.”
“Yeah,” I said in agreement.
Her eyes, for a while now, had been scanning my walls, Still covered in MLP posters of both fan and corporate made. However, one wall has had many new additions since she was last here.
“You’re up either very late, or very early,” she noted.
I blinked, and looked up to see where she’s looking. My wall clock says it’s now 0640.
“Wow, I’ve been up over an hour? Damn.” I then reach into the box and grab the next record.
It’s a later, black labeled Brunswick, so my brain is telling me pushing into early 40’s? I can’t really remember all the times these different companies existed. This record is also, surprisingly, clean, considering the last several above it were half, or fully, molded over.
Maybe someone spat on this one in the past.
Still, I’m in a mode, working and doing what is calming for me, so I begin the process again.
Gross? I don’t think so, but then again some people are grossed out by such small, stupid things, like bugs or dog shit.
Gross to me is watching an antique dresser being fed into the back maw of a garbage truck, watching the 100 plus year old wood being splintered and destroyed into debris.
I was ten, and it still fucking haunts me.
Beside me, Twilight cleared her throat. Apparently she’s got something to say, but not sure how to say, or start, it.
I have a pretty good guess. I’m retarded, but I’m not stupid.
“Yes?” I asked.
“I know I already asked… but, are you okay?”
That’s really the big question, isn’t it? Am I okay? Am I fine?
“My body feels like it’s trying to kill me,” I say with a shrug. “Genetics, alcohol abuse, my father’s death and work are all waging war on my very being.”
It takes her a moment, long enough for me to stand up and flip the Red Callander Sextette, now Dolphin Street Boogie.
This song is more what I was expecting, and it’s delivering in spades.
“Genetics?” she suddenly asked.
I’m a little surprised that was the first one she went after, but fuck it. I’m an open book sorta guy, wearing my heart on my chest.
“Feet problems. My father had them for ages, sometimes I can’t even stand on them. Shit also tries to grow on them. He used to soak his feet in AVGas, but I’ve been managing to just keep them clean and doctor them with some goofy cream my mother’s cousin left us for her own feet. They’re better, but not great.”
She lets that mull in her head for a moment, which is long enough, or maybe short enough considering the song’s play length, and I stand and put on the next record, On My Ukulele by The Happiness Boys.
I used to have a ukulele, bought it at a garage sale for 3 bucks when I was twelve or so. Didn’t know how to play it, but somehow my father did. He never did explain to me, or tell me, how he knew to play one.
There was a lot he never told me about his youth, but also a lot of stuff he did tell me. It was confusing.
“And how are you holding up after your father?” she asked.
Of course, gloss over my alcohol abuse. I do, I try to ignore it, pretend it’s not a problem, but deep down I know it is. Part of my health problems, part of my emotional problems, part of a lot, if not all, of my problems.
Guess that’s for another time.
“Well, December was the second month in a row I didn’t get absolutely shitfaced on the 28th of the month, missing work or laying down in the middle of our dirt road and waiting for a car to come by.”
At that she actually blanches. “You what!?”
I waved my hands at her. “Okay okay, that last one was a lie. I’m depressed, not suicidal, Jesus.”
She lets out a relieved sigh at that.
“Honestly though?” I asked, but then just sort of stopped there, leaving it hanging.
Twilight doesn’t push me, doesn’t ask or say anything, just looks at me with those large eyes, and waits patiently.
I want to say what’s on my mind, what happened this morning, waking up, but… there is something else. I need to say something else.
“I… I don’t think I really have a best friend anymore.”
I seem to have caught her off guard, as she tilted her head and looked at me strangely.
“Or have, for a while,” I continue, “I’ve not had someone I can just… talk with, personal like this. Deep down, my raw emotions, what’s bothering me. Most everyone just, has their own issues, or… are sick of mine. Sick of me.”
She rolled her eyes at that one.
The next record to check is in my hands, I haven’t even looked at the label yet, but I set it down anyway. I can’t seem to be bothered suddenly by what my original goal was tonight.
Distraction. I needed a distraction. I needed to…
“I dreamt about him.”
Twilight’s ears twitch, and she’s still giving me her full attention.
“It was… so vivid, so real. I don’t even remember what was going on, what we were exactly talking about. Guns, probably, because I only recently learned he had a federal gunsmithing license. Fucker never told me that, just that he was doing some classes years ago.
“But, he was there. In front of me, we were talking, chatting. Laughing. And he didn’t look like the decrepit mess he’d become when Covoid happened. He had fat, muscle, a happy semi-drunk blush to his face.”
I don’t honestly know when I’d started crying, but I was. I couldn’t really see Twilight to know what she was doing.
“We talked for I don’t know how long, good and happy stuff. The things we always talked about, enjoyed, like old times, but then something changed. Like I was waking up from a bad dream, only this was a good dream. More and more started making sense, like he didn’t have a 60’s Ford truck, or the dining room table was cleared off. I started to realize… it wasn’t real. He wasn’t there, alive. He’d been cremated, now sitting in an ammo can with a fifth of Bacardi up at the one place he loved in the world, his camp, Tobacco Road.”
I hated this. I hate this. We are allowed to cry, I don’t care if you’re the manliest of mans, or a wimp. We cry for a reason, a release. My father only cried once in my short 32 years I new him, when his mother died.
I hugged him. He didn't hug back, but I hugged him anyway.
“It was getting worse and worse, things making more sense, reality being restored. The house was back to a mess, booze bottles everywhere. He started to look older, greyer, tired. I just wanted him to tell me something, anything, that he was… I was…”
By this point I was bawling. Twilight, my records, my room, my existence was shattered, gone, non-existent. Pain, misery, not even my beer could calm me. It hurt, I hurt.
There was so much to say, so much to do. I didn’t get to give him a ride in my VW Beetle I’d bought when I was 12, still not running. We never got up to the Soo Locks like my grandmother, his mother, wanted us to do.
He never got to see his grandchild, my sister, his only daughter’s, first.
I’d never been able to find, or keep, someone that I could even have a chance at a future with, so I could introduce them.
My head was in my hands, it was hard to breathe, my sinuses just clogged from both the weather and my emotions.
After I don’t know how long, I felt something solid on my left shoulder. A hoof, or maybe a figment of my imagination? It was enough of an action to bring me back to reality.
“My sister was first to know. She met me at the funeral home, we hugged and cried, but most of my tears had already been shed in the home I’d had him put into. My mother cried, they were never married, but she still held a fondness for him, other than his terrible habits. We hugged.
“And that’s when it stopped. I told several of my closest friends, those who I grew up with, and it was just a ‘oh sorry’. They didn’t understand, they won’t understand, their parents are still younger. In their 50’s, healthy and happy. Only one of my friends lost their father, but he was abusive so it was no loss to him, but he understood the most, even though the emotion wasn’t there.”
I was starting to finally calm down, no shaking, breathing again. I took a swaller of my beer. Gah, listen to me, swaller. Fucking dipshit I was.
Am.
The pressure on my shoulder increased, and I looked over to the purple mare beside me.
She had also been crying.
“I’m sorry,” she said, then opened her chest to me, forelegs spread.
I hesitated, stopped myself from leaning forward, shaking my head to clear my thoughts.
When I looked back, she was gone. Like she was never there, never had been, but at the same time, there was a divet where something had been. The couch cushion slowly raised as it returned to its former shape.
One of my cats? My imagination? A purple talking equine?
The SunWhisk was gone, and I was all out of whiskey. I had plenty of beer though.
I wiped my eyes, they still stung but I pushed it aside. I stood up, removed the record, placed it onto the sorting pile, and closed the lid of the player.
I took one last look around, then downed the rest of my beer, before laying on the couch, hoping to drift off to sleep.
Also LikedSimilarAuthor
- ROBCakeran53 · 2.3k words · 70 5 · 1.6k views
- Flutterpriest · 3k words · 52 4 · 1.1k views
- Lack of Tact · 2.1k words · 48 9 · 1.8k views
- Surry · 2.3k words · 85 2 · 2.3k views
- Lise · 1k words · 57 4 · 794 views
- FanOfMostEverything · 4.1k words · 61 6 · 1.1k views
- Soaring · 6.6k words · 121 10 · 1.9k views
Stats
Page generated in 0.109 seconds
Total duration
1,090 users online
1,754,751 hits today, 2,244,100 yesterday
FIMFiction
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Fanfiction
Designed and coded by knighty & Xaquseg - © 2011-2024
Follow & Support Us
Support us
SubStar
Chat!
Discord
Follow us
Twitter
MLP: Friendship is Magic® - © 2024 Hasbro Inc.®
Fimfiction is in no way affiliated with or endorsed by Hasbro Inc.®
"Ford, I think I'm a couch."
"I know how you feel."
Glad to see this is being updated. The story's sad, yeah, but I'm invested in this guy getting well, you know?
"It hurts so good."
Only way I can really describe this. Never can get all the right words out when you want them, can you?
We all know you can't get or do everything, but sometimes it sinks in more than others. Though, you do deserve that hug. I believe that, at least.