AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
(Not true, do not own, it's all fiction swirling around in my mind)
And things get interesting. This should help a little to clarify things. I do realize, though, these are kind of two stories—'Out Of Control' is the one in '78; 'Deep In The Heart' is the one in '86—they do connect, though, and it would be wrong at this point to separate them.
Soundtrack to writing this chapter: 'Sweet Baby Jane', 'Deep In The Heart,' 'In God's Country', 'If You Wear That Velvet Dress'
Ear infections, I must say, are not fun. I had them a couple times around when I was 6, and I remember it was terrible.
Lar, ignore her and teach me how to drum?
if you know what I mean.
***
Larry walked down the street to his house. When he came in, he looked past everyone and inexplicably left the house immediately. He walked down the Dublin streets, feeling very small and windblown, and at last came home at some very late hour and ignored whatever he thought his father was going to say about it—nothing, actually; his dad just looked vaguely shocked still, as if that had become the permanent expression on his face.
Getting out of the house wasn’t helping much. There were a couple of days that swallowed him whole, where he could only remember bits and snatches of things: how he escaped being held after class for calling out something obvious at the wrong time, the sky two days before—maybe blue, maybe bluish white; he didn’t remember, much—and everything untouched in his room. He had taken to sleeping downstairs, for some reason, and the dust began to swirl and eddy through the stillness he had escaped, the same as it had been before. He either said too much, or too little, he only remembered someone had yelled at him about it. Dave and Adam and Bono were all quiet or let the conversation move around him without requiring any effort from him except:
“Don’t the drums in that part bloody suck, Lar? We could do them better—“
To which he gave a noncommittal answer. It was all like sleepwalking.
What finally worked and snapped him out of it was going back to the practice room in the school when no-one else was there. He sat down in front of the drumset he had hauled in from home, and thought, Well, this will be pointless, but his fingers itched like mad to start drumming again. Larry closed his eyes and let it all rattle out of him, through him, away. He was jolted back into awareness by a sound that was not from him, followed by one of the drumsticks clattering to the ground. He stared up in surprise, but the girl had already edged out and ran out of sight.
God, girls. They were everywhere. Usually hanging on Bono or Adam; Edge couldn’t be bothered talking to them, he froze up so much, and Larry knew they were a waste of time.
And with that moment of wakefulness and surprise came another, a few days later. She came back and Larry glared at her in irritation, but she did not leave.
“Can you…?” she began to ask. He was already shaking his head no to anything he was anticipating her saying.
“…teach me to drum?”
“No.”
A week later. “No.”
A day after that, no again. He laughed, though. “Keep coming around and you’ll learn it through sheer stubbornness,” before he drowned out her reply in the bang and the clatter. The fact that he looked up, at all, was something, though.
“It’s easy as fuck,” Bono Vox commented amusedly, from the doorway. Larry sighed, his concentration slipping out and away. The girl took one challenging look at the singer and split. He raised his eyebrows at Larry.
“Hmm. Have you—?”
“No.” He didn’t know what Bono was asking, but he had a pretty good idea of the meaning.
“Haven’t seen her before,” Bono continued thoughtfully. There had been an air of reflection about him lately, something he couldn’t shake away. Larry’s problems had pulled Bono back down to earth harshly and set his thoughts into clarity and motion. Ali kept wondering why he was so distracted, and well…he had been scribbling away words that might be set to music, and had looked up at Ali finally, answering “busy,” and kissing her on the cheek with a mischievous grin.
He frowned. Did that girl who had just been in here even go to this school? He couldn’t quite place her face in his memory. That anonymity seemed a little like warning to him, though he didn’t say as much to Larry: the kid was red-faced and obviously not looking for any input on the situation. Bono left, still with the thoughtful look on his face.
*
“What’s your name?” Larry asked finally, resting his arms on the drumset and his head on his arms. Something about the day lay low inside of him, the rest of the world only a low hum in his subconscious. He felt drained of all energy all of the sudden. It did take a lot to ignore anyone so totally as he had been doing.
She laughed outright. “Ruth.” Her accent was not from around here; he tried to place it, couldn't—and really, he didn't care much.
“Alright,” he responded, letting his thoughts ebb and flow. He couldn’t try to resist noticing her presence anymore. Something about it had bothered him at first, caught violently at his mind, until he realized in his thoughts he had been running backwards, grasping frantically at the days when everyone he knew had been alive, and the band had taken little thought at all, and he was a separate entity.
“If you give me a couple days to think about the method of it, I might be able to help you with some of the basics.” He blushed, and was suddenly very very glad she could not see his face; it was pressed against the surface of the drum.
But…he didn’t think about her like that, oddly enough…and he sensed there was some reason other than attraction that had brought her here. He thought…but no…he thought he may have seen her as he walked to his house, somewhere between Mount Temple and there, hair blending into the faded bricks, an incomprehensible look on her face. But he must not have; if it had been her, there had been a shadow of her, but with a stirring depth in her eyes, and with hair almost white, not red…when he looked back, both were gone. From where Ruth could see him and he not her, she laughed silently.
“Ruth?” the other girl said quietly. The wall behind them, the trees before them, safety. They were not at home, though that wasn’t a problem, since home felt like nothing. No, it was when Ruth had left home that Eve had taken notice—and known something about it was wrong. Her wide eyes puzzled a little of it out of Ruth’s expression—and Eve had seen, in the dead hours of the night, her sister run up to the porch, still not quite untangled from the man Eve could only half-see in the darkness. Well, Eve knew he was tallish, and he might have been blond, and he hadn’t spoken much, though to be fair, his face had been otherwise occupied. It was probably too much to hope that it was the young drummer—it wasn’t; Larry didn’t give either a feeling of warning.
“Yeah?” Ruth knew she could see her thoughts like words on a page, though not clearly. They had grown that close together, once in their lives, that now it felt strange and exhilarating to hide something—two things—from Eve.
Well, not hidden…
“Can I ask just one thing? Don’t do this to him. It’s not a good idea.”
“And just what do you think I’m doing to him? Why would you care, Eve?” Ruth stood up suddenly, crossing her arms over her chest and frowning at her sister in the tree-dappled shadows.
Eve shook her head and smiled a little, then looked at her seriously. “Just…don’t.”
When Eve went to sleep that night, the air was electric with the silence that came before sound, and then the sudden porchlight and Ruth’s footsteps away from home, the muffled click of the door Ruth didn’t shut entirely so as not to wake their parents. Eve had terrible dreams of a faceless man, and woke with her heart pounding. She walked over to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. It stung. Through the open window, she saw the moon where it paused in the sky, and the house was still utterly silent; Ruth was gone.
The moon tugged through her dreams next, even more restlessly, and that faceless man did not reappear, though she did see the boy’s eyes. Larry’s. Staring forward in confusion, and she felt a little twisting pain inside of her when she thought of what he must think of Ruth. And Eve, a shadow unseen.
***
Bono had fallen back asleep on the couch, the morning light scalding his body, his hair all mussed and the heating air stealing in despite the fabric of his shirt and pants. He felt like the bottoms of his feet were on fire. He cracked an eyelid open and groaned, then realized he hadn’t woken on his own; there was an utterly distraught noise coming from the other room.
He winced, and walked barefoot over to the bedroom. Ali, bleary-eyed, was trying to quiet a teary Ciarán who had emitted a little shriek of pain and clapped his hands over his ears. She could not pry them away.
“We have to go see the doctor,” Ali yawned. Bono was now wide awake. “Ali, what is it?” He stared.
“Well, I think he’s got an ear infection. It’s your ear where it hurts, is it, love?” she asked the little boy. Ciarán nodded and screwed up his face and butted his head hard against his father’s midsection, clutching small arms around him. There was a muffled, “it hurts.”
He was effectively torn away from the musing thoughts by real life’s intervention. Bono sighed, picked up Ciarán and tried to lull him back into silence, mouthing “I’ll go” to Ali, who nodded and wistfully resigned to her sleep remaining unfinished.
Before he left, he expertly turned to the side and gave Ali a one-armed embrace, kissing her hard, still a little disturbed by his dream. He could feel her smiling and pushing him away, muttering something about “need breakfast,” though it was hard to tell, since her voice was sleep-muddled and the words slipped together.
That little sleepy image of her, and that feeling of attachment…he had grown around her, like they were trees, reaching out and branching together to cover some absence between…and it resounded through him with a sort of contentment and an odd pang of sadness.
He shouldn’t be thinking about anyone else. He should be thinking about her only. They had been together seriously for just over five years, married since four years ago. He had no idea why the past should resurface into that.
It did not help that Ciarán wailed quietly, in the shotgun seat of the car, that he wanted his mother, and Bono knew his son was not referring to Ali.
“You were only around her for a few days,” Bono protested as gently as he could, but Ciarán shook his head stubbornly.
I miss her too…
But it was still unsettling. In his mind was the fond undercurrent of Ali...Ali...Ali...but he knew there had been a time when it was Cath...
Well, his mind must be sleep-muddled too. He'd get Ciarán's ear infection taken care of, wake up properly, and maybe work on a few songs later in the day. Perhaps his subconscious could answer and end this.
And things get interesting. This should help a little to clarify things. I do realize, though, these are kind of two stories—'Out Of Control' is the one in '78; 'Deep In The Heart' is the one in '86—they do connect, though, and it would be wrong at this point to separate them.
Soundtrack to writing this chapter: 'Sweet Baby Jane', 'Deep In The Heart,' 'In God's Country', 'If You Wear That Velvet Dress'
Ear infections, I must say, are not fun. I had them a couple times around when I was 6, and I remember it was terrible.
Lar, ignore her and teach me how to drum?
if you know what I mean.***
1978
Larry walked down the street to his house. When he came in, he looked past everyone and inexplicably left the house immediately. He walked down the Dublin streets, feeling very small and windblown, and at last came home at some very late hour and ignored whatever he thought his father was going to say about it—nothing, actually; his dad just looked vaguely shocked still, as if that had become the permanent expression on his face.
Getting out of the house wasn’t helping much. There were a couple of days that swallowed him whole, where he could only remember bits and snatches of things: how he escaped being held after class for calling out something obvious at the wrong time, the sky two days before—maybe blue, maybe bluish white; he didn’t remember, much—and everything untouched in his room. He had taken to sleeping downstairs, for some reason, and the dust began to swirl and eddy through the stillness he had escaped, the same as it had been before. He either said too much, or too little, he only remembered someone had yelled at him about it. Dave and Adam and Bono were all quiet or let the conversation move around him without requiring any effort from him except:
“Don’t the drums in that part bloody suck, Lar? We could do them better—“
To which he gave a noncommittal answer. It was all like sleepwalking.
What finally worked and snapped him out of it was going back to the practice room in the school when no-one else was there. He sat down in front of the drumset he had hauled in from home, and thought, Well, this will be pointless, but his fingers itched like mad to start drumming again. Larry closed his eyes and let it all rattle out of him, through him, away. He was jolted back into awareness by a sound that was not from him, followed by one of the drumsticks clattering to the ground. He stared up in surprise, but the girl had already edged out and ran out of sight.
God, girls. They were everywhere. Usually hanging on Bono or Adam; Edge couldn’t be bothered talking to them, he froze up so much, and Larry knew they were a waste of time.
And with that moment of wakefulness and surprise came another, a few days later. She came back and Larry glared at her in irritation, but she did not leave.
“Can you…?” she began to ask. He was already shaking his head no to anything he was anticipating her saying.
“…teach me to drum?”
“No.”
A week later. “No.”
A day after that, no again. He laughed, though. “Keep coming around and you’ll learn it through sheer stubbornness,” before he drowned out her reply in the bang and the clatter. The fact that he looked up, at all, was something, though.
“It’s easy as fuck,” Bono Vox commented amusedly, from the doorway. Larry sighed, his concentration slipping out and away. The girl took one challenging look at the singer and split. He raised his eyebrows at Larry.
“Hmm. Have you—?”
“No.” He didn’t know what Bono was asking, but he had a pretty good idea of the meaning.
“Haven’t seen her before,” Bono continued thoughtfully. There had been an air of reflection about him lately, something he couldn’t shake away. Larry’s problems had pulled Bono back down to earth harshly and set his thoughts into clarity and motion. Ali kept wondering why he was so distracted, and well…he had been scribbling away words that might be set to music, and had looked up at Ali finally, answering “busy,” and kissing her on the cheek with a mischievous grin.
He frowned. Did that girl who had just been in here even go to this school? He couldn’t quite place her face in his memory. That anonymity seemed a little like warning to him, though he didn’t say as much to Larry: the kid was red-faced and obviously not looking for any input on the situation. Bono left, still with the thoughtful look on his face.
*
“What’s your name?” Larry asked finally, resting his arms on the drumset and his head on his arms. Something about the day lay low inside of him, the rest of the world only a low hum in his subconscious. He felt drained of all energy all of the sudden. It did take a lot to ignore anyone so totally as he had been doing.
She laughed outright. “Ruth.” Her accent was not from around here; he tried to place it, couldn't—and really, he didn't care much.
“Alright,” he responded, letting his thoughts ebb and flow. He couldn’t try to resist noticing her presence anymore. Something about it had bothered him at first, caught violently at his mind, until he realized in his thoughts he had been running backwards, grasping frantically at the days when everyone he knew had been alive, and the band had taken little thought at all, and he was a separate entity.
“If you give me a couple days to think about the method of it, I might be able to help you with some of the basics.” He blushed, and was suddenly very very glad she could not see his face; it was pressed against the surface of the drum.
But…he didn’t think about her like that, oddly enough…and he sensed there was some reason other than attraction that had brought her here. He thought…but no…he thought he may have seen her as he walked to his house, somewhere between Mount Temple and there, hair blending into the faded bricks, an incomprehensible look on her face. But he must not have; if it had been her, there had been a shadow of her, but with a stirring depth in her eyes, and with hair almost white, not red…when he looked back, both were gone. From where Ruth could see him and he not her, she laughed silently.
“Ruth?” the other girl said quietly. The wall behind them, the trees before them, safety. They were not at home, though that wasn’t a problem, since home felt like nothing. No, it was when Ruth had left home that Eve had taken notice—and known something about it was wrong. Her wide eyes puzzled a little of it out of Ruth’s expression—and Eve had seen, in the dead hours of the night, her sister run up to the porch, still not quite untangled from the man Eve could only half-see in the darkness. Well, Eve knew he was tallish, and he might have been blond, and he hadn’t spoken much, though to be fair, his face had been otherwise occupied. It was probably too much to hope that it was the young drummer—it wasn’t; Larry didn’t give either a feeling of warning.
“Yeah?” Ruth knew she could see her thoughts like words on a page, though not clearly. They had grown that close together, once in their lives, that now it felt strange and exhilarating to hide something—two things—from Eve.
Well, not hidden…
“Can I ask just one thing? Don’t do this to him. It’s not a good idea.”
“And just what do you think I’m doing to him? Why would you care, Eve?” Ruth stood up suddenly, crossing her arms over her chest and frowning at her sister in the tree-dappled shadows.
Eve shook her head and smiled a little, then looked at her seriously. “Just…don’t.”
When Eve went to sleep that night, the air was electric with the silence that came before sound, and then the sudden porchlight and Ruth’s footsteps away from home, the muffled click of the door Ruth didn’t shut entirely so as not to wake their parents. Eve had terrible dreams of a faceless man, and woke with her heart pounding. She walked over to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. It stung. Through the open window, she saw the moon where it paused in the sky, and the house was still utterly silent; Ruth was gone.
The moon tugged through her dreams next, even more restlessly, and that faceless man did not reappear, though she did see the boy’s eyes. Larry’s. Staring forward in confusion, and she felt a little twisting pain inside of her when she thought of what he must think of Ruth. And Eve, a shadow unseen.
***
1986
Bono had fallen back asleep on the couch, the morning light scalding his body, his hair all mussed and the heating air stealing in despite the fabric of his shirt and pants. He felt like the bottoms of his feet were on fire. He cracked an eyelid open and groaned, then realized he hadn’t woken on his own; there was an utterly distraught noise coming from the other room.
He winced, and walked barefoot over to the bedroom. Ali, bleary-eyed, was trying to quiet a teary Ciarán who had emitted a little shriek of pain and clapped his hands over his ears. She could not pry them away.
“We have to go see the doctor,” Ali yawned. Bono was now wide awake. “Ali, what is it?” He stared.
“Well, I think he’s got an ear infection. It’s your ear where it hurts, is it, love?” she asked the little boy. Ciarán nodded and screwed up his face and butted his head hard against his father’s midsection, clutching small arms around him. There was a muffled, “it hurts.”
He was effectively torn away from the musing thoughts by real life’s intervention. Bono sighed, picked up Ciarán and tried to lull him back into silence, mouthing “I’ll go” to Ali, who nodded and wistfully resigned to her sleep remaining unfinished.
Before he left, he expertly turned to the side and gave Ali a one-armed embrace, kissing her hard, still a little disturbed by his dream. He could feel her smiling and pushing him away, muttering something about “need breakfast,” though it was hard to tell, since her voice was sleep-muddled and the words slipped together.
That little sleepy image of her, and that feeling of attachment…he had grown around her, like they were trees, reaching out and branching together to cover some absence between…and it resounded through him with a sort of contentment and an odd pang of sadness.
He shouldn’t be thinking about anyone else. He should be thinking about her only. They had been together seriously for just over five years, married since four years ago. He had no idea why the past should resurface into that.
It did not help that Ciarán wailed quietly, in the shotgun seat of the car, that he wanted his mother, and Bono knew his son was not referring to Ali.
“You were only around her for a few days,” Bono protested as gently as he could, but Ciarán shook his head stubbornly.
I miss her too…
But it was still unsettling. In his mind was the fond undercurrent of Ali...Ali...Ali...but he knew there had been a time when it was Cath...
Well, his mind must be sleep-muddled too. He'd get Ciarán's ear infection taken care of, wake up properly, and maybe work on a few songs later in the day. Perhaps his subconscious could answer and end this.
