The Who - Short Fiction

A Legal Matter

"Everyone into the centre of the room!" Keith crowed, using a cardboard paper towel tube to amplify his voice. "We're starting in one minute, and if you don't play, you're not allowed to stay. Them's the rules!" Nearly 20 people were stuffed into his cramped hotel room, which wasn't terribly conducive to playing games. Because it was Keith's birthday and he had insisted, the group of rambunctious young adults agreed to gather round for a game of 'Spin the Bottle'.

"This is stupid," Roger complained, toying with the collar of his shirt, which was unbuttoned nearly to his navel. "We've got a show tomorrow night." As much as he liked to let loose and have a good time, he was beginning to get anxious about the possibility of the hotel staff kicking you all out. It might be Keith Moon's 21st birthday, but there were still some limits to what could and couldn't happen in a public place.

"You can't leave just yet," John complained. "Keith'd be so disappointed if you weren't around. Plus," he pointed out, "someone'll need to carry Pete back up to your room. Poor boy looks as though he's been swimming in brandy all night." Sure enough, the young guitarist was sweat-soaked and red in the face, and didn't appear to be hearing much of the conversation around him; he wasn't always cognisant of his limits when it came to drinking.

"Bet you five quid our little Peter gets sick on someone," Roger said, holding a hand out to John. The bassist shook it, knowing very well that he was likely to lose his money. Pete had never had a good constitution for drinking, and he thought it quite possible that the man had mixed his liquor with other substances that might increase the effects of the alcohol.

"Make a circle then, lads and lasses," Keith instructed, interrupting his friends' conversation by shoving them aside to make room for another person. You grimaced apologetically to both as the drummer directed you to sit between them, effectively making it impossible for them to continue chatting. The birthday boy didn't like the arrangement that everyone had set themselves in originally, so he shuffled his guests around until he felt satisfied with the distribution – it was just your luck that he put you between two of the more attractive attendees at his party.

"Sorry to interrupt," you murmured, tucking your skirt over your knees as you sat on the floor between them. Roger and John scooted back to give you some space, but you still ended up frequently bumping shoulders with both. Roger eyed you curiously, and you returned his gaze with a sweet smile.

"I'm Y/N, from the road crew," you explained, lowering your voice so as not to compete with Keith as he explained the rules to the game. "I'm a costuming assistant." Roger nodded in acknowledgement; there were plenty of faces he didn't recognize, but yours was one he wanted to remember. To your right, John was thinking the same thing. He sucked in a sharp breath as his knuckles accidentally brushed your exposed ankle, hoping you didn't think he'd done it on purpose.

"'S'alright," you told him. "John, right?"

"Entwistle, yeah," he confirmed, extending a large hand. "I've seen you around backstage once or twice. Think you did a bit of work on my favourite pair of trousers after I busted the seam before a show." Recalling the panicked expression on the bassist's face when he brought in his red flare-bottomed trousers, you let out a tinkling laugh. It had been an easy fix, and John's relief had been evident when you had returned them to him.

"You've got to stop moving around so much on stage, Mr. Entwistle," you teased, elbowing him playfully. "That's the root of your trouble." John picked up on your joke immediately; he was known as the statue of the band, always standing still in the corner of the stage while frontman Roger swung his microphone around, and Pete jumped up and down for the audience's amusement. Before John could respond to your comment, however, Keith shushed everyone with his makeshift microphone.