OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

four.

            THE WARM TASTE of smoke slipping down the back of Reagan's throat did little for her nerves. She was on her third cigarette and didn't feel any less keyed up than she had when her mother and father had told her the bad news. Richard was now jobless.

Reagan took another pull off of the Marlboro between her lips, reminded of earlier in the day when she had scolded Kate for wanting to try a cigarette. Maybe she should have taken her own advice. But that moment felt like ages ago. A whole century had passed since then and now, Reagan was keen to continue waltzing down a path of micro-self destruction.

The cigarette was burning closer down to its end. She could feel the hot ember nearing the edge of her mouth, flaming brightly against the swallowing dark of the night. It should have been her last one, but even she knew she'd be digging another one out of the pack within minutes. She had nothing else better to do but to smoke until the ends of her cigarettes scalded her fingertips.

"Well, damn. You really do get the shit end of the stick, Abner."

Reagan's eyes, having gone nearly crossed in examining the orange glow of her cigarette, glanced to her right side. Her friend Chrisann, better known as Chris to those she was close to, was sitting next to her on the set of porch steps Reagan had found refuge on.

Reagan had not known where to go after she'd learned about Richard's loss of work. But predictably, she'd ended up at Scott Miller's house.

Scott's house was a sort of vagabond shelter for anyone and everyone who came running through it. He operated his band out of the house's garage and sometimes the living room when a show was to be put on.

The lineup of band members was a constantly changing circulation of different musicians scattered throughout Olympia. Chrisann played bass for the band, the cheekily named Yellow Fellow, and she was a rare permanent fixture. Scott would have never let her go. She was too ridiculously good at what she did, so good that other amateur bands had sought her out with tenacity.

Reagan had first met Chris in downtown Olympia after a distinctly riotous show that had ended with the band's drummer punching the lead singer in the face. Reagan had been amused by the display of idiotic violence, and it seemed fit when Chris had bumped into Reagan and clamored on about how the show had been incredible. Reagan had never been more grateful to have been accidentally elbowed in the ribs by someone. She'd been close to Chris ever since.

Reagan surmised that Chris was the one friend out of a thousand acquaintances that truly meant something to her. Chris was easygoing and fun to be around. She would have keeled over dead before starting drama and her musical knowledge was as expansive as Reagan's own.

If anything, Chris was more of a ruffian boy than a girl anyways. She always sported her hair in a scruffy, short mop and donned baggy clothing from the men's section of Walmart. She was attracted to girls and the very thought of dating a man was horrid to her.

Reagan loved this attribute of Chris's. It made her who she was and strangely enough, led Reagan to being even more comfortable around her.

"I'd agree with you, but then I'd feel like a selfish fuck," Reagan said, exhaling and stubbing out the remains of her smoke on the concrete.

"Why?" Chris snorted. "You're the least selfish person I know. You bust your ass every single day for your family and ask for nothing in return."

"Yeah, but I'd probably be screwed without them anyways. So why complain? I'm only helping myself."

Reagan pulled her knees in closer to her chest, regretting that her long legs were bare and exposed to the chill drifting in the air. It may have only been September, but a brisk breeze had befallen Olympia. It must have been a warning for what the approaching winter was to be like.