OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

eleven.

AS ONE LARGE group, they all decided to go to the Comet Tavern, a bar that was only up the road and snugly located in the Pike/Pine neighborhood of Seattle. While the boys took Nirvana's van to get there, Reagan took her car, cursing herself for the duration of the drive.

She tried to convince herself into feeling the lull of sleepiness, but it never came. The fiery state of excitement that had overcome Reagan while she'd played drums had yet to burn out in her veins, and contrary to how she wanted to feel, she was charged with energy.

She made a deal with herself as she pulled into the parking lot of the Comet. She wouldn't get drunk, though deep down inside, she craved an alcohol-induced haze. She would have to stay sober enough to drive home. Otherwise, she'd end up passed out in her friends's van.

Reagan sat in the seat of her car, listening for the sound of slamming doors and babbling voices. She would be the only girl there, something that did not bother her, but instead amused her. The only thing that could have soiled this side of her mood would have been if Kurt invited Tobi to meet them.

After a short once-over in the mirror of her sun visor, Reagan climbed out of her car and trekked across the gravelly parking lot. When she entered the tavern, she was welcomed cheerfully by Krist, Kurt and the other straggling members of the Melvins and the Dwarves.

Dave, the new drummer, was there too. His eyes flashed to Reagan as she walked through the door.

"I'm buying all your drinks tonight," Krist declared as Reagan sat down at one of the high top tables they surrounded.

"Just one drink," Reagan chided, though she smiled.

"One drink? No way, are you fucking crazy? How about four or five? Maybe six?"

"Krist, are you trying to get me drunk and take me home?"

Krist tugged Reagan into a side hug, grinning ear to ear. "No, I'm trying to thank you for being the best stand-in drummer we could have ever asked for. Right, Kurt?"

Kurt nodded his head, his smile mundane. Unlike the rest of his fellow musicians, he was the only one who looked tired. The rims of purple beneath his eyes appeared even more obvious with him slumped in his seat, his chin in his fingerless-gloved hand.

"What do you want?" Krist pressed.

"A beer, I guess," Reagan requested. "Any kind is fine. Just no IPA's."

"I almost forgot. You're a pale ale kind of girl. Kurt, what do you want?"

"I'll pass," Kurt said, rubbing his eye.

"You sure?"

Kurt nodded his head again, only willing to communicate in head bobs. He averted his eyes down to the table and began picking at the loose paint shavings.

Krist pointed to Dave, who spouted off his order readily. Reagan didn't look at him. She mimicked Kurt and turned her interest to the table, scraping what was left of her chewed fingernail against the polish.

Their silence didn't persist as Dave leaned into Kurt and asked him a question that Reagan did not hear. They started to talk, most likely about Nirvana from what Reagan could tell. She was happier when Krist arrived back to the table balancing three beers in his hands, setting them down gingerly in front of his friends.

It didn't take long for Reagan's steadfast pledge of not getting drunk to be cast aside. After she'd drained her beer, anxiously guzzling it as she thought of work, Krist had been hasty in purchasing her a new one.

She found it funny that although she was so concerned about work, she had the nerve to continue drinking. It was a paradoxical way of thinking, but it was as stupid and reckless as Reagan had yet to be in years. The taste of alcohol tainting her breath felt like a form of sweet revenge against her parents.