OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

twenty-eight.

DECEMBER, 1990, OLYMPIA, WA

        "WHEN'S YOUR BIRTHDAY again?" Dave asked from the kitchen. He appeared from behind the rows of cabinets, a jar of mayonnaise in one hand and a butter knife in the other. His face was pinched as he asked his question.

Reagan was sitting on his and Kurt's couch, MTV playing a continuous circuit of hit music videos from the television. She'd been engrossed in Warrant's popular video, the lewdly allusive "Cherry Pie," wondering how a bunch of guys with teased hair had managed to nab a knockout like Bobbie Brown for filming, but Dave interrupted her thoughts. Dave guffawed when he saw what she was watching.

"Are you seriously watching that?" he smirked. He said it like he had never appreciated the work of at least one lite-metal hair band in his life.

"I was just thinking that the girl in the video is really pretty," Reagan explained, gesturing to the screen where Bobbie Brown shook and shimmied her hips in a skimpy red top and daisy dukes.

Dave inched into the living room, craning his neck so he could get a glimpse of the scene unfolding on the television screen. He made his evaluation and then shrugged.

"She's hot. But not as hot as you," he simpered.

Reagan scoffed. "She's a model, don't be ridiculous. I'd bet all the savings in my bank account that you'd rather have her crawling into your bed at night than me."

"Can I have both of you crawling into my bed at night?"

Reagan lobbed a composition notebook that sat on the coffee table at Dave. He dodged the notebook as it sailed over his head, hit the wall, and fell to the floor.

"I'm kidding," he laughed. "I just want you in my bed at night. No model music video blondes for me. Just one gorgeous redhead who I'm slightly afraid of. And hey, you might want to get that notebook. Those are Kurt's lyrics."

Reagan got up and retrieved the notebook that she'd thrown, picking it up carefully in hopes that she had not damaged its already battered spine. Thankfully, it was intact, along with all of Kurt's scrawlings. She made her way back to the couch and flipped the notebook open curiously.

"Does he share them with you?" she questioned, turning over a coffee stained page that displayed a collection of graphic doodles and weird Kurt-like mantras.

"Sometimes. I wouldn't look through it without his permission. If he catches you, you're going to wake up in the middle of the night with a doll hanging over you, bleeding from its eyes."

Reagan cocked an eyebrow as she closed the notebook. "I'm guessing this has happened to you before?"

"Nope, but it's going to happen to you if you read his journal."

She laid the notebook gingerly back in its original place, deciding that she too would have been angry if someone read her inner thoughts. Kurt deserved his privacy, even though it would have been a treat to delve into his bizarre mind. As confusing as he could be, he was also talented, and she wanted to see how such talented flourished. But she respected him too much to pry.

"You didn't answer my question," Dave called, continuing to make the sandwich he was dressing up on the kitchen counter.

"What question?" Reagan couldn't recall what he'd inquired about. She was too busy thinking about the snatches of lyrics that she'd seen in Kurt's notebook, amused by certain verses and budding song titles.

"About your birthday. I can't remember when you said it was. When is it?"

"Oh. June ninth. Why do you ask?"