How We Survive: Arc 2: Chapter 1 W.I.P.
#7 of How We Survive
Anyway here you go
How We Survive: Arc 2: Public Transit
Chapter 1: Tomorrow Untrodden................
The sun was setting over Plano and the next train into the city was approaching the platform. The chime of the nearby train crossing couldn't be heard over the ear buds Alan wore, connected to the cheap stolen MP3 player that fed angry words of a tired out rebellion into his ears. He bobbed his head along to the bass drum kick as he boarded the yellow train car, choosing a seat by the window to view the same scenery he'd seen so many times before.
Alongside the railroad ran the high way, across from which were various buildings, darkened by the shadow cascading over them from the sun's descent to the other side of the earth. The glass was cold to the touch. The air outside was crisp from fall air, leaves only just beginning to turn brown that day. Alan let out a content sigh as his eyes focused in on the reflection of himself in the window. A fox that looked much too old for his age of 18 stared back into the dark brown eyes. His orange fur was well kept but could use a combing and shampooing. He wore a double collar faux leather jacket that he had adorned with a variety of metal spikes and studs, patches he had made of his favorite bands and anarchistic slogans. The front baring a protest chant of "No Justice No Peace". A studded belt held up black cargo pants leading down to worn out tactical boots from a thrift store, just a size too big. In the seat next to him was a guitar case littered in stickers that had all seen better days.
The train's muffled automated announcement ceased the young punk's day dreaming and he removed his headphones to listen for his stop, Deep Ellum station. The fox made his way off the train and platform, nose stinging from the cold breeze. Following the familiar signs along the street, Alan made his way to the front glass doors of the small club and bar he often played his shows at. The building's front was an eyesore to say the least. The windows were rendered useless from the amount of band posters covering them. It didn't matter if weather wore them down; another would soon take its place form some other band touring through. The bricks were cracked like the concrete used to lay them, red, brown, and aged. A fluorescent "BAR" sign was bolted above the door. It was never polished, the glass was cracked in a few spots, and it flickered on and off hopelessly trying to stay lit. Alan pushed against the door with his shoulder only to find it wouldn't budge. He peaked inside the door, squinting hard but not able to see much. Not wanting to put his guitar down or remove his other hand from his pocket, he reluctantly bumped his forehead against the glass door a few times. A suffice alternative to knocking. Taking a few steps back, Alan shivered from another cold gust. Luckily he wasn't made to wait long as he heard the door being unlocked and opened. The sun's glare reflected off the door, briefly blinding the punk who shut his eyes and took a step back. Alan reluctantly took his hand from his pocket and rubbed his eyes a bit. A blurred, quickly clearing image of a familiar canine stood in the doorway. Dennis, a coyote, was the bartender of the venue. He lived on the second floor and tended to the usual maintenance of the club.
"Morning," he managed to say through his yawning. His maw opened wide, teeth and tongue being proudly displayed. He was dirty, uncombed, informal, but always able to put a smile on the fox's face. "Evening, Dennis," the fox reflexively responded to their usual greeting ritual. It should be noted for most of this community, the day doesn't begin until the sun is beginning its descent. Therefore, as the streetlights begin to break through the darkness of dusk, the punks begin to stir awake.
Alan didn't wait for Dennis to move and he slipped inside the building. Shivering the cold away, he made his way to the back of the venue. The club was nameless. Known only by its reputation of harboring hooligans off the streets for a night of loud music and socializing about a revolution they'll never quite attempt to make happen. The walls were painted over with a dark maroon, along with the stray band poster or sticker that didn't make it to the window outside. The bar was directly across from the front door. Not much alcohol was sold due to the uprising Straight Edge trend making its way through the community, but there were plenty of poisons to choose from regardless. There were few tables and matching chairs of silver and red that gave the place a more crowded feel even when no one was there. The stage was just to the right of the bar, only a foot off the ground, no more than 10 feet wide and the same length away from the wall. The door to the back room just was between the bar and the stage. Alan chose to sit on the couch at the opposite wall from the stage, donated by whoever left it in the back alley way. He laid his guitar case on the floor and unlatched it, opening the cover to reveal an unbranded black guitar that showed plenty of war scars from the days before Alan could get his hands on a decent case. Sniffing, he picked up the instrument and began tuning. He tuned a half step down, as usual, flat from worn strings that just wouldn't tune. Just the way he liked it. Dennis cleaned the tables and bar as he listened to Alan warm up his guitar. The sound of guitar chords, a spray bottle, and a fox humming echoed throughout the small venue. The sun's rays peeked through holes in posters on the front windows. Dust floating in the light. It was a calm morning. The perfect start to what was sure to be an incredible night of rebellion and maybe even a little bit of young romance. For Alan, there wasn't much to say for either of those things. He wasn't rebellious, or at least didn't go out of his way to be. And he sure as hell wasn't romantic. In fact he hated it.
"Only posers fall in love," he'd quote. It wasn't really a motto for him. He just wanted to sound tough. He would never admit that though. Truth was, Alan, much like plenty of other punks in the community, were just angry and depressed. Gathering each weekend to get all that pent up anger out. Dawning anarchy jackets they'd take off in front of their parents. Still going to school, too afraid to drop out, instead spending lunch carving dead end slogans into the restroom stall walls. Punk wasn't dead, but it wasn't alive and well either.
Alan found himself lost in various thoughts as he fell asleep on the couch in the corner of the small club. He was up earlier than usual anyway. Spending his nights roaming the streets with his friends, and his days sleeping away on a futon back at home.
Home was complicated subject for the young punker. He lived just outside the city in a small suburb in a home too big for who all lived there. Just his father and himself. His mother had long left and his father wasn't cruel enough to kick him to the streets even after dropping out during senior year of high school.
Though, home was really just wherever Alan managed to find somewhere to eat and sleep. Rather that was the futon at home, the squatter commune downtown, or ex-lover's houses. Yes, the fox who doesn't believe in love still has his string of romances, or lack thereof.
Today, it was here, a place where music and rebellion could thrive even if just for a night at a time. Punks, mods, squatters, and other tribes could come together just to let out all the anger the world filled them with. More than a music venue or bar, it was a haven.
Alan's evening dreaming was interrupted when a familiar paw gently stroked his cheek. Opening his eyes, he saw the one person who made him break his anti-sentimental oath.