It all began with that anonymous birthday card. JC's pretty sure it was an early gag gift from one of the guys, but he's not certain, and he's never been able to prove it. He doubts he ever will be, but that's besides the point.
You see, that birthday card is/was the reason JC (and, apparently, Chris, who then told Kevin and Howie) realized that it was approximately one year and three months away from his Big Three-Oh.
"JC!" Chris yells, from his bunk, interrupting JC's internal monologue. "It's Howie for you on the phone!"
JC groans inwardly, but goes to pick it up. "Hi, Howie."
"Oh, honey," Howie soothes -- a tone becoming so familiar that JC wants to scream, "don't sound like that. It's not the end of the world."
Kevin's muttered, "why do you bother lying? He's going to discover the truth in fifteen months," suggests he thinks otherwise, though.
JC bites back a long suffering sigh. This has been going on for two weeks. Howie's sweet, random calls suddenly seem more like signs of paranoia that JC might decide throwing himself off an eighty-storey building is the way to go; Kevin's sudden bouts of almost-friendliness seem lined with hidden meaning like 'welcome to the club, we've just been sentenced to the gallows'; Chris' recent onslaught of pranks are becoming less amusing, and more annoying in a fuck-the-hell-off-Chris-I-don't-need-your-help-to-stay-young kind of way.
"Look, Howie, I appreciate you checking up on me and everything," JC starts, and he can practically hear Howie beam across the phone. It's almost, almost enough to keep him from saying, "but you don't have to do it so often."
"Oh." The confusion in Howie's voice makes JC cringe, and he flops into a chair, squeezing his eyes shut tight when there's a loud, unforgiving farting noise.
"Yeah," JC continues, anyway, because he's used to it by now; he should've seen that one coming. "So, um. Thanks. For, you know, being a friend and stuff. But, yeah."
"It's okay, JC," Howie says slowly, and he's still using that gentle tone that JC wants to shred to pieces. "I'll still be here the next time you need someone to talk to. And so will Kevin, whatever he says. Don't worry," Howie lowers his voice conspiratorially, "his bark is worse than his bite."
He's a bitter old bastard and he knows it, JC clarifies, in his head, and sinks backwards thankfully when Howie hangs up. He's been sending JC books that JC isn't even sure are in production anymore and complaining about the shit that's getting published nowadays, in a tone of voice that suggests 'nowadays' have nothing on the 'good old days', which suggests that they're so old now they're in a different era altogether.
JC snorts. They've been making pop music for the past ten years, but when you're thirty you're in an entirely different league from all the 'kids' making almost the very same pop music.
Out of all of them, though, Chris seems to be taking it the hardest. The responsibility of showing the next to-be-30 syncer The Way is taking its toll. JC isn't sure, but he's convinced that Chris has spent at least three nights this week up pacing, trying to think of pranks that will keep JC on his toes, and keep his aging mind active. That is, JC's aging mind, not Chris', because Chris, despite being five years JC's senior, is not aging. Nope, no siree, not him.
JC shakes his head and sighs, enjoying his moment of peace, wondering how he's going to convince Chris to stop trying so hard. But then his cell rings before he can come up with anything, and Howie's name blinks on his screen. JC nearly screams but settles for running his hand through his hair. Then he pauses, tugs, and looks around the bus in disbelief. He should have known...
"GODDAMMIT, KIRKPATRICK!" he yells, his cell tumbling to his floor as he scrambles to his feet, almost knocking a stack of new paperbacks from Kevin ver in the process, "DID YOU ADD FUCKING GLUE TO MY SHAMPOO?"
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You see, that birthday card is/was the reason JC (and, apparently, Chris, who then told Kevin and Howie) realized that it was approximately one year and three months away from his Big Three-Oh.
"JC!" Chris yells, from his bunk, interrupting JC's internal monologue. "It's Howie for you on the phone!"
JC groans inwardly, but goes to pick it up. "Hi, Howie."
"Oh, honey," Howie soothes -- a tone becoming so familiar that JC wants to scream, "don't sound like that. It's not the end of the world."
Kevin's muttered, "why do you bother lying? He's going to discover the truth in fifteen months," suggests he thinks otherwise, though.
JC bites back a long suffering sigh. This has been going on for two weeks. Howie's sweet, random calls suddenly seem more like signs of paranoia that JC might decide throwing himself off an eighty-storey building is the way to go; Kevin's sudden bouts of almost-friendliness seem lined with hidden meaning like 'welcome to the club, we've just been sentenced to the gallows'; Chris' recent onslaught of pranks are becoming less amusing, and more annoying in a fuck-the-hell-off-Chris-I-don't-need-your-help-to-stay-young kind of way.
"Look, Howie, I appreciate you checking up on me and everything," JC starts, and he can practically hear Howie beam across the phone. It's almost, almost enough to keep him from saying, "but you don't have to do it so often."
"Oh." The confusion in Howie's voice makes JC cringe, and he flops into a chair, squeezing his eyes shut tight when there's a loud, unforgiving farting noise.
"Yeah," JC continues, anyway, because he's used to it by now; he should've seen that one coming. "So, um. Thanks. For, you know, being a friend and stuff. But, yeah."
"It's okay, JC," Howie says slowly, and he's still using that gentle tone that JC wants to shred to pieces. "I'll still be here the next time you need someone to talk to. And so will Kevin, whatever he says. Don't worry," Howie lowers his voice conspiratorially, "his bark is worse than his bite."
He's a bitter old bastard and he knows it, JC clarifies, in his head, and sinks backwards thankfully when Howie hangs up. He's been sending JC books that JC isn't even sure are in production anymore and complaining about the shit that's getting published nowadays, in a tone of voice that suggests 'nowadays' have nothing on the 'good old days', which suggests that they're so old now they're in a different era altogether.
JC snorts. They've been making pop music for the past ten years, but when you're thirty you're in an entirely different league from all the 'kids' making almost the very same pop music.
Out of all of them, though, Chris seems to be taking it the hardest. The responsibility of showing the next to-be-30 syncer The Way is taking its toll. JC isn't sure, but he's convinced that Chris has spent at least three nights this week up pacing, trying to think of pranks that will keep JC on his toes, and keep his aging mind active. That is, JC's aging mind, not Chris', because Chris, despite being five years JC's senior, is not aging. Nope, no siree, not him.
JC shakes his head and sighs, enjoying his moment of peace, wondering how he's going to convince Chris to stop trying so hard. But then his cell rings before he can come up with anything, and Howie's name blinks on his screen. JC nearly screams but settles for running his hand through his hair. Then he pauses, tugs, and looks around the bus in disbelief. He should have known...
"GODDAMMIT, KIRKPATRICK!" he yells, his cell tumbling to his floor as he scrambles to his feet, almost knocking a stack of new paperbacks from Kevin ver in the process, "DID YOU ADD FUCKING GLUE TO MY SHAMPOO?"