His name is Alex. He is holding his guitar and walking through a desert under a sky that is orange at the bottom and blueish at the top. He feels like crying. He stops and looks around. The stars appear one by one without a pattern and they shine like little diamonds. He lies down. He plays and the wind messes up his long, long hair.
He wants to have a punk band but he'd never get a mohawk. Things have gotten hard at home, at school. It was all so easy when he was a little kid and played and lied his way out of trouble. He remembers being ten. He falls asleep with a tune in his head. It was the year of 1982. A star was born in a cool, rather dark hospital room
where Andrea, four years old was sitting down on a vinyl armchair, staring at the jell-o cup on the metal plate next to the chicken salad sandwich and the tall plastic glass halfways full with room temperature lemonade powder mix. As she quietly waited to hold the star in her arms, the sandwich got chewed up and the drink turned into a drop at the end of the glass. The jell-o went straight to the trash. She couldn't say a word. She was much too bashful. By the time she saw the star in the eye, her thighs had stuck to the chair. She really didn't mind. It was a boy. She doesn't remember how they called him, but she named him Scott and he thought it was a good name. Later on, in his school days, Scott had to work his way hard, for he seemed all but a star. He had some friends, he shared some laughs, but nothing really happend the way he had expected. When he was seven, he met a boy who claimed to be a star as well. His name was Paco. They became friends and rode the rough path together listening to MC Hammer and The New Kids on The block. They attended the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles premiere together. They met an older girl on the beach who said they were too cute. They weren't. They were freaky and rather scary when they got mad at the people who were suspects of having touched their manga. They had some fights, some time apart, but when the times were somewhat special, they were l ways side by side...Just like when Paco discovered at age 15 that trees had leaves and stars were cute like little diamonds after getting green contact lenses, because they were out of clear. Andrea, on the other side, grew wrong. Way too skinny, way too lonely, way too weird. She danced only in front of the mirror, only if being alone. She was the only one who seized the specials at the video store and watched three movies in a day to get the fourth one free. She would have preferred having friends, going for adventure. Like the boy with long green hair in highschool. His name was Rodrigo. Rodrigo was a rebel. He walked around the halls with long tough steps. He was a drummer, he had a band. He had the best band. Alex played the guitar and they were punks without a mohawk and they lived some glorious days as local rock scene personalities, and so when dawn would find Andrea watching a rare version of a rotten film, somewhere else, in a better place, Rodrigo was trying to remember his name drinking the last beer and eating something misterious found in the depths of a lonely fridge at the third party of the century in the month of august. Alex was finding life hard. Things were changing, the band fell apart. Rodrigo was the best friend of every band. He became a local roadie. He became a staff gem. And later,a major sound engineer. But he couldn't care less. He needs to play again. It is dark and noisy. Rodrigo sits at the edge of a bed too small in a room too small in a house too small where eleven people live. And while he sheds a tear missing his drum days, Andrea dropps half de a don a dirty vintage carpet. Victim of a violet fluid. A smile drawn in her face. The rumbling sounds of techno, the chills of memories. She feels she's finally someone. Far away across the phone line Scott wonders why she topped talking. He'd never been so worried in fifteen years. Paco sits across the room and wishes nothing bad ever to happen to a member of his family. He writes a song. Scott writes a song. They make a band. Alex sits in a barber shop and gets his long long long hair cut. His friends don't know him when he goes by. And he doesn't say is he. He's in a hurry all the time, going places he doesn't like. Rodrigo has a fine job.
Rodrigo has a cute girl. But he couldn't care less. He needs to play again. He works at a studio, there's a guy wondering around from time to time, helping and learning with curious eyes. Soon enough Rodrigo finds out he's brilliant. His name is Carlos.
He doesn't talk much. He's only eighteen and he says he plays drums. Rodrigo can't think of drums. If he had a band, he'd play the guitar. He's never done it before
but what the hell. Carlos had a band and fell apart. He likes going with his mom
to the supermarket and kicking people out of his room. He is the king amongst his friends. He loves getting drunk twice a week. Rodrigo only sees him from time to time and thinks he's real quiet. Andrea and Rodrigo finally met on a day none of hem remembers. They became friends. And then better friends. And then one day Rodrigo thought it was time to make the band he thought of when he saw Andrea and thought she was agressive enough. Andrea has never told Rodrigo how cool she thought he was on the days she seemed all but agressive. She has never sang before.
He bought a guitar and played it for the first time on the first rehearsal afternoon.
Scott had long been with Paco in their band. They had drown in multicolor fluids
many times by the time Scott brought his keyboard into Rodrigo's bedroom. Alex came as an old friend He didn't understand how Scott was to be a part of the band,
being so young. Scott couldn't talk to Alex without thinking how old he was. The songs started popping. The love started growing. They needed a bass Paco grabbed one for the first time. Carlos answered Rodrigo's call. He appeared at the door with his drum set. None of them ever talk about how they met. They just play. Alex is thinking in getting a mohawk.
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