Dollar Short
untitled
We were in his car again, thrashing down poor-lit roads in the mile-deep night. It wasn't really his car as much as it was his father's, but he always easily pretended it was his. Everyone just went with that – it was the cheapest and most convenient means of transportation; his father's company payed the gas bill. Easy.
In the fancy, brand-name, manufacturer-installed CD player was Pearl Jam's album Ten, their debut, a music milestone, and a favorite of both of us – for him more so than for me. Song number three, Alive, was playing. With all that invisible silence around us, it seemed as if we were floating in a tiny bubble of music lost in a wide vacuum of nothing. Bliss.
“Did you know that it was called Dollar Short before Vedder wrote lyrics to it?” I said, shattering the silence between us.
“Hmm?” he absently replied, weary eyes peering through the windshield.
“Alive.” I said and pointed vaguely to the music in the car.
“Really.” he glanced at me, and then aimed his focus back on the road.
“Yeah. Vedder got hold of an instrumental cassette by a band that needed a singer, liked what he heard, wrote lyrics, went to an audition, and well, the rest is history, I guess.” I explained.
“Really.” he sighed, and nodded slightly.
“Yeah.” I breathed, shuffling around lazily in the shotgun seat. Then we let the music take us over again for a while. Song four came on, Why Go.
“This song...” I started, but it was obvious from the bored look on his face that he wasn't interested. “Nevermind.” I sighed.
We just listened to the song, something we're better at anyway.
“How do you know all that stuff?” he spoke suddenly yet calmly, to the tone of the night.
“I read.” I replied.
“You read.” he mumbled.
“Yeah.” I said.
“Good for you.” he mocked.
I nodded in agreement to the darkness ahead of us, and smiled.
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