Friday, November 28, 2008

My God It's Gregory Shaw

"My God It's Gregory Shaw"
by Alana Mohamed

Bellsville. Erase from your head any thoughts of nicely trimmed lawns and white picket fences. Think of withered apartments full of junkies, would-be musicians and high school drop-outs. Picture a place where you held a minimum wage job by day and partied all night long, dancing and drinking with the local bands that didn’t care (or just weren’t good enough).

You’re at a show with Bill, a janitor at the local supermarket where you man the cashier register. You and Bill spot a quirky-looking kid with dirty hair and a long trench coat. He lugs a guitar around and is never without his meek shadow of a friend who could only be distinguished by his half-mohawk, half-mullet hair style. They’re pretty well-known around town, but you don’t know why.

You snicker with Bill as you watch the kid trip over wires and struggle to plug into his amp. He doesn’t look like he eats much.

“Does he eat at all?” you muse to Bill.

Bill shakes his head and says, “I heard he lives off his girlfriend and he’s a junkie. He’ll probably be dead in two months, or whenever she decides to leave him for a real man.” Bill flexes, showing just how muscular he is.

All of a sudden feedback attacks your ears. he kid is on stage with his guitar and his quiet friend clutching a bass. They are joined by their gigantic drummer. You laugh at the sight and leave after ten minutes. The music was horrible; the singing was horrible; the whole set was horrible. You and Bill get drunk and the rest of your night consists mostly of making fun of that shitty band.

Five years later you’re still in your supermarket. The kid passes you by and you stare flabbergasted, knowing his autograph could make you millions. You aren’t alone. A crowd of people gather behind him.

“Gregory Shaw, my God it’s Gregory Shaw!” They scream, while you ring up a box of maxi pads for $7.99.