Brainstorm

She walked hastily through the door, wishing in truth to leave the building. To think she arrived early in the day with all the expectation, praying inwardly to be placed at her desired spot of election. All these matters came to a halt though, when it was announced that she would be taking charge of the American division for one full year. The worst part was having to endure the congratulating comments and approving smiles from her peers, all of whom craved her luck of not having to travel several miles to her final destination, aware of its consequent exhaustion. But she could care less of those concerns. Disappointment invaded her own self. She would not fulfill her dream of working in the British division and being able to witness her favorite acts in full display. Other thing that made her miserable was the impossibility of returning to that glorious past, those cheerful London days spent in his company, sharing moments of intimacy and illicit joy, listening to his words of wisdom acquired with age and experience. Every single one of these thoughts throbbed painfully on her pride, having no other choice than to set her mind on the days ahead of her.

Outside the building, close by, there was a series of benches which reminded of a small park. Seeking for calm solitude, Melissa took a seat and contemplated in silence the deserted street ahead, not taking notice of the individual wandering around the space by the benches. She could not believe her bad fortune, questioning every mind-existing deity their reason for selecting this path for her, assured of their contempt towards her own person. So immerse was Melissa in her notions, she was unaware of the person asking if she felt fine. "Hey, you alright?" "I'm sorry, who are you to ask? You don't know me." This idea crossed her mind after hearing the man leaning over her. She preferred decency over anger instead and answered: "Yeah, I'm okay." " You sure? You were stamping your foot on the ground so I thought you were upset over something." "No, I'm fine, really." But then she heard herself babbling nonstop in spite of her trying to control herself. "It's just that life's so unfair!" "Why's that?" The man sat closely so as to pay attention to the girl's sayings. "I mean, why is it when you feel you got everything in order, things are goin' smoothly, something always gets in the way and fucks up the whole thing?" "Shit, man. That's a question every human being always does. Wish I had an answer." "Well, maybe my problem's not that bad. It's more about not getting what you want but still..." He took a quick puff from his cigarette before adding: "But...?" Melissa hesitated over opening up to this drifter, looking at him for the first time after starting their improvised conversation. He seemed rather young, 35 at most. Curly, disheveled, dusky hair falling over his eyes, which were big, smokey, as dark as his apparel: black t-shirt, dark blue jeans, black worn-out boots. Thick sideburns along with an acute cigarette odor complemented the rough image. With such an appearance, Melissa should have kept her decorum and leave away from that perfect stranger. It was a desperate need for a friendly ear, though, what kept her from getting up and departing.

"Ok. The thing is, I have this project on rock. Rock music, that is, concerning the American scene. And I have a major problem with American rock, since everything nowadays considered rock here's just pure shit." "Uh huh." "I mean, come one! Fall Out Boy, Panic at the Disco, 30 Seconds to Mars? Theyr're all a whole bunch of crap! What happened to the Sonic Youths, the Nirvanas, the Smashing Pumpkins, the Pixies? Where have all the great American bands go to?" "After a moment of attentive silence, the listener commented: "Well Garbage is still out there, and so is Sonic Youth. But yeah, the scene's reached a low point. At least commercially it has." "So basically the scene has gone bonkers. The Pistols were prophets: There's no future." "On the mainstream probably. Not so sure on the underground." Melissa reflected, quite for a long time, which seemed several minutes. "Hey maybe that's true? Why didn't I consider the underground scene? Oh right, I don't know any bands. Maybe The Killers and the White Stripes but other than that..." The young man seemed suddenly excited on this uncertainty, for he left behind his bland posture and bared a huge boyish chuckle, exhibiting a hollow space between two of his teeth. "Definitely a homeless dude", thought Melissa matter-of-factly. The low, raspy, and husky voice didn't help much to improve his image either. "Oh, but there's several out there. You wouldn't believe how many there are. Besides, those two you just mentioned are technically not underground anymore." "Well then, examples?" "Well, there's The Dandy Warhols for instance. One of the best right now. Who else? Well Nine Inch Nails is still around." "Oh yeah! NIN's awesome! Can't believe I didn't remember them, of course I'll write them down." "Um, there's plenty: the Brian Jonestown Massacre, The Black Angels, The Warlocks, The Kills, The Von Bondies, Darker My Love, Spinnerette, The Black Keys, Cold War Kids, Black Kids, you name it." "Wow! You're such a pro, dude! How come you know so much?" "Nah, I just really like music." "But I mean, you should work for the Rolling Stone...if it was as it used to be, of course. Or at least in the music industry." "Well...oh shit. I gotta go."

He looked dubious in leaving; the conversation had become interesting enough to extend it. He got up from the bench, threw the half-over cigarette to the ground and stepped over it as Melissa stared at the street with a discrete grin on her lips. "Hey man, thanks for naming the bands, it'll be of great help. But really: thanks for listening, even though we don't know each other." "No problem, girl. Good luck on your project!" As he left, there was a sense of relief. Even though she still could not accept the fact that she would need to stay in a country she disliked, some things were bearable. And there was people who made possible to think optimistically of Americans. "At least some of there are nice. Thank goodness not all of them suck", she thought, while getting up and walking towards the place she abandoned awhile ago.