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Thom/Beck	By : VinylTap Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Radiohead Views: 2950 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know Beck or any of the members of Radiohead. This story is a work of fiction, and I make no money or profit from it.

Chapter List
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Thom wasn’t one to believe in idol worship— but if he had, this would be it. Stipey choosing him personally, of his own accord, to open for his tour, was any fan’s unreal dream manifested. Thom had been an REM fan since long before Radiohead were a band.
He slowly walked backward to the wall, the sound in the hallway having gone out. Entirely shaken. Both hands coming slowly to grip the receiver, like he didn’t trust the strength of just one.
He slumped against the wall, Ed and Jonny’s eyes following with vast interest, both bewildered, Ed whispered to Jonny, “Did they say Michael Stipe?”
Ages passed before Thom could get a word out. This couldn’t be right. He must’ve misunderstood.
Could be his imagination, but that really did sound like Michael Stipe’s voice. He flushed completely, meeting Jonny’s gaze with shock.
Jonny stared back, hands idle at his sides.
Thom had been silent so long Michael spoke again, “Hello?”
Thom coughed, he felt his ears burn, his fingertips at the receiver were damp. “This— is Thom—” he managed, one hand now nervously going through his hair.
He was so far awestruck that whatever Michael said next flew right past him. He’d not even realized he weren’t listening. He half smiled, half close to tears, his pulse went hard in his chest.
“It’s bloody Michael Stipe,” Jonny whispered to Ed.
--
Leigh had Beck on his knees, hands gripping the edge of the bath, hair pouring wet under a stream of water. She was stood at his side with the showerhead, one hand in his hair, she’d given him highlights and now she was rinsing them after. That sort of thing he was curious to see, she’d done them sort of at the ends of his hair, not going all the way up to the scalp.
Maybe they could cut it a little. Nothing too drastic. Just layer a bit. At work, everyone remained professional, but she knew she was hanging by a thread. It’s one thing to be fired for negligence and bad work ethic, but being fired for sheer incompetence is far more humbling a blow. It’s psychologically difficult to keep working hard when you might not be there tomorrow— when you know firsthand what it is to have your hard work lead to failure, and you nevertheless don’t want to believe you’re incapable of doing well. That even when you’d worked your hardest, it really was no good.
Thank god for professionalism, if not for that she’d have no dignity left. Everything with a method, you smile and press on enough and you deceive yourself into thinking everything’s fine. Don’t think about it, keep carrying on, she’d always been to work early, she’d always stayed on task, it was rewarding of its own accord because she felt she must be doing that bit well.
It was inevitable, though, to lose confidence after all this. She forced herself forth, but part of her wanted to run, and she told herself in her mind, I want to run because of my failure, not because this isn’t my passion. Everyone would have loved to tell her she didn’t have to force herself to do this, as though it wasn’t really what she loved to do.
She couldn’t help wondering, though, what if I’m only fooling myself?
Beck really did like her style. The women he’d liked weren’t simply pretty, they were also really cool. Leigh didn’t feel particularly cool— but Beck had also called himself a loser.
When you’re a kid, you think that when you reach adulthood, you have this job, and you go to your job, and that’s your life. That’s not what it’s like, though, because there’s always uncertainty. You don’t get it yet when you’re fired in your twenties and you’re told you don’t make the cut, you take it personally and ask why it happened to you. You could always lose your job, though. That’s why something like tenure is so highly sought after.
You could always be stepped on, and it doesn’t have to be fair, there really are highers-up who will strike you down and fire you and kick you if they could, because that’s how the world works. Doesn’t happen everywhere or always, but it really isn’t so unusual, and it really isn’t as personal to you as you might think. It is those who had stepped courageously forth and tried to make it where the stakes were high who will know this sort of failure, and those who’d never tried who’ll still think you grew up and had a job and that’s that.
At twenty-five, Leigh had no idea. She wondered why it happened to her and not to anyone else she knew at work. She had no idea that here with this failure was her rude awakening to the real world. Step forth, by all means, keep going, keep going.
You really want to be a designer, then guess you’ll just have to be one, Beck had said, and it gave her inexplicable courage, she wanted to cry and didn’t know what for. He just didn’t understand. How could he? He knew nothing of what her field was like. He was no expert on design. He could say he'd liked her style, because he wasn’t in a position to really evaluate. It were those people who gave you the hard truth to whom you should listen, she thought, not those who'd shown you tenderness because they'd liked you personally.
She wouldn’t allow herself illusions after that; had it not been enough, the hard truth to be formally and explicitly informed she had so little talent it did the business better were she gone— like it were serious enough, it mattered enough that highers-up just couldn’t take that risk—
Beck and Leigh couldn’t quite fit a chair in the small bathroom, they had to take out the trash can and laundry bin first, Beck had to sit on the chair cross-legged or his legs wouldn’t fit. Leigh stood at his side, carefully trimming, wispy ends of his hair falling wet to the floor. Despite everything, there was something inwardly thrilling about it, she wanted to make him so cute—
“Do my wardrobe for Lollapalooza,” Beck asked, and Leigh paled, “That’s in a couple of months…!”
“Tough shit for you,” Beck smirked, “I don’t want a lame wardrobe.”
“Who cares what you want,” she replied, and Beck murmured that he cared what he wanted.
Now he and Justin were both sat across from her, waiting to see what they’d be made to wear. “I don’t wanna design stuff for Justin,” Leigh said, “he sucks.” Justin’s brow furrowed. He scoffed, “Why would I wanna wear stuff you came up with in the first place?”
“There, that…!” Beck suddenly called, the two chair legs he’d had up midair slammed gracelessly on the floor as he leaned over the kitchen table, he had one finger tapping a document Leigh had made.
“What’s that, sailor suit?” Justin squinted, and you could tell he liked it despite not wanting to.
By then, Leigh had lost too much confidence to actually argue that one of her ideas was less good than another, because she felt they all sucked. She let them grab at the sketch and convene with each other.
“No, it’s like, navy regalia…” she murmured, not trying to imagine the sort of evaluation she’d get for that at work.
“She gonna have to like, measure me?” Justin muttered to Beck, and Leigh shot back, “You think I want to fucking measure you?”
“She has to measure everyone,” Beck said, his hair really did look cute. She’d not done anything drastic, only cut it a little, so it was straighter across and a little shorter in the front. The highlights really looked good on him, too, though it wouldn’t work for the ‘60s look if that’s what he still wanted.
“Bow tie, though,” he said, “this needs a bow tie.”
“Yeah, bow tie, definitely,” Justin chimed in, momentarily forgetting to be a dick.
She took the document back, biting her lip, visibly thinking. “Yeah, okay. And you know what, maybe like—” She looked up at Beck, then Justin, “—like, sideburns—”
By then she was back to sketching, Beck grinned, trying to see.
Beck was very close to the few people to whom he did open up. At twenty-five, he very much listened to his mother, though Bibbe would say he was independent and did what he wanted to do. This was true, as well; but he still spent a lot of time at her house, he had listened to her like he’d listened to Al Hansen, his grandfather—
—without ever consciously meaning to. You don’t realize who remains in your mind through the span of your life, and that you’re really acting not through them, but through your perception of them. Al and Bibbe and Channing and Beck were genuine artists, whether any of them really chose this on their own.
Beck and Channing had audited courses, it wasn’t really something they spoke of, and sometimes you didn't speak of things because you knew nothing good would come of it: even if you’d done nothing wrong, no one would believe that, and it left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. Sometimes you didn’t speak of things because that was policy and you weren’t meant to speak, and there was probably reason for that, even if you didn’t understand what the reason was.
Either way, neither of them had been important enough that it mattered, they didn’t audit courses that often, but they did because that’s what their mother believed, and that’s what David Campbell believed, and you acted through your perception of people who guided you in life.
You didn’t talk about that on Mtv. You didn’t talk about it in the media, because you’d worked hard enough to make yourself heard in the music industry, and something like this would be the kiss of death, even if it weren’t something you just didn’t talk about.
Leigh didn’t judge Beck for it, just as she hadn’t judged him for dropping out of high school and for what had sounded a lot like unrealistic fantasies of becoming a rock star, back when she’d worked at Bibbe’s clothes shop and Beck worked at Video Hut. She knew he and Channing had audited courses, but they were so few and far between she’d not thought of it much; it was more part of who he were and what his family did, and she cared for him too tenderly to think it a thing of significance.
It wasn’t at the forefront of Beck’s thoughts these days, at any rate; these days, he’d have liked much more to visit Al Hansen in Germany, if only Beck’s schedule hadn’t been laid out rigidly as it had. After the festival, maybe, then he’d have time, Channing, you dumbshit, you should go, you’re not doing anything.
Fuck off, you don’t know what it’s like to have kids.
Kid. You have one kid.
You don't know what it's like to have one kid...!
"You don' t know what it's like to have one kid," Beck imitated his brother in a mocking voice, cause he couldn't come up with a better comeback.
Their grandpa was sick, though, they’d both have gone to see him if he didn’t live so far away. After Lollapalooza, definitely, soon as that’s over. Beck would put recording on hold just a bit longer.
--
Thom had been too far emotionally overwhelmed to be useful the following day. He’d sat with feet tapping, staring out the bus window, through the curtains you could see shapes move on the horizon somewhere far off. Beg Greaves to cancel the tour? Don’t beg greaves to cancel the tour? Could he really press himself through another several months on the road on top of what they’d meant to do, but it was bloody Michael Stipe. The whole band felt the impact of it.
It wasn’t like only Thom got to choose. They all had to choose, they all had a contract, they all were just as entirely stunned. Did REM really personally choose them…?
This was dumb. This whole thing was dumb. Thom felt disgusted all the while with what felt like idol worship, but he’d be lying if he’d said it didn’t mean the world to him regardless. It wasn’t morally right, succumbing to idol worship when touring had left you entirely drained.
But could any of them really turn this down…?
“What, ah— what do you lot think?” he absently murmured, still staring out the window, feet still tapping the floor.
None of them wanted to admit it; the lot of them had been emotionally stirred like children promised some magical present; they all knew they could hardly handle the tour any longer, but they wanted this so much.
“Maybe—” Jonny said, “—maybe we ought— that is— wouldn’t hurt to speak with them? To find out more—”
Thom’s hand rubbed over his mouth, bashful, he turned nervously aside, cause Thom always moved restlessly. Speak with them, Jonny meant meet with them, meet with REM.
Thom had tried forcing himself to think practically, but his thoughts went to fantasy and to unrealistic, it would still prolong their tour, that wouldn’t register in his mind even when he’d tried to make himself understand.
It would be at the end of July; in May REM would tour with Sonic Youth— tough act to follow, Thom knew, they chose Sonic Youth and then they chose us…?
“Yeah, you think we could— you think they’d want to meet with us?” Thom asked, suddenly embarrassed about his outburst to Greaves the night before.
“Want me to call Greaves for you,” Phil asked from his bunk farther down, and Thom looked up straight away, “I can ask,” he said, so rapidly it almost seemed he were jealously guarding the task for himself. “If that’s what everyone wants.”
“Yeah, that what everyone wants?” Jonny asked, and several microseconds of deliberation after that, they’d reached a consensus to call Greaves early next morning, before it was too late.
(On to Chapter 40)
- 38
- 39
- 40
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Thom/Beck