Pairings: Conor Oberst/Tim Kasher, Conor Oberst/Adam Lazzara, also has Jesse Lacey and Geoff Rickly in it.
“He didn’t do it.” Conor states, his head bowed as he takes a slow drag from the cigarette in his hand. His elbow moves to rest on the cold tabletop in front of him and all at once he exhales smoke and runs a hand through his already messy black hair. As he lifts his head to make eye contact with the cop in front of him, strands of hair fall into his face, a nuisance he easily gets rid of with one simple motion of his hand. Exhaling more smoke he slides his hand across the table grabbing an abandoned Styrofoam cup that had once held the cop’s coffee. “All kinds of shit was going down in Nebraska but Adam wasn’t involved in any of it. You ever see pigeons, officer…” Pausing Conor flicks his gaze to the cop’s name tag as if he has already forgotten the man’s name. He hasn’t of course. It’s all theatrics, acting.
“lacey.” The cop states while pointing to his badge.
Conor nods, “Well, you ever see pigeons officer Lacey?” Conor asks bringing the cigarette to his lips the instant the question leaves his mouth.
Lacey nods, and moves to sit in the seat opposite Conor. There’s something about the dark haired male in front of him that makes him nervous and intrigued all at once. Shifting in his seat Lacey, Jesse Lacey to be exact, moves his gaze to Conor. “Yeah I see them all the time, they’re everywhere in New York.” He replies, not knowing why he feels the need to offer the male in front of him a verbal reply.
“Yeah?” Conor asks shortly while shoving the end of his cigarette into an ashtray. As soon as his fingers detach themselves from the cylinder stick he pulls out another one and lights it. Distractedly he motions towards the Styrofoam cup, “Can you get me one of those with water in it? My mouths dry.” The question rolls off his mouth as a command though, or some sort of statement. It’s almost as though he expects the cup to be filled and he’s only asking to sound mannerly. It’s like a game, rather than telling Jesse to get the water, he asks him to get it because he knows that will have a greater effect on Jesse in the long run.
Predictably Jess nods, “Oh…uh yeah.” He leaves the room and for the few minutes he’s gone Conor manages to smoke two more cigarettes. Jesse’s absence also gives him time to figure out his story. He knows what he has to say, but it’s all in outline form. The cops came too soon, so the story him and Adam have constructed is sketchy. He can handle it though. Where he’s lacking details he’ll fill in the gaps with embellished lies, there’s not too much he has to lie about anyway, everything he plans to tell the cops is true except for one minor detail…who really killed Geoff Rickly.
“So what was that about pigeons?” The cop asks while returning with the water. Conor flicks his attention towards the officer. He’s amused by the cop, he wonders if its normal procedure to let suspects smoke in the questioning room. He figures it isn’t. He also figures that Jesse’s never fucked a guy before. He’s probably never smoked a cigarette, never touched weed, alcohol maybe, and any heavy shit like heroine, cocaine…all that is out of the question.
“You see them everywhere, they’re around when murders happen. That lady, you know the one in the papers. She got raped in an alley the other day. I bet there were pigeons there, but so what, you can’t say they murdered her even though they were in the vicinity when it happened. Yeah I was in Omaha when that shit went down. I wasn’t in that hotel room though and I sure the fuck wasn’t doing any dealings with Geoff, that kids an asshole. You want to know who shot Geoff? It was Tim Kasher.” Conor nods and while balancing the cigarette in one hand he takes a drink from the Styrofoam cup of water. “Tim Kasher.” He repeats while setting the cup back down.
Jesse jots the name down on a pad of paper in front of him. For a moment he stares at the black ink now marring the paper that was seconds before perfectly clear of any marks. Tim Kasher. He recognizes the name. It was Tim Kasher who called the station only two days before. It was Tim Kasher who had reported the murder of Geoff Rickly.
“He shot Rickly? Then why were Adam’s prints all over the weapon and why would Rickly report Tim Kasher’s murder if he was in fact the killer?” Jesse questions, doubt seeping into his tone.
Conor simply shrugs and flicks more ash onto the table. “I don’t know. I can tell you how it really happened though.” He states calmly not at all unnerved by Jesse’s doubt. “It was just me and Tim in the beginning…” Conor starts but is instantly interrupted by Jesse, who already has a question.
“The beginning of what?” He asks while picking up the small black tape recorder he set earlier in front of Conor. He checks that it’s recording and then repositions it in front of Conor on the table again.
“My story.” Conor replies with a slow smirk slipping to his face, one that makes Jesse realize almost instantly how stupid his question must have seemed.
“Oh.” Jesse shifts again in his seat and gestures for Conor to continue.
Conor nods and leans back in his chair, relaxing as if he were at home or in a bar, anywhere else but the inside of a police station. He tells his story quickly, inserting the right words in the right places, embellishing some parts, leaving out other parts. When he’s done the officer excuses him from the room. Conor’s told that he’s not allowed to leave the country, if he has to go somewhere out of state he has to inform the station. He’ll be called tomorrow after the other suspect, Adam is questioned.
On his way out of the station he lights another cigarette. He smiles as the wind blows through his hair. Despite his over all good mood, there’s a nagging thought brewing in the back of his mind, one he has to continually push down in order to not let the overall goodness of his mood be destroyed.
His apartment is on the fourth floor of a huge building. When he reaches it he takes the stairs rather than the elevator up to his floor. He hates the idea of sleeping alone tonight but he doesn’t think about it. He tries to distract himself and his thoughts by checking his messages. There’s one from Adam, one from his mom, a few from some guys he met at a show, one from his lawyer, and predictably one from Tim. He deletes all of them except the ones from his mom and Adam.
He listens to Adam’s message twice.
“It’s only you beautiful..”
“It’s only you beautiful.”
Adam’s voice makes him smile. His words make him smile. ‘It’s only you beautiful…’, he recognizes them as lyrics to a song. It’s a habit he and Adam have, they turn simple messages into poetry conveying their thoughts with one or two sentences stolen from other people’s lyrics.
The message is simple this time, it doesn’t take deep thought or analyzing to figure out what Adam meant.
He saves the message and goes into the kitchen preparing coffee. He realizes only after the coffee is made that he’s out of non dairy creamer, so he drinks it black. It’s bitter tasting but as an effort to keep warm he drinks an entire mug full of it. He tries to dispel any worry he might have about the murder with literature. He tries magazines at first but the pictures and colors on the pages are distracting and allow for his mind to wander. He finally finds a book discarded carelessly on a coffee table in the living room. It’s a book he borrowed from Tim ages ago, it’s about a group of terrorists living in the year 3004. He remembers having read some of it already. It had bored him though, it was basically about the future and how computers would eventually be a terrorists best weapon. He had called it bullshit, Tim had called it a masterpiece.
He carelessly throws the book across the room, watching as it hits the wall with a gentle thud before falling to the floor.
Fuck terrorists, fuck the future, fuck Tim.
Despite himself Conor finds himself walking across the room. He leans over and picks up the book checking the binding to make sure it isn’t damaged. He then walks back over to the couch and eyes the front cover, it says TERRORists 3004, in big ugly blue letters. He figures whoever made the book thought they were being clever when they capitalized only the letters spelling terror in the word terrorist. He thinks its dumb though and is halfway tempted to throw the book across the room again, or out the window, maybe he’d even go so far as to throw it in the garbage…who knows.
He drops the book into his lap and lights another cigarette, leaning his head back against the couch he closes his eyes and blows smoke upward toward the ceiling.
This is Conor Oberst’s life, but it wasn’t necessarily always like this…..