Fan Club

Fan Club


Written for a Story Club challenge.
Of the elements I can remember, one was that we had to name a character after a place on Vancouver Island, and another was that we had to in some way incorporate all the song titles (directly or indirectly) from U2's Joshua Tree album.
This is one of two stories I wrote for that challenge.

*

The six faces smile at Jordan from the poster on his dressing room wall. The eyes – ten blue, two brown; two shaded by dark-framed glasses – watch as he runs a comb through his short blond hair.
Not for him the diamond-in-the-rough image of the others on Teen Beat’s Hot 100 list. Clean-shaven. Clean-cut. Mama’s boy, they call him.
He feels the familiar rush of adrenalin that makes his skin tingle and his body vibrate. In the mirror he is still – almost unnaturally so – but inside he feels the familiar juddering, the electric pulse coursing through his veins.
There’s energy in the air tonight.
Probably because he’s finally left behind those godforsaken mining towns. Sage Hill. Red Hill. Abbott’s Hill.
At least there hasn’t been a fucking Blueberry Hill.
Yet.
They call it God’s country. He calls it unfuckingbelievably boring.
When there are no stoplights – when the streets didn’t even have names, for god’s sake – it just isn’t Jordan River’s kind of place. And the way they yammer on about the open sky makes him long to shoot a bullet into the air and shatter it into infinite pieces of blue.
He’d never have agreed to this godawful tour if that woman hadn’t cried. He could take anything but tears.
She and those five other mothers were raising money for their missing children’s charity. Her daughter is Missy, second from the left in the poster. The brown-haired one with overlarge blue eyes and a saucy smile.
“Missy was … is … such a fan,” she’d said, lower lip trembling. “We’ll do it with or without you. But if you’d perform, we’d raise more money.”
He’d agreed. Naturally. You’d have to be hard-hearted to say no to a crying mother.
And Jordan isn’t hard-hearted.
He isn’t quite the mama’s boy they write about, either.
Jordan still doesn’t get the media’s fascination with his so-called goodness. All because he’d made that crack about the bible when some dork of a reporter asked about his name.
Mind you, the bible-thumper image is more appealing than the truth – that his hippie mother had been too stoned when she named him to make any connection whatsoever between “Jordan” and “River.”
He’d long since dropped her surname. Jordan River Johnson was just too much, but the rest of it works.
Anyway, the bible thing isn’t totally untrue. He does read it. It fascinates him: the strict orderliness of Leviticus, the lyric poetry of the psalms, the inspired hallucinations of Revelations.
It has plenty to teach those who are willing to learn.
“Yo, Jord, five minutes!”
Duncan’s bellow breaks into Jordan’s reverie.
The jackass couldn’t keep the volume down if he tried. But at least he knows when to keep his mouth shut.
Jordan checks his smile in the mirror – nope, no spinach – and grabs his guitar, nearly crashing into Duncan as he swings into the hallway.
“Remember, I’ll point her out and you bring her through the left exit,” he reminds Duncan, who nods impatiently and rolls his eyes in his I’m-such-a-martyr-for-putting-up-with-this-asshole fashion.
“Yeah, Jord, done it a few times before, remember?”
Jordan heads towards the stage, remembering those other times. Before this bloody backwoods tour.
He’s never sure when it’s going to happen.
Always in the big cities – small-town skanks aren’t worth the fuss – and only when one catches his eye. The one in front, with shining eyes and an air of nervous anticipation. She’s always alone – he doesn’t do friends – and always a little classier than the others.
No wanna-be hookers with their tits in his face, thanks.
But her mouth always gives her away: breathlessly parted lips; a pink tongue tracing delicate circles.
Missy was one of the lip-lickers. Melanie too – third from the right – and Sarah, the one in glasses.
Kaitlin wasn’t a licker, but her pouty lips spoke volumes. Just like Vanessa, the prettiest by far, whose photo graced the top left corner of the poster.
Joanne didn’t have her looks. But she had one of those mouths that promised plenty.
She’d been a disappointment.
He shoulda known brown eyes wouldn’t work.
Not that any of them had.
They’d turned out to be as silly and stupid as all teenage girls.
They never appreciated the class he offered: the delicacies and champagne, the erudite conversation, the philosophy and poetry of the bible.
They couldn’t have cared less. They just giggled and simpered and hiccuped sometimes when the champagne bubbles kicked in.
They weren’t even fucking smart enough to be scared when he moved in close and put one arm around their necks.
They never even screamed.
They were about as stupid as Duncan, who never questioned why the black equipment bag sometimes looked lumpier and weighed a hundred extra pounds.
“Careful, Jord, don’t trip on the wires.”
Jordan acknowledges the sound guy – Steve? who cares, really – with a nod and carefully steps over the cords into the light.


Up front, Heather Carson is nearly jumping with anticipation.
This is so worth the lie – Kathy never minds covering for her, anyway – and the hitch to town.
She’s practically close enough to touch Jordan.
Mind you, it’s awfully hot. She probably should’ve worn the V-neck tank top and not this long-sleeved Gap shirt. But she didn’t want Mom to get suspicious.
And she should’ve grabbed some water. It’s dry in here and her lips are getting chapped.



The air is electric.
Jordan barely hears the piercing screams and girlish giggles. He knows something special is about to happen. He can feel it in his bones. In his veins. In his blood.
He settles onto his stool and looks out into the crowd, meeting the gaze of a bright-eyed girl in a button-down shirt. She flushes at the unexpected eye contact and slowly licks her lips.
Jordan pulls the microphone down to his face and opens his mouth to sing.