There was a lull in the upper class neighborhood Gavin had ended up walking to – he was spending the day, like most of his days off from his retail job, working with his college’s GSA activism group to hunt down signatures for their most recent petition. Clipboard in hand, he used the other to cover a loud yawn. It had been hours since he’d started his walk for signatures, and the sun was draining him. Even worse for the heat, he chose to look more professional than he usually did, going all out and dressing in layers. His hair, gelled into a neat, black coif, was a fine opposite to the bright colors he loved so much. Wearing a pink and white cardigan, with a spotless white shirt under and a pair of bright blue Dockers shorts, he was certainly eye-catching. The sun was oppressive, beaming down on him with unnatural strength. Walking up to the intricate gates of his next house, he prayed to himself for some kind of relief. Maybe he’d be fortunate enough to get an invitation inside, or a glass of water. But, if the lack of signatures were any kind of signal, his chances were low. The area was full of conservative upper class adults, which only added more despair to his tiring, sweltering trek.
As he walked along the driveway, admiring the topiary and general beauty of their front yard, Gavin could hear faint noises coming from the house. It sounded almost like… someone going wild on their guitar. Whoever it was clearly knew how to play, and they were just shredding like a madman. As someone who liked the quieter side of music, it sounded far too chaotic for his liking. But, hey, to each their own; just as long as he could hear the doorbell, he was cool with it. Getting closer, he noticed that the windows were open and the music was blasting louder than he’d thought. But, once he pressed the doorbell, the blasting riffs came to an abrupt end. From the window, he heard an angry, gruff voice scream “Jeeves, get the fucking door!”
Moments later, a well-kempt but tired looking man answered. Giving his usual pracitced monologue about gay rights, topped with a few compliments, he kindly asked if the butler, or if the homeowners, would be kind enough to sign. The butler signed silently, giving him a small, muted smile instead. Then, holding a finger up, he walked away to speak to the person upstairs. Thanking the fact they had an awning to hide under, Gavin waited patiently for another hopeful signature. Instead, the metalhead leaned out of the open window, looking down.
“Get the fuck outta here, you fucking homo! I’ve got more important shit to do than sign some flamer’s petition.”
Returning to the door, Jeeves apologized and slammed the door in his face. Gavin, feeling oddly unhurt by the attack, stepped away from the door. Usually, he’d be the first to start a debate, or demand an apology at the very least. But, instead, he was tongue tied, a floating numbness in his head making his thought process halt… And was it just him or was it getting even hotter? Something seemed to click in his head though the numbness, like the flick of a switch, and he leaned against one of the pillars adorning the extremely large porch to the house.
His hand went to his head, trying to steady himself, but instead he felt his slicked hair slip away, retreating back into his scalp. It should have been odd to him, but it wasn’t. His hair retreated to a very short, shaved cut, almost like someone just ran a razor across it. He dropped the clipboard and, before it even touched the ground, dissipated completely. In its place, he held a key to a van he could suddenly remember buying with his best bro, Nate. He couldn’t place a face to the name yet, or even recollect anything else about it, but he knew the van was his. And, like magic, a black van, decorated with a huge logo of a rotting murder of crows, appeared in the driveway.
His focus on the van now, he didn’t notice his cardigan shift and contort. The sleeves disappeared, showing his thin arms, and the pink and white faded until the fabric changed to a light denim. Then, almost like it was hit with a splash of paint, the denim darkened in blotches, changing to dark grey-blue. The now sleeveless denim vest frayed at the ends due to age, and the buttons, the only thing remaining from the original cardigan, changed to a muted brass color. Underneath, his white shirt changed as well, also losing the sleeves. Instead of his school’s insignia, Gavin’s now tank top, darkened to black and sported a yellow Metallica logo. The insignia changed to an electric chair surrounded by lightning, tinged with the same yellow and black detail as the logo.
He looked foolish now, the Dockers not matching the top half of his outfit at all. But, it seemed the changes were travelling downward – his shorts were next to change, the Dockers tightening to fit his body closely. They still seemed looser than most skinny fit clothes were, almost like he’d bought something too big for himself. They became the same denim as his vest, fraying at the ends as well. Stained to black like his new tank, grey lines painted themselves onto it on one leg of the shorts, grey stars appearing on the other leg. It was almost like the transformed shorts were similar to the American flag, the stars and stripes look becoming a part of the now black and grey denim.
Finally getting a hold of himself, he looked down at the unfamiliar clothing he was wearing, grabbing at the extra length it had. Why was all of it so… huge on him? He wasn’t too tall, standing at around 5’3’’, but this looked like something someone much taller than him would wear. Still, he wasn’t panicking, or even questioning why he was changing, the cloudiness telling him everything was fine and good. Even as his black chucks climbed up past his ankles, until they reached almost halfway up to his knee, he didn’t even take it as a real change. A moment later, they were long, black combat boots, just like he always wore.
Now a thin, frail college student wearing a very unlikely set of clothes, he momentarily lost his balance as his body filled in the clothing he was wearing. Losing the thin, unchiseled look he had before, his body suddenly built up the muscle of an Army hopeful. His face lost the softness of youth, a beard growing and fading with his hairline. His eyes lost the kindness and innocent attitude he used to have, gaining a militant, angry look that permeated his whole posture as well. Tattoos sunk themselves along Gavin’s arms, a pair of inked sleeves appearing on them. His arms widened too, becoming well built from the years of drumming he did… Wait, drumming? That seemed wrong. But, as his mind denied it, the murkiness in his head cleared up, recalling years of drum practice. He blasted Pantera in middle school, listening on repeat until he got every bit right. In high school, he played for whoever would pick him up, usually getting kicked right out for his loud attitude. When he dropped out of high school, he decided the Metal lifestyle was where he felt at home; he had the right attitude, the right look and the skill to show off. He bounced from band to band until he met Nate, who quickly became his best mate.
It all made sense now. His mind filled up with more memories – rocking out with Nate, smoking weed and wrecking parties. It was awesome Nate’s family were never around, too, so they could fuck with whatever they wanted when they wanted. He even got to live in the house, Nate’s parents too afraid to say no and too rich to care about feeding another mouth. He got free shit left and right, and lived with his best friend. Where Gavin, the gay activist, once stood, Gav, the metal punk drummer was. He ran a hand across his shaved head and swung the door open, calling to Jeeves with a new, low baritone.
“Yo, asshole, give me a hand. Get the drum set out of the car.”
Gav swaggered up the stairs, pulling a bag of weed out of his pocket. Some dude hooked him up with a new strain and he had to smoke it with Nate. After all, they always wrote the best shit when they were high.