TITLE: Last Train for the Coast
AUTHOR: Julian Lee (firstname.lastname@example.org.)
CATEGORY: Leo/Josh; songfic (*gasp!*); holiday fic, of a sort.
SUMMARY: "Them good ol' boys were drinking whiskey and rye, singing, 'This'll be the day that I die.'"
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the following things: "The West Wing" or its characters; Don McLean's "American Pie," or the Hope Diamond, which does not appear in this fic, but I thought I should mention it anyway.
ARCHIVE: Um, if you really want it, you can have it, as long as you let me know where you put it.
NOTES: Inspired by Perpetual Motion, I decided to take a crack at an all-dialogue piece. I don't normally write songfic, but tomorrow is the 43rd anniversary of the day the music died (the plane crash that killed Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and the Big Bopper), so I thought I'd pay a tribute of sorts.
Last Train for the Coast by Julian Lee
* * *
"A long, long time ago
I can still remember how that music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance,
That I could make those people dance,
And maybe they'd be happy for a while.
But February made me shiver
With every paper I delivered.
Bad news on the doorstep –
I couldn't take one more step.
And I don't remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride.
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died.
So bye-bye, Miss American Pie.
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry.
Them good ol' boys were drinking whiskey and rye,
Singing, 'This'll be the day that I die.
This'll be the day that I die.'"
* * *
"Leo, tell me about olden times."
"Don't push your luck."
"Tell me about...about covered wagons and the discovery of penicillin- "
"I'm sorry. Did you think you were getting sex tonight?"
"And - and about changing my diapers."
"I never got anywhere near a diaper of yours, Joshua, and you'd be wise not to joke about that ever again. What's wrong with you tonight?"
"'70s folk singers are what's wrong with you tonight?"
"Here - turn up the stereo."
"Ah. 'American Pie.' I see."
"Tell me about *that.*"
"Yeah. That was an awful day. Richie Valens was seventeen - he wasn't even supposed to be on the plane. Buddy Holly was only twenty- two, and his wife was pregnant. She miscarried not long after the crash. For a while, it really did feel like music had *died;* like there was never going to be music again. I was sitting out on the stoop with my sisters; we were just...watching the world go by, and when they broke in with the announcement about the plane crash, Elizabeth fell apart. Just sat there on the steps sobbing."
"Really? Over a - and don't take this the wrong way, but - over singers?"
"It wasn't that long after our father died. It just kind of broke some kind of dam in her."
"The levee, maybe?"
"But the levee was dry. You are not funny."
"Who was the girl who sang the blues?"
"Another tragic loss. So much wasted talent and senseless destruction."
"It gets better, Josh."
"Music. Life. Everything. I'm just saying, music won't always sound like sirens."
"Are you sure?"
"Okay. As long as we're good."
"Oh, *we're* more than good."
"Funny boy. Still thinks he's getting any after that covered wagons crack."
"C'mon, Leo. You know you can't resist me when I'm interested in you more than me."
"I have to admit there's an allure - maybe because it's so rare."
"Sorry. I guess I'm just..."
"A generation lost in space?"
"That does it. No more Don McLean for you."
"You won't get between me and this stereo!"
"Oh, won't I?"
"Well, erm, that is...oh, damn it. Foiled by my own hormones."
"Come to bed, Josh."
"Leo? I really am sorry about your father."
"Thank you, Josh. Now, get your butt over here. I'm going to show you how we did things in olden times."
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