By Kellyanne Lynch
7 October 2001, app 4 AM
Disclaimer:
This fanfiction was inspired by a recent interview with Fred Durst on MTV News,
where he said something about wanting to be a more loving individual. This story
is a work of fiction. I do not know Limp Bizkit, or any other famous
individual(s) depicted in this story. I have no connection with them. The
purpose of this story was to fulfill my brain's need to write, and hopefully to
give y'all something enjoyable to read. The name of the story, and the quote at
the end, comes from the Creed song "One", which was written by Scott Stapp and
Mark Tremonti. So they own it, not me.
Summary: Fred goes to Lower
Manhattan after the terrorist bombings and REALLY learns what he can do to
help.
Rating: PG
* Please email dearjoan@mikeypower.com with
questions, comments, theories, complaints, or words of
wisdom.
--------------------------------------------------------
~*~
September 13, 2001 ~*~
Fred rubbed his eyes and sighed. Lowering his
hands, he stared into the surrounding expanse, at the forever marred skyline and
the dust hovering around it. The sun slipped away, into the night, hiding its
eyes from the bruises whose purples deepened. Whose pain deepened. Fred lowered
his head, the sweat dripping off his brow and trickling into his eyes, stinging
them. Hissing, he dragged a forearm across his eyes. Then removed his trademark
red cap. Dirt clung to the crimson fabric, and he scowled at it. He wiped it
across his face just the same.
Pulling his hat back onto his head, he
watched as three figures approached. They were clad in firefighters suits, the
yellow filthy and dull, and unwilling to shine. Come to think of it, NOTHING was
willing to shine. Everything within sight was gray. Each kept his head to the
ground, but one looked up as they drew closer to Fred. A woman, probably in her
late twenties, maybe early thirties. Grayed hair pulled back in a severe
ponytail, strands of which dripped out from beneath her helmet. She furrowed her
eyebrows and drew in a breath.
Fred handed her a cup of water. Grimacing,
he opened his mouth. But closed it again, realising he had no idea what he could
say. He passes two more cups to her companions.
"Thanks," a male voice
mumbled from beneath a helmet. The individual drew the cup to his
face.
"Yes," the woman said as she lowered her cup. She closed her eyes.
"I'm sorry, thanks!"
"Hey, I understand," Fred replied, taking in a deep
breath. "You've all had it tough..."
"We've ALL had it rough, boy." She
scratched her chin, and gazed behind her. Chunks of concrete, jagged metal,
charred papers, and scrambling people, all behind her in hues of gray. She
turned back to Fred. "You know how we appreciate your coming out here to
help."
Fred's eyes widened. "Hey, it's the very least that I could do.
And I know it's not much..."
"But it means a lot to us," she responded.
She nodded her head toward him, her gray eyes peering into his. "Means a lot to
everybody. Thanks."
The firefighters shuffled away, retreating toward the
rubble and disappearing in the dust.
A hand patted down on Fred's
shoulder, and he jumped. He glanced behind him. He released a breath he didn't
know he was holding when his eyes fell into a dark, familiar pair.
"Hey,
man," Wes said. He pursed his lips. "Think it's time you took a
break."
Fred waved a hand at his friend and bandmate. "No, man, I'm
fine."
"Sh**, you've been here all day! I'm serious, man! Take a break!
At least get something to eat!"
Fred's stomach growled.
"See?" A
corner of Wes' lips turned upward. "Your gut's agreeing with me."
Drawing
a hand to his stomach, Fred shrugged. "I guess I could go for
something."
Wes nodded. He pointed down the street, in the opposite
direction of the destruction. It also lay under a cloud of dust. "I know you
can't see it, but just keep walking down this street. There's a restaurant open
down that way. The owner's giving out free dinners to everybody working over
here. Grab something to eat there, okay buddy?"
"All right, man!" Fred
clasped a hand on Wes' shoulder, then wandered away. With each step, details
slipped away from the surrounding landscape, huddled just beneath the gloom and
the gray and the dust. Fred's heart thumped and rattled within his chest, his
brows furrowed, eyes wide and vigilant. He gulped. And continued pacing forward.
Off to his left, a light in the distance illuminated a patch of gray,
brightening the area. Fred squinted. As he approached, a door came into view,
and through its dreary window, he could see movement from within. He reached out
and grabbed the doorknob, and stepped inside.
Tables surrounded him,
people leaning over every one. Every seat was taken. Some individuals leaned
against walls, clutching plates. Some shoveled foods into their faces at record
speeds. Others stared into their meals and twirled forks through them. A faint
mumbling hung in the room, though Fred didn't see anybody talking. A bar spanned
the right side of the restaurant, and off to one end stood a line of people. At
the front of the line, a heavy set and weary gentleman doled out ladles full of
macaroni and cheese. Fred sauntered to the back of the line.
Rubbing his
nose with the palm of his hand in deep, even circles, Fred yawned. He squeezed
his eyes shut and opened them again. The people in front of him took several
paces forward. In turn, Fred took a few steps. The mumbling took form into
words. The voice was so familiar. Glancing up, Fred spotted a television set,
glowing over the bar. A medium shot of a weary, teary eyed man in his fifties
filled the screen. Fred strained to hear what he was saying.
"...who want
peace and security in the world and we stand together to win the war against
terrorism," the man spoke. Over his head in white script was the word "LIVE".
Beneath him, the words "CNN" and "President Bush Addresses The Nation". The
president drew in a deep breath. Fred's eyes scanned his face, observing the
creases across his forehead, the lines at the corners of his lips… the overall
grief in his face. Fred's mouth dropped open.
President Bush took in a
deep breath and continued. "Tonight I ask for your prayers for all those who
grieve, for the children whose worlds have been shattered, for all whose sense
of safety and security has been threatened. And I pray they will be comforted by
a power greater than any of us spoken through the ages in Psalm 23: "Even though
I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil for you are
with me."…"
Fred's eyes watered. Images of individuals flashed through
his mind. All day, he had seen people wandering aimlessly the streets of Lower
Manhattan. These weren't ecstatic faces like he was used to, instead frantic,
wide-eyed. In terror. They'd hold up papers to him. Again, not CD booklets and
pin-ups but pictures with nameless faces. No pen handed to him. All they asked
of him was if he had seen this person. Or that person. All these people… all
these people. Fred squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. All he could do
for these people was admit that he didn't know, was as helpless as they were.
And offer them a cup of water. He swallowed hard.
"This is a day," the
president continued, and Fred looked up, "when all Americans from every walk of
life unite in our resolve for justice and peace. America has stood down enemies
before, and we will do so this time…"
The line moved again, and Fred
paced forward. His eyes did not leave the president's face.
"None of us
will ever forget this day, yet we go forward to defend freedom and all that is
good and just in our world. Thank you. Good night and God bless
America."
Bush's face vanished, and a tired newscaster's appeared in its
stead. Fred turned away, and glanced at the individual standing in front of him.
Dark brown hair flowed to the broad shoulders of the man's once white tank top.
The sweat ridden shirt clung to his sculpted frame, and his muscular arms swung
at his sides as he stepped closer to the bar. The man raised his head to the man
with the vat of macaroni.
"You need any help back there?" a deep,
melodic voice questioned the man. Fred raised his head and his eyebrows, his jaw
slack. Couldn't be…
"Nah, we're fine, kid," the man behind the bar
replied. He scooped a heaping portion of macaroni and cheese onto a white paper
plate and handed it to the individual standing before him. He nodded toward the
kid. "Enjoy your dinner. God bless America!"
"Thanks!" The guy in front
of Fred raised a chiseled arm and accepted the plate. As the kid wandered away,
Fred caught sight of the side of his face.
Before he could form a
thought, he called out, "Hey Scott!"
The kid turned around. Deep, dark
eyes met with Fred's, ones just beneath raised, thick brows. Scott's full lower
lip drooped and quivered. "Um…" he finally uttered. "Hi, Fred."
"Hold on
a second, will ya?" Fred held up a finger, (not THE finger), to Scott Stapp as
he turned to the man behind the bar. The man was already holding out a plate.
"Thanks, man! God Bless America!"
"Amen!" The man replied, giving Fred a
small smile and a nod. Fred accepted the plate and sauntered to the gaping lead
singer of Creed. Glancing at Scott, he could see the confusion swirling in the
other's stare. He turned away. Butting his head toward a corner of the
restaurant, he asked, "Wanna go eat over there, man?"
"Ah, sure!" Scott
tentatively raised and lowered his head, and followed the other across the
restaurant. They each took up an area of wall space and leaned against it. Each
turned to his food and began picking at it. Fred took advantage of his being
considerably shorter than Scott, and hid beneath the brim of his hat. The
television's buzzing was the thing either man could hear for several minutes.
Fred devoured several forkfuls of macaroni. Through one bite, he said,
"Dish ish good."
"Yeah, it is," Scott replied, and drew a heaping fork to
his mouth.
Swallowing, Fred closed his eyes and sighed. He turned his hat
around and looked up to Scott. He gulped. "Hey, uh, listen, Scott. I'm sorry for
being such an a**hole to you in the past…"
"Hey, man," Scott shook his
head. "Don't mention it."
Fred lowered his plate. "I'm serious, man! I
mean, all I did was tear you down! I've torn a LOT of people down, and that's
just f***ed up! There's no reason for it."
Scott rubbed the side of his
nose. Slowly he nodded. "Look, I know that I'm not the most lovable guy. I mean,
I know I come off as pretty damned arrogant at times…"
"You know, f***
that!" Fred stabbed the air with his index finger. "That doesn't matter! I've
BEEN pretty damned arrogant! But that's gonna change." He lowered his head. Then
his light blue eyes met with Scott's. "I'm gonna change. 'Cause there's no
reason for fighting."
Scott's eyes widened. They shifted to the right,
then returned to Fred's glossy gaze.
"You know what?" Fred lowered his
plate, his eyes steady on Scott's. He pursed his lips. "I love you, man!"
Stepping forward, he flung his free hand around the other. Their plates knocked
into each other. Macaroni sloshed off the plates, splattering on their shirts
before slapping to the floor.
"Aw, f***, man, I'm sorry!" Fred bent over
and scooped the macaroni onto his plate. As he straightened, he found people
staring at him. He took Scott's empty plate and threw it away with his own. Then
wandered back over with a fistful of napkins. Handing some to Scott, he
grimaced. "I got it all over your shirt."
Scott waved a hand. "It's okay,
man." He accepted the napkins for the Limp Bizkit frontman. Wiping bright yellow
cheese from the bottom of his tank top, he looked to Fred. "It's ALL okay,
Fred."
As he scraped cheese off his black sweatshirt, Fred smiled.
"The goal is to be unified
Take my hand be my brother"
- Creed,
"One"
THE END