#because I need to have it and it will be the third plastic motel keychain on my keyring

[freakylilnutjob]

idk what spirit or entity possessed me to wake up at 4:30am, immediately open the band camino app, and then go to the store tab, but THANK FUCK it did because I just ordered two shirts that they haven’t had in the shop since before I became a fan and a fucking autographed copy of tryhard

WHAT

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Turn ‘Em Out

A/N: Soooo. I recently posted a list of questions for you to pose to my characters. (I got so many good ones! I’ve worked through about half of them but I have a few more to get to and you know me, I tend to ramble.) Well there was one in particular that I truly hoped someone would ask when I posted that list, and was strongly considering writing the answer to it regardless...but then it DID get asked! And I was pumped! But then I started writing it and...well...it got LONG. And it came with a slew of other asks, so I decided that it was best to answer this particular one separately, and I’ll finish the rest that came in that batch next. Anyways. How’s that for rambling, huh? 

Prompt: @something-tofightfor asked What’s in Ryan’s pockets? 

Word Count: 2,667

Ryan’s got a lot of pockets, which is great because there are a lot of things that he needs and space in his pack and guitar case is limited. He can literally only take with him what he can carry, and he can’t carry too much because he needs to be able to quickly get on and off the trains, so he can’t be too weighed down. This means that every single thing that Ryan Brenner has in his pockets is absolutely essential. 

Let’s start with what he’s got in his jeans. While he’s out and about, his wallet is in his right back pocket. There’s an outline of distinct wear and tear in the shape of the thin, brown leather billfold where he keeps the cash he makes from busking, two pictures, and his driver’s license. Currently, on your floor, he’s got about $168 in cash, most of it made that very day on the 16th Street Mall. The two pictures both have curled, torn edges, the older of the two has a thick crease down the middle from where it had been folded when it lived in a different wallet with a smaller pocket. The older photo was of Ryan with his cousins on the beach from the time he got too drunk and fell asleep without sunscreen. He and Taylor, both red as a radish, were in the center wearing grimaces to go with their burns, surrounded by Patrick, Fitz, Zach, Jimmy and Tommy with wide, goofy, drunken summer grins on their faces. The second photo was from his first year on the rails, out in Oregon with the group of friends he shared his first tattoo with. Oz, Robin, Louie, Nikki, Georgie, Cowboy and Kissie with Ryan mid step to get back into the frame before the timer on the camera went off. The crew was camped out by the bay, two tents that belonged to Oz and Nikki popped up behind the group with a makeshift clothesline and a rock ringed fire pit visible to the left. Cowboy, Robin and Georgie all wore frozen laughs, Ryan’s mouth quirked to the side and his eyes narrowed in a comeback to whatever smart ass comment Oz had just made. Both of them reminded him that he had his tribe of people scattered across the country and back home in Georgia, and he’d pull them out on cold, lonely nights on the train or sleeping in a park, and looking at them would always make him feel less alone. He could almost hear their laughter and feel their embrace, and when the hour was appropriate the next day, he’d give someone a call just to fill his ear with a familiar voice. 

His driver’s license was issued in Montana about four years ago. At that point he still had about a year on his Georgia license before it would need to be renewed, but he didn’t want to limit himself and have to go back if that’s not where the road was taking him. He’d be back soon enough for another cousin reunion, and he didn’t want there to be a lapse in valid I.D.s. They were hard enough for him to get when they weren’t expired; without a permanent address, the amount of paperwork you need to bring to the DMV is astounding. So since he had planned to spend a whopping 4 weeks in Livingston, MT to help Georgie’s uncle’s friend repair fences and patch the roof of the barn after a particularly harsh hail season (the price was RIGHT so even though it meant sticking in one spot for much longer than he was used to, Ryan couldn’t pass it up) he decided that it was as good a time as any to get a new license since Byron, the owner of the ranch and the man who was putting him, Cowboy, Virginia and Georgie up in the guesthouse, had allowed Ryan to use his address to have some mail forwarded, so voila! A “permanent” Montana residence. Montana licenses are good for eight years, too, so he’s still got a while before he needs to decide where to renew. 

Ryan’s back left pocket held a pair of thick wool gloves, palms tucked in and fingers waving free. They’d been a Christmas gift from Cowboy and Virginia (Ryan knew it was really Ginny who’d chosen the gloves with him in mind.) and they saved him from frostbite on plenty of occasions. They were bulky with insulated lining sand reinforced deerskin palms, and when his hands had all but cracked and bled from playing for hours in winter weather, they were a welcome reprieve. He couldn’t wear them getting on or off the trains, because the knit stitching was liable to snag on some part of the car. Ryan has heard his share of stories about what can happen when your clothes get caught in a chain or a rough, weathered edge of the steel, so he slips them off right before hopping and shoves them in his pocket. (He’s got a pair of canvas work gloves, too, but they’re inside the main part of his pack with his clothes. Those are for odd jobs and things that crop up along the way) 

Ryan’s knife is in his front right pocket. It’s small, with a carved wooden handle. It’s old. Older than Ryan. It belonged to his grandfather and His aunt (Patrick’s mom) gave it to him when he was home around his 22nd birthday. It wasn’t a secret that Ryan was granddaddy’s favorite; he saw the same spark of mischief and excitement for life that he had as a younger man. Some of Ryan’s favorite memories from his childhood are of summer afternoons, when the sun was too hot to be out for too long and he and his cousins would be forced to find shade for an hour or two, and he’d sit on the porch next to his grandfather as he whittled whistles and figurines. He’d pile up the curled shavings, wrapping them around his fingers as he watched forms of bears and birds appear out of solid blocks of wood. Once he asked him if he could teach him how to carve. 

Granddaddy laughed and ruffled Ryan’s mop of soft brown locks, lightened from the summer sun. “When yer older, Ry’n. You’ll chop yer fingers clean off, I teach ya now.” 

Ryan never got to learn. The time was never right before he left, and there never seemed to be enough when he was home, and then time ran out and Ryan was left with one of the biggest regrets that he’ll carry; that he didn’t make the time. So when his aunt gave him the knife when he was home around his 22nd birthday, Ryan’s eyes went wide before blinking fat tears from the corners, and the knife instantly became his most prized possession. He still doesn’t know how to carve, but he uses it almost every day. 

His left front pocket is for random extra necessities, which vary by season. In the winter there might be a few hand warmer packets, cough drops or some kind of hard candy, maybe some tissues or a handful of paper napkins. 

The heavy canvas coat he wore held some of the most vital items as those pockets closed with zippers or buttons. The inner breast pocket housed his black plastic flip phone, the charger cable wound around it. It was by far the most important item he carried in terms of survival. The ability to call for help should he need it was crucial, making the charger cable just as important as the phone itself. It was also his link to the people that mattered most to him, his way to let them all know that he was okay, a way for them to do the same. Radio silence from time to time was normal, but contact through the network every few weeks or so put everyone’s hearts at ease. Right now, around your third or fourth song on your floor in front of the fireplace, Ryan’s wondering if you’ll be added to that network… wondering if you want to add him to yours. 

The lower inside pocket is larger, so it can hold a few of the bulkier things that he carries. There’s a keychain sized flashlight that may have been attached to an actual keychain at one point. Ryan’s not even sure where it came from, but it has come in handy on more than one cloudy night when he couldn’t rely on the moon or stars for visual assistance. A standard Bic lighter (currently a plain red one) and a book of matches from a motel he’d stayed in with Georgie and some of his new friends down in Jackson, MS a few months back. He had about twelve matchbooks in a plastic zipper bag in his pack, habitually taking them anytime they were offered- motels, diners, truckstops. Plenty of smoke shops that he’d stopped in offered a free book with a pack of papers. Being able to start a fire for cooking or warmth was crucial, and having fire to light an expertly rolled smoke was a bonus. There was also always a length of twine, coiled and tied off to avoid tangling into a knot. It was useful in dozens of ways, some of the most used being as additions to fire starters, makeshift clotheslines, and replacement shoelaces. Loose or untied shoes due to a broken lace are unacceptable for a number of reasons, but all purpose twine works as a stop gap until he can get new laces. Whenever he gets close to running out, Ryan visits a local hardware shop and restocks. 

There’s one more inner pocket on the opposite side. It’s small but it only has very small items in it, and they almost never leave their place so it works just fine. Ryan’s not a superstitious man, but he’s not about to turn down good luck, so this pocket serves as a tiny treasure trove of things he’d acquired over the years that have supposedly been partially to blame for his continued good fortune: a lucky penny Taylor had given him before he left the very first time. She was only 14 then, but she swore that penny was with her on “the best days of her life” and she wanted Ryan to have it so only good things would come to him on his travels. She probably doesn’t remember it anymore, but Ryan’s kept it the entire time. Tucked in with the penny is the first guitar pick he’d ever used, his own little charm that he wasn’t sure was lucky per say, but that he couldn’t seem to part with. There was a four leafed clover that Robin had sent him from somewhere outside Seattle along with a postcard. (When he’d make it back to Georgia, usually every three years or so, he’d always have a small bundle of letters and postcards from his road family. Maybe someone spent a week longer than planned in a city that they fell in love with and they wanted to share the recommendation. Maybe someone saw something or heard something or felt something that reminded them of him. Maybe someone just missed him and wanted to write it down. Ryan tried to scribble notes now and then, too.) 

The last item in that pocket was a flint arrowhead that he’d been given as a gift a few summers ago. He’d been staying in Kentucky for about a week or so with Cowboy and his cousin Nate, and Nate’s ex wife had unexpectedly dropped their son Julian off about two days in to Ryan and Cowboy’s stay. Aat first Ryan’s inclination was that he and Cowboy should hit the road and change their plans, maybe head on up to Ohio or Pennsylvania for a stretch, but Nate insisted that they stay. Julian was 9 but had the attitude of a 19 year old, and Ryan couldn’t really blame the kid from what he’d seen of his parents. (He was grateful to Nate for letting him have a place to crash, a shower, somewhere to cook and rest up. But it was clear from the way that he and Maya, Julian’s mom, screamed at each other, neither of them were mature enough to raise a well adjusted kid.) By the third day, Julian was bored as all hell, and Nate had no real clue what to do with him. Ryan figured it wasn’t that hard, just offer to include him in what you’re doing and see if he bites. “Hey Julian, I’m headed into town to hit the hardware store. Need to get some twine. You wanna come?” “Hey, Julian, I’mma sit out back and play a little, maybe see some constellations if you wanna join.” “Julian, we’re goin’ fishin’ later, you in?” By the end of the stay, Julian’s mood had improved and Nate was left dumbfounded, asking Ryan if he had kids and how he knew how to get through to his son. 

Ryan shrugged. “Just treat ‘em like people.” 

Julian had found a handful of arrowheads on that fishing excursion after Ryan showed him what to look for and where he was most likely to find one (along the banks of the small river), and when he and Cowboy were getting ready to head out, Julian shoved one in Ryan’s hand with a nod of his prematurely serious head. If his granddaddy’s knife took the number one spot, and his guitar held number two, Julian’s arrowhead, Taylor’s penny, Robin’s clover and his pick collectively took the number three slot in the things that were most important to him. Ryan wasn’t superstitious. Not at all. But whether those items brought him luck or not, he wouldn’t be caught without them. 

The two front pockets of his coat were usually empty unless his scarf was stuffed into one- depending on where he was, if the sun was high sometimes it was warm even in winter, and he’d find himself sweating in the thick, cable knit scarf. But in just an hour or so the weather could change drastically, so rolling it up and securing it away in his pack would be inconvenient if he’d be needing it again so soon. The old Carhartt’s front pockets were deep and wide and the entire scarf fit in one with no problem. The other would sometimes have a granola bar or a bag of nuts, something quick he’d picked up at a convenience store or gas station that he could munch on through the day, in between songs or while seated in the back of a pickup hitching from the train yard to wherever the next destination was. 

It would be too much to get into every item in his pack, but the essentials in the top front pocket include a toothbrush and paste, small travel sized bottle of mouthwash, bar of soap stored in a seafoam green plastic clamshell holder, and a travel sized shampoo. In a separate zipper bag in that same portion is a small tube of sunscreen, one of moisturizers, a few band aids, some tape and an antiseptic cream for small burns, cuts and nicks. In another of the front pockets he keeps his leather bound notebook, two pencils and a pen, along with a small print out map that boasted stars and circles for all the places he’d traveled to- circles meaning he’d been there once, stars indicating multiple visits. His harmonica also had a home in that pouch for easy access on long quiet stretches of rail.  

There wasn’t a stitch of extra space anywhere on him, but somehow Ryan always managed to fit anything and everything that he needed. He’d left things with people and gained new items along the way, but somehow the amount of space he had always accommodated exactly what he needed it to. 

.

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @lexxierave @thesumofmychoices @songtoyou @traeumerinwitzhelden 

apologies if you didn’t want to be tagged in this essay, i just went with the Passing Through taglist :)