new jersey in the mornin' like a lunar landscape
Summary: Bruce is working on Nebraskaāor trying to anyway.
Pairing: Bruce Springsteen/Clarence Clemons (could be read as platonic but why would you)
Rating: G
Word Count: 1709
Warnings: discussions of anxiety/depression
Read on AO3 or under the cut!
December 1981
Colts Neck, NJ
Bruce hasnāt gotten a solid nightās sleep ināheās not even sure anymore. His brain is buzzing so badly it hurts. His eyes are dry and itchy, and his vision is full of the aggressive orange shag carpet the room is covered in, itās making the back of his eyeballs ache and all he has with him is the scribbled-out nonsense words in front of him. A lot of words with no spark and his body and mind are exhausted but his thoughts wonāt stop.
Bruce pushes himself away from the work around himāthe loose papers scattered across his bed, his guitar, the microphones and four track recorder heād been fucking around with for the past week. He grabs a jacket and heās out the door. The night is frigid, and he turns up his collar and stuffs his hands in his pockets as he starts walking. The streets back here donāt even have a shoulder, let alone a sidewalk, so heās walking along the side of the road, the frozen dirt crunching a bit under the weight of his footsteps. Years of hitchhiking have kept him in the habit of walking next to a space where a car would drive by even though there are no cars on the road and there wonāt be any at this time of night, not here on these empty, silent streets.
Every single one of his muscles is sore (and heās not even sure why since he hasnāt left the house for more than groceries and library trips in weeks) and thank god his feet know how to tread a familiar path because his brain doesnāt even remember the name of the street he lives on. His feet lead the way as he passes dark, two-story homes standing solitary among tidy yards and tall, old trees. In the summertime here, he thinks, there would be some nocturnal critters to keep him company. He would hear the hooting of an owl or, if he were very lucky, the rustling of a fox among the branches of trees. When heād first moved in, it had been fall and hunting season in the nearby woods had driven deer into the neighborhood but theyād disappeared by the time winter settled over the area.
There is a twitchy, nervous energy vibrating under his skin like an animal on edge in an unfamiliar environment and he wants to get itĀ out, he wants the feelingsĀ goneĀ from his body. He could call up some of the guys for a jam sessionāhe doesnāt know exactly how long itās been since he spoke to any of them. Maybe not a jam sessionāmaybe a gig, a gig would get him out of this funk. A jam session would lead him right back to where he is nowāworking on the same handful of songs, going over them and over them and over them and being left with nothing he feels confident in.
The last tour ended in September. Itās only been a few months and yet it has been an excruciatinglyĀ longĀ few months. The end of a tour always gets him downāitās been that way for as long as heās been touringābut the end of the River Tour has been soul crushing in a way thatās left him alternating between a restlessness heās mostly channeled into endless, circular writing and a strange emptiness that leaves him feeling like heās lugging around a hollowed-out ribcage beneath his chest.
He thinks that maybe itās because the River Tour had been so euphoric. Finally, for once, they werenāt playing for their lives. They werenāt playing to eat. They werenāt playing to prove themselvesāover and over again to record producers, to managers, to fans. They were playing toĀ playĀ and it brought out a joyful, manic energy in all of them. Bruce could look around at the faces sharing the stage with him and knowāreally know that theyād made it. And then the tour ended. And with it? Every feeling of certainty Bruce had had while on it.
His feet have found their way to water, as they usually do. It was the main appeal of the house heās renting nowāits proximity to the Swimming River Reservoir. Well, that and its immediate availability since heād come back from tour to find he wouldnāt be able to stay any longer in the last house heād rented.
The reservoir was quiet, and he preferred it that way. Heād come up on the Shore music scene but lately even the thought of the bustling beaches and clubs along the boardwalk left him exhausted.
Staring out into the stillness of the black waters, he thinks about the tour, tries to conjure the same excitement in himself, as if remembering could bring him back to the feeling he hadĀ beforeĀ and forget the feeling he has now.
Heās standing on the muddy bank (which is really only a few feet of space between the water and the tangled roots of trees behind him) and he remembers the grin on Stevieās face any time Two Hearts would start up, Garryās quick, efficient bow any time Bruce would introduce him to the crowd. The cold is biting into his skin and the moon is shining bright through the trees and he remembers Maxās watchful eyes on him, waiting for any sudden signal. The moon provides enough light from him to see the exhale of his own breath every time and he remembers the furious look of concentration on Dannyās face as his hands would fly over the keys. He remembers Royās serene energy paired with the huge sound his piano would make, filling more sound into his songs than he thought possible.
Bruce doesnāt even realize how late it really is until he notices the faint pink hues of early dawn starting to mix with the deep black of night and lighten the sky. He stoops to pick up a few rocks along the banks of the reservoir. He feels them in his hand, trying to determine if theyāre the right shape. Clarence had tried to teach him how to skip rocks once. He never really got the hang of it.
He remembers the quick peck of Clarenceās lips against his own and he wants another showāand soonāso that can happen againā¦and again and again every night. He wonders if thereās a way to get the band back together for a tour without an album to promote. A tour for no reason justā¦a tour where they can play because they want to. Thereāin the chill of the earliest dawn, as only a spare few faint sunbeams are struggling through the darkāit almost seems possible. He can feel the ghost of Clarenceās arms around himāhe could go to Clarence now. Clarence is always so free and easy with affectionānaturally comfortable with it and willing to initiate touch where Bruce frequently struggles to bridge the gap between his body and someone elseās. He hasnāt been touched (by anyone for any reason) in a very long time. Heās in between girlfriends right now and maybe thatās why heās having this strange desire to run into Clarenceās arms like a childābut he knows it wonāt feel the same. It wonāt feel as satisfyingly won as it does at the end of shows when heās given his allāfor the crowd, for himself, for the band, for Clarenceāand then his hard work is rewarded with a giant bear hug from the Big Man himselfāmaybe even lifted into the air by him if itās an especially good show that leaves Clarence energized.
Bruce wonders, briefly, what he could possibly do outside of a concert to deserve thatābut he knows thereās nothing else that could earn him a celebration like thatāitās something that comes from deep in Clarenceās soul and only the peculiar energy of a show could bring it out of him. Not that Clarence doesnāt hug him or pick him up plenty of times outside of showsāany time he feels like it really. But itās different. He wants to feel Clarence against him, sweaty and breathing heavy and filled with an infectious exhilarationāhe wants that feeling back.
He thinks itās too bad, too bad he doesnāt have new music heās ready to release yet, he could hop right back on tour and be fine again. Instead, he has a bunch of recording equipment heās not quite sure how to use in a rented bedroom and a handful of songs that wonāt come out right. He thinks about maybe hopping in his car, driving past his childhood home again, like heās done so many times over the past few weeks. But the daylight is starting to grow now, and heās started to become a bit paranoid about someone recognizing him if he stops by the old house too many times. Itās not like the house ever changesāhe knows what it looks like, he even knows the people who live there (by sight, at least).
The morning is coming on now and he wants to be back in the house before his neighbors start their own morning routines, so he turns from the reservoir and heads back the way he came. He's walked so far that his aching legs donāt want to carry him anymore and he wonders if heāll end up passed out underneath a tree before making it back.
The sun is fully up by the time he walks through the door to the rental, most of his thoughts now scattered across his brain like lost marbles, the fantasy of returning to tour evaporated under the harsh light of day. He collapses on the sofa and his last coherent thought before losing consciousness is that he should walk himself over to his bed before he falls asleep.
A few short hours later, the sun breaks over the trees that surround the house, one bright midmorning beam falling straight on to his face and waking him from a fitful sleep.
Bruce drags himself to the small bedroom at the back of the house and gets back to work.
