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I’m Just Your Problem
Mystery Shack
It was a late night in the strange, little town of Gravity Falls, and a relatively quiet one at that. Most establishments had already closed for the day, save for the crucial ones like the police station and hospital. No anomalies or strange creatures that inhabited the surrounding forest seemed too keen on causing mischief either. (Apart from the gnomes competing with the raccoons for the spoils in the trash cans, but that barely counted anymore.)
The town’s iconic tourist trap, the Mystery Shack, was no exception to the normal working hours. From the outside, the Shack seemed about as quiet and still as it normally would be around this time. The inside, however, was a different story.
The group had finished fixing up the wrecked Shack once Soos had finally found his way back, whereupon Mabel declared a “Post-Road Trip Party” for the family plus the Shack employees. She had, of course, offered for her friends to stay and join them, but they’d declined, having been away from home long enough already. The girl had been a bit disappointed, but quickly went ahead with her spontaneous plans anyway, reasoning that it could be a “small party just for the 6 of us!”
Small. Sure. Stan found himself mentally laughing at the thought, because even for a “small” task, Mabel never went halfway. It was one of the many reasons he was so proud of her. But, unfortunately for him, it was also the reason he was currently standing in the floor room amongst the hastily strung lights and streamers hanging from the ceiling, with loud music blasting from the stereo system they’d somehow set up so quickly. And Stan, for all his years of mastering the art of conning and deceit, couldn’t for the life of him convincingly say he was having a good time.
In his defense, though, he’d had a very long, very unpleasant last few days. To start with, his “Road Trip of Revenge” had backfired horribly, he’d let himself fall for a very obvious trap, almost been eaten by a giant spider lady, and on top of all that, he’d given Dipper bad advice that had gotten the kid into trouble, again! And that’s not even mentioning the verbal lashing he’d gotten from Stanford about the damage the other tourist trappers had done to the Shack. (On the bright side, though, he was almost numb to his brother’s scathing disappointment by now. Really.)
All of that to say, he really wanted a drink. More than anything, he wanted to just knock back a bottle, pass out in his room, and sleep through the next day. (He could afford to do that now that Ford was home.) But, unfortunately, the kids had insisted he stay for the party, and he just couldn’t say “no” to them. (Didn’t want to disappoint them any more than he already had.)
And so, despite his exhaustion and overall crappy mood, he found himself standing in the decked-out floor room, leaning against the wall and staring distantly at the ceiling as he slowly sipped a can of Pitt. (He couldn’t just go get a beer or something with the kids still awake, so a sugary, caffeinated soda would have to do.)
To be completely fair to the kids, the party wasn’t all bad; because although his hearing aid was vibrating in his ear from the sheer volume of the music, it was nice to just watch the kids having fun with Mabel’s karaoke machine, taking turns singing their favorite songs. Soos, of course, was manning his electric keyboard, only taking a short break to sing along with “Straight Blanchin’” when it was his turn. Wendy had not-so-subtly stepped out during Soos’s turn. Not that Soos was a bad singer; she just didn’t want that song stuck in her head again. (Stan couldn’t really blame her.) Mabel was absolutely in her element, belting out multiple Sev’ral Timez hits with a blinding smile. She’d even convinced Dipper to sing “Disco Girl”. The boy had initially been a little embarrassed (especially with The Author watching), but he’d gotten over it fairly quickly and genuinely seemed to have fun.
Stanford had tried to decline staying upstairs very long, but was no match for Mabel’s puppy-eyes. (It was somewhat comforting to Stan that, for all of Ford’s hostility towards him, his brother was unable to say “no” to their grand-niece as much as he was.) He had, though, politely turned down a turn at the karaoke machine.
Ford was currently leaning back against the wall opposite of Stan, almost mirroring him. Funnily enough, his twin was also sipping a can of Pitt. (A warm feeling threatened to emerge as he thought about how his twin’s addiction to caffeine and sugar apparently hadn’t changed in 40 years. He tried to ignore it.) He, too, seemed content to just watch the kids having fun. Stan was fine with that, just trying not to make eye contact with him. (And in the instances that their gazes crossed, it didn’t sting that his brother’s expression immediately tightened just a bit. It didn’t.)
“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel’s cheery voice chirped up at him, snapping him out of his definitely-not-brooding. He wasn’t sure when she had come over to him, but he had enough practice to pull on his “Mr. Mystery” smile in a second. “You having fun?!”
“You know I am, sweetie!” he said with a wink as he hoped he sounded convincing enough. (The kids had gotten scarily good at knowing when he was lying.) To his relief, Mabel’s blinding smile brightened even further at his words.
“Yes!” she exclaimed while punching the air. “Then this party is a success!” Stan found his smile becoming genuine—he was always glad when he could make the kids happy. “So,” Mabel continued, holding something behind her back. “You wanna show off your singing chops?” At this, she revealed the microphone she was holding, waving in coaxingly between them. His smile stiffened just a bit.
“Ahh, yer on a roll up there, kiddo,” he responded, trying to seem casual. “’Sides, y’ don’t wanna hear me singin’.” (His eyes briefly darted over to Ford, who was watching them with intrigue. Yeah, that was a big “no”.)
“Aw, c’mon! We’ve heard you before!” Mabel said, her voice taking on a fraction of his own “smooth-talking” tone (apparently, he’d been teaching them well), smile never dropping. “And I know you had fun doing it at the last party!” (He did, but that was hardly the point.)
“Yeah, well, this old man’s not feelin’ up to it,” Stan replied, letting just a bit of his exhaustion seep through his voice, hoping to play the sympathy card.
“Pleeaase? Just one little song?” Mabel pleaded, busting out her infamous puppy-eyes. Oh, great. He had to figure something out, fast. Trying to fight against them was almost always a losing battle. (And he was already losing.)
“And, I mean, if you’re really not feeling up to it,” Dipper suddenly chimed in from a few feet away, also employing Stan’s salesman attitude. With a smug grin to boot. “We do have recorded evidence of you singing that we could always play.”
“Ohh, that’s right!” Mabel added with fake realization. “I don’t think Grunkle Ford’s gotten a chance to see that yet.” Her face was the picture of innocence despite the horrible threats she was subtly flinging at him. Stan felt his blood run cold.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he said lowly, smile dropping completely as he hoped he looked imposing rather than backed into a corner. (They would. They absolutely would.)
“Hmm?” the girl simply hummed, tilting her head like a curious puppy. She looked him directly in the eyes as she did this, innocent expression unchanging. They both had him trapped and they knew it. Well, the choice was obvious. (He’d rather face a horde of zombies again before giving the kids a chance to show his twin the “Stan Wrong Song”.)
“Uggghh, fine,” he finally sighed, dragging his free hand down his face in exasperation, feeling his soda slosh around in his other hand. “One song, ‘n’ that’s it.” He held up one finger in emphasis.
“Woo-hoo!” Mabel cheered happily, immediately grabbing his hand to drag him over to the machine. As he was speed-walked away, he decided to finish off his soda by chugging the rest of it down; he probably needed both hands free, after all. He caught a glimpse of Dipper’s triumphant smirk, to which he responded with a very sour frown. It only seemed to make the kid even more smug. (Sometimes, he really did see too much of his brother in that jittery little pre-teen.)
“You go, dude!” Soos cheered as they passed him, playing a few “yeah!”s on his keyboard for emphasis. (At least he knew one person wouldn’t be laughing at him. That made him feel a little better. A little.) He crushed his empty can and tossed it to the trash bin as they walked, unable to stop himself from glancing at his twin again. Ford was watching raptly with an amused smile growing on his face, clearly looking forward to watching his shame. Beside him, Wendy was leaning against the wall, giving him a thumbs-up with a smirk that was partially encouraging, and mostly anticipating the inevitable hilarity. (Ugh. Why did his brother have to be here for this? The rest of them, he’d be embarrassed, but he could still handle it. Why did it have to be this?)
On the other hand, his mind whispered, it’s not like his opinion of you can get much lower, can it?
Well. He couldn’t really argue with that. No matter which way he looked at it, it was true; why was he bothered so much by his brother seeing him embarrassed when it seemed like Ford couldn’t think much worse of him already? (He knew the answer. He refused to acknowledge it.)
“Any requests?” Mabel asked when they reached the machine, handing him the microphone.
“Nah, jus’ nothin’ too complicated,” he replied with a (hopefully) casual tone, stepping up to the screen. His niece hummed, giving it some thought, and scrolled through the available songs.
“Aha!” she exclaimed, quickly spotting a title and stopping on it. “How ‘bout this one? We’ve been singing it like crazy lately!” Stan squinted to read the tiny text on the screen, barely making out the words. He didn’t recognize the title. Whatever.
“Yeah, sure,” he said with a shrug. With an excited grin, she started the machine and happily skipped away to watch. Stan let out a quiet sigh and situated himself so he could read the lyrics. Okay, let’s get this over with…
It was a bit of a shock when the blaring, frantic music suddenly switched to a comparatively gentle (albeit still quite loud due to the speakers) guitar riff starting up. Whatever kind of guitar it was didn’t matter (what was he, a musician?), because, he realized with a small huff of relief, he did indeed recognize the tune immediately. The kids had been playing this one so often that the melody and cadence of the entire song seemed to stick in his brain. Granted, he’d never paid attention to the lyrics, but hey! They were right in front of him now! Well, that makes this nice and easy. He cleared his throat a little and prepared for the first verse.
“La-da-da-da-da
I’m gonna bury you in the ground
La-da-da-da-da
I’m gonna bury you with my sound
I’m gonna,
Drink the red,
From your pretty, pink face,
I’m gonna…”
He couldn’t help the slight way his face distorted as he read that line. (Was this gonna be one of those weird songs that made no sense and meant nothing?) The next line wasn’t slanted on the screen, which even his dumb self knew meant it was supposed to be spoken, not sung.
“What, you don’t like that?
Or do you just not like me?”
His face visibly scrunched up in confusion at that. (Where the heck was this going?) He quietly cleared his throat once more, getting ready to sing again.
“Sorry I don’t treat you like a God,
Is that what you want me to do?”
His expression changed from confused to surprised to near-mischievous in the span of less than a second as he finally grasped the attitude of the song. (It was an attitude he could definitely relate to.) He couldn’t stop himself from glancing up at his audience (i.e., his brother) as he started to become more animated in his performance, hands beginning to gesture as if he were telling a story to a group of tourists. He could feel himself grinning now, watching Ford bristle with an indignant expression. Well, he was a showman, wasn’t he?
“Sorry I don’t treat you like you’re perfect,
Like all your little loyal subjects do,”
He couldn’t deny that it felt good to say it out loud—and without being interrupted, too. Because all of them—the kids, Wendy, even Soos—seemed to latch onto Ford’s every word since he stepped back into this dimension. (And really, they’ll hold themselves accountable, but not Ford? The kids apologized for the election thing, at least!)
“Sorry I’m not made of sugar,
Am I not sweet enough for you?”
Stan would be the first to admit he’d always been rough around the edges, but that used to be one of the things Ford liked about him. (Why wasn’t anything he did good enough anymore?)
“Is that why you always avoid me?
I must be such an inconvenience to you,”
He vaguely noticed his own temperature rising slightly from some emotional baloney. Jeez, when had he gotten so into this? (Probably around the same time the song had started speaking to him.) He was switching between glancing at the screen and glancing at his brother, who was noticeably starting to turn red.
“Well,”
He took a breath mentally and physically as he prepared for the chorus, making eye contact with Stanford.
“I’m just your problem, well,
I’m just your problem,
It’s like I’m
Not even a person, am I? (Oh, no)
I’m just your problem,”
Something in his twin’s face shifted, then, to something besides offended anger. He couldn’t tell what it was, and at the moment, he didn’t care. (Let him know much it sucks to be treated like a nuisance for just existing!)
“Well, I-I-I-I-I shouldn’t have to justify what I do,
I-I-I-I-I shouldn’t have to prove anything to you,”
The ever-shrinking part of him that still cared about himself knew this was true. (Or was he really just deluding himself…?)
“I’m sorry that I exist,”
(Can you say something sarcastically but also kinda mean it…?)
“I forgot what landed me on your blacklist,”
Something in him physically recoiled at that. (As if ANYTHING could make him forget the nights he ruined everything.)
“But I-I-I-I-I shouldn’t have to be the one that makes up with you,”
Still, at least he’d actually tried to make things better between them! (And he’d failed every single time.)
“So,”
(He was not feeling a painful sting in his eyes. He was NOT feeling an all-too-familiar mix of frustration and pain!”
“Why do I want to?
Why do I want to?”
(WHY did he want to keep reaching for something lost so long ago? WHY did he want to keep trying and inevitably failing?)
“I don’t have a clue! (I’m askin’ YOU!)”
(He bore directly into his better half’s identical brown eyes, CHALLENGING him to give them an answer.)
“So why do I want to?
And I guess that’s why,
I wanna bury you in the ground (and, baby, that’s),
(He WISHED his stupid heart could just stop caring, stop LOVING!)
“Why, I wanna bury you with my sound!”
(Because when did his brother’s voice join the chorus that existed only to remind him that he wasn’t good enough?) A breath; the music was quieting down. He lowered his own voice accordingly.
“I’m sorry that it’s this way,”
(And he was.)
“But I don’t know what else to say,”
(He would never be able to express just HOW deep his regret was.)
“’Cause I-I-I-I-I didn’t mean to push all my friends away,”
(Even now, he was still losing what little he had left.)
“’Cause I-I-I-I-I’m just your problem,”
He didn’t need to try to control his voice to match the lowering volume of the music.
“And I-I-I-I’m just your problem,”
With a shaky hand, he carefully placed the microphone back in its stand. Head tilted down, he started walking across the room to the stairs, resolutely not making eye contact with anyone. He didn’t acknowledge the shocked (and guilty…?) faces of the children as he passed them. He didn’t let himself look at his twin, not wanting whatever reaction that must’ve earned him. (But as he passed him, he couldn’t stop himself from softly uttering two barely audible words.)
“I’m sorry…”
Before he reached the stairs, he stopped when he felt a tiny hand grab his own. He did not look up.
“Keep havin’ fun, kiddos,” he said emotionlessly. “’M tired.” The little hand reluctantly let him go.
(The “Stan Wrong Song” would’ve been preferable after all.)
For a few long, painful moments, the floor room was deathly quiet. The four young party-goers felt the awful tension deep in their bones. Soos had completely abandoned his keyboard, wringing his hands together anxiously. Mabel stared sadly up the stairs after her Grunkle, wondering how this had gone so wrong. Wendy tiredly leaned back against the wall, looking away from the scene and sipping a can of Pitt to avoid having to say anything, trying to keep up an air of indifference. Dipper, cautiously approaching his sister with a worried (for multiple reasons) expression, was the one to break the silence.
“Did you… plan that?” he asked carefully. Not accusingly; just trying to understand. Mabel simply turned to him and sadly shook her head, her lack of words telling him it was sincere.
(None of them noticed that someone else had left the room.)
In the safety of his room, Stan leaned back against the door he’d just closed and locked, dragging his hand down his face with an exhausted sigh, not caring that he knocked his glasses wonky.
It was fine. It was fine. He would get however much sleep his messed-up brain and body would allow, and tomorrow he would get up and tell the same lie he’d been telling himself and everyone else for well over 30 years; that nothing happened, there was nothing to worry about, everything was fine.
He sighed heavily through his nose and stepped away from the door towards his oh-so-inviting bed. He stopped, flinching when he heard a quiet, rapid knock behind him. He stayed still, hoping whoever it was would get the message that he was done for the day. However, instead of the sound of the doorknob rattling or even another knock, what followed was the barely noticeable sound of footsteps hurrying away.
His face scrunched up, confused. The footsteps had been too heavy to be one of the kids, and too controlled to be Wendy or Soos. Without letting himself dwell on the remaining possibility, he carefully unlocked the door and peeked it open. The door made contact with something on the floor, making a crinkling sound. He looked down…
A bag of toffee peanuts.
Unbidden, a memory surfaced of being a silly, stupid kid, having had a stupid argument with his not-stupid brother. Said not-stupid brother having holed himself up in their room while they both took some time to cool down. Having briefly left the house and gotten a big bag of jellybeans, sometimes paying with his own small allowance, more often just snagging it instead. Placing it carefully on the floor right outside their bedroom door, quickly knocking and running away to the living room to wait for his brother.
(A silent apology.)
In the present, he clenched his jaw, taking a deep breath and ignoring the closing sensation in his throat. Without a word, he scooped the snack bag up from the ground and retreated back into his room. He carefully placed it on his bedside table, and sat down on his bed as he processed this new information. With one more tiny sigh, he removed his glasses and lay down to sleep.
It wasn’t much, but…
It was something.
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