Chapter Text
On a turntable, a 45 started to spin.
Not long after, a boy’s hand guided the needle to the edge of the record and let go. There was popping and crackling as the point followed the groove, but then the silence gave way and the opening riff blared. The hand retreated, satisfied.
Reaching down to the wood floor, the hand picked up a stick. Next, a folded paper hat, which was then placed atop an unruly set of thick brown curls. One of the boy’s bare feet stepped onto the seat of a stool and began to tap in time. The stick twirled deftly in his hand as the first words rang out from the turntable:
‘Look what’s happenin’ out in the streets
got a revolution—’
Stanley Pines lifted the stick above his head triumphantly.
“—got to revolution!”
He began marching around the room in a circle, pumping his fist and jabbing the stick skywards to the beat of the song, joining in at the end of each verse.
‘Hey, I’m dancin’ down the streets
got a revolution—’
“—got to revolution!”
June, 1976
‘Oh, ain’t it amazing all the people I meet
got a revolution—’
“—got to revolution!”
‘One generation got old—’
Upstairs in his study, Ford’s pen stilled in the midst of writing in his journal.
“—one generation got soul!”
He sighed. Even with the door closed he could hear the music, and at this point in the song he was pretty sure the bass could be measured on the Richter scale.
“—pick up the cry!”
“Stanley!” Ford called. Stan didn’t listen, of course.
‘Hey, now it’s time for you and me—’
“Oh, for Moses’ sake—” The wheels of his chair rumbled like thunder over the floor boards as he pushed away from his desk to head downstairs.
…Perhaps he shouldn’t have shown Stanley where he kept his records and 8-tracks.
Once he descended the steps, Ford stood disapprovingly in the archway to the living room, arms crossed and toe tip-tapping. Stanley continued marching around, playing at being a little revolutionary.
“Stanley.”
“We are volunteers of America—”
“Stanley.”
“—volunteers of America!—”
Pinching his nose, Ford’s head dipped in frustration. He walked briskly over to the turntable and hit the switch to lift the needle, bringing the song to an abrupt end right before the guitar solo.
Stan stopped in his tracks and spun around. “Aw, man!”
“Stanley, I cannot concentrate on my work with music blasting throughout the house!” Ford spied the simple black sleeve for his Volunteers single; rather gingerly, he picked it up and looked it over, remembering the October day he bought it for 89¢, way back during his first semester at Backupsmore…
…back in 1969. Sheesh. Stan sure picked an old song.
Sighing, he set it back down so he could meet Stan’s eyes. “Is there a problem with the headphones?”
“No?”
“Then why on Earth aren’t you using them?”
“I–” Stan huffed. “I can't just sit and listen to music. I gotta get up and move.”
Ford’s shoulders sank slightly with equal parts understanding and exasperation. “I do sympathize, but in that case, please keep the volume down.” He replaced the needle at the beginning of the track and immediately dialed a knob. The song played again, but much quieter this time around. “Don’t turn it up.”
Stan folded his arms, looking off to the side. “Fine.”
But Ford couldn’t be irritated with Stan for long. With a fond but tired smile he ruffled the kid’s hair as he was leaving, knocking off his paper hat in the process.
“Hey– Sixer!” Still, Stan giggled as picked up his hat.
As he walked up the stairs, Ford’s mind wandered to his and Stan’s upcoming birthdays: he’d be turning 25; Stan, 10. He’d be remiss to not get the boy a present of some sort.
It was the first birthday Stan was spending outside of New Jersey. Without Ma and Pa.
· • -- ٠ ✤ ٠ -- • ·
Meanwhile in the living room, Stan stood and watched the 45 as it spun around, the Airplane playing faintly. He was being pretty inconsiderate to Ford, he supposed. He turned the stick over in his hand as he thought back to his mother’s words right before boarding the Greyhound to Gravity Falls:
‘Now, you be a good boy and listen to your brother, ya got it?’
‘Yeah, Ma.’
‘Good.’ She pulled him close and kissed his forehead. ‘I love you, bubbeleh. Li’l free spirit o’ mine.’ She cupped his face and sighed. ‘Now, you get there in one piece, ya hear me?’
‘Yeah, Ma.’ Stan turned to his father. ‘Bye, Pa.’
A grunt in the affirmative was the only response he got.
· • -- ٠ ✤ ٠ -- • ·
Back in the present, Stan’s mouth tugged to one side in thought. Sure, Ford had insisted on no presents, but that just didn’t feel right. They were birthday twins, for crying out loud! Besides, Stan felt like kinda a jerk for interrupting Ford’s important research. A present should more than make up for it.
Now… what did nerds like?