(Sorry this is being posted late!)
Tammany:
That week was pretty calm. Grace really did fit in as well as it seemed she would that first chaotic weekend. We had yet to discover any dirty little secrets about her; she didn't seem to be a secret druggy (like Amanda had been), she had yet to simply fail to show up one day (like Richard), she hadn't been caught trying to carry out a cash register (like Pauly), and she liked The Princess Bride (unlike Rachel), which meant, as far as I was concerned, that she was a keeper. She wasn't even ruffled by Cale's tendency to jump out from behind random objects and try to scare her. In fact, she usually calmly pointed out some part of him that hadn't been completely hidden. He found this off-putting, and I found it funny beyond belief. Watching a girl half his size calmly informing him that he wasn't scary, and watching Cale wilt, was highly cathartic, even if I wasn't in any particular need of catharsis at that moment.
Grace had become a part of our little group amazingly quickly, and she was dragging Andrew with her. I didn't particularly mind that, of course. He didn't seem to think that I was anything special, though, never really singling me out. I retained a vague sense of hope, however, because from what I'd gathered from (subty, carefully, and above also, unnoticeably) pumping Grace for information, he didn't have anyone else he was interested in, aside from perhaps his mixing equipment. I was confident that his equipment wouldn't mind sharing him with a non-metallic interest. I hoped.
That Friday, Cale had scored tickets to a concert down at the Oyster, so we were all heading down there. I was less than thrilled that Andrew's apprentice would be making an appearance. From what I'd heard, he was the devil incarnate crossed with a sullen teenager. This was likely exaggerated, but still. Not cool crashing our night.
We all met at my cafe before the concert because it was close, convenient, and because it was way easier than anything else would have been. I was the first one there - unsurprising, because my apartment was above. All I had to do was get dressed in the vintage skirt I'd just bought and come downstairs. It was the best arrangement ever. Mornings were so nice without a commute of more than a flight of steps. I sprawled in one of the comfortable chairs in the little conversation alcove, grabbed my Stephenson book (only fifty pages left!) and awaited the rest.
Cale arrived next, to my complete and utter shock. He showed up in what almost could have been his stage outfit, with eyeliner and everything. "Hot date?" I asked. "Should I be worried about some woman stealing you affections from me?"
He scowled. "You're funny. No, I just wanted to look presentable for a change."
"For an emo-goth concert?" I asked.
"Yes, of course," he said, rolling his eyes.
"Pull up a chair," I said. "I don't think the others are going to be here anytime soon."
Of course, because the universe loves to prove me wrong, the bell on the door immediately jingled, and three people walked in, looking awkward and out-of-place. There were two men, one of whom was taller and looked like that one hipster dude everyone knows, who has a mustache tattooed on his finger - full on ratty plaid shirt and thick-framed glasses. The other was shorter and looked sort of like a confused punk with parents trying to neaten him up. The woman, who was almost six feet tall without heels on, was movie-star-striking - long brown hair, pale skin, gorgeous. She was dressed like a designer had taken the idea of 'vintage chic' and pushed it to its logical, classy extreme. I wanted to be her, just for a moment.
But then I pulled myself together. "Can I help you?" I asked, standing up. "I'm sorry, but the cafe is closed right now-"
"I'm Farthing's apprentice," said the punk. "My friends were coming to the concert anyway, so they just came with me here."
"Oh," I said, off-balance. "That's - fine, I guess. Sit down?"
I glanced at Cale to see what he made of these people, only to find that he'd locked eyes with the woman and was apparently staring her down. The two guys sat down at one of the tables, and slowly, not taking her eyes off Cale, the woman followed. It was truly difficult not waving a hand in front of Cale's eyes to see if it would affect him.
Fortunately for my dignity, he pulled his eyes off her and said, with forced calm to me, "So how was your day?"
"Pretty good," I said, normally, "No issues with the shop." Then I leaned in and mouthed, /Who is she?/
He ignored it, and continued making completely stupid small talk with me, while a heated whisper conversation went on at the table. I can honestly say I have never been more in agony from my sense of curiosity than for the ten minutes or so that passed before Grace and Andrew showed up.
When they came in the door, I jumped up to meet them, and said, "Your apprentice is here. He brought friends."
Andrew, who was looking every bit the casual indie gentleman, looked over at their group, and said, "Oh, hey Morgan. I didn't know you were coming."
Cue jealousy.
"I just wanted to see what the scouting scene was like," she said, smiling up at him angelically. I hated her a little. "Do you mind?"
"Of course not," he said, smiling back. Then, to Grace, Cale and me, he said, "Guys, this is Morgan, my search-and-rescue team from my job. I'd be a body lost amidst the cavernous basements of the office complex if it weren't for her."
"Oh, Scary Lady?" Grace asked, a twinkle of mischief in her eye. Morgan raised one elegantly shaped eyebrow. Andrew looked embarrassed. I felt marginally better.
"Maybe," he said, unconvincingly dodging the question. "And this is Nathan," he said, indicating the failed punk. "My apprentice extraordinaire." The punk acknowledged us with a short nod of his head. "And I'm not entirely sure who you are," Andrew said, looking at the hipster. "Sorry."
"This is Jim," Morgan said, "A friend of Nathan's and mine. He's very into the indie music scene."
"Hey," Jim said, smiling around. He was the one person of the three that I thought I might eventually like. The other two were amazing targets for jealousy and simple dislike. I felt bad about that, but that made it no less true.
"If we're all here, should we head out?" Andrew said, bless his unobservant heart. We all concurred.
The walk to the Oyster displayed us and our groupings remarkably well. Cale was in the front, as far from Morgan as he could get while not looking like he was avoiding her. Then there were me and Grace, walking along and talking about nothing in particular. Andrew wavered between walking next to us and trailing back to talk to Morgan, who was just in front of Jim and Nathan, who trailed as far back as they could.
Upon reaching the Oyster, we all sort of piled in on each other at the door while Andrew tried to sort out everyone's tickets. I was in the unenviable position of lone buffer between Cale and Morgan. They were both ignoring each other so thoroughly that I was a little shocked I hadn't frozen solid in the icy atmosphere. Every so often, one of them would glance at the other, sneer or wrinkle their nose, and then look fiercely in another direction. I was beginning to suspect one of them had killed the other's favorite childhood pet or something. What was weird was that I had absolutely no clue what was going on, and I knew just about everything about Cale. If something was bugging him this much, I was pretty sure I'd know about it.
Eventually, we were all allowed entry, and I momentarily forgot about the drama, instead basking in the amazing atmosphere of the Oyster. The place was perfect. An ancient warehouse had been renovated into a performance space and bar, while leaving as much of the original wood and stonework in place as possible, and shoring everything up with salvaged iron girders from a bridge that had been demolished. The light were old gaslamp fixtures that had been retrofitted to hold candle LEDS and sodium lights. The place looked like someone had said, "You know the Industrial Revolution? Let's turn that into a concert venue." Even the smell - Guinness, steel, and wood polish - felt right. I loved it. Watching the faces of the newbies to the place, I knew that at least Andrew got it, and perhaps Jim.
I didn't even bother stopping to grab a table, because table were for wimps and people who hated music. Instead, I used my best elbow-fu skills and managed to jostle all seven of us towards the front, right in the area where we would be super-close to the stage and yet not deafened. Then, I shouted, "I'm getting drinks - any orders?"
Pandemonium. Alright, so I probably should have asked one at a time, and not loud enough that the surrounding people could hear. But still.
Five minutes later, I had five orders and Cale's arm, and we went to go fight the crowd at the bar. I, of course, started quizzing him immediately. "What's with you and Andrew's sort-of-boss?" I said, trying not to sound like an eager gossip monger and failing miserably.
"Nothing," he said, not meeting my eyes. "Absolutely nothing."
"Lies and damned lies," I said. "Truth now."
"We met a couple years ago," he said. "Nothing big. We just didn't get off on the right foot."
"Okay, one, the only people you don't like are idiots and the arrogant. Two, 'getting off on the wrong foot' doesn't translate to 'looking directly at her burns my eyes'. What. Happened?" I rounded on him, doing my best to stare him down when I was looking a good foot upwards.
"Not now, okay?" Cale said, looking around. "Just, not now." He actually sounded upset. Cale was /never/ upset. I dropped it.
Showing posts with label characters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label characters. Show all posts
Friday, November 9, 2012
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Day Seven
Nathan (Cont.)
The company had always been his baby, and I was not going to let him down. And if he said that he thought this little charade would be good for me and the company, then I'd do it. I'd curse Morgan down to the icy depths of her soul for bringing him into this, but I'd do it.
Come Monday, I was sitting in my office, wearing clothes way more casual than I was used to wearing in a business setting. It felt strange to be sitting behind my desk while not only tie-less, but also in jeans and an old band t-shirt from my college days. I was shifting in my seat, playing with the suddenly fascinating balls-on-string desk toy when Morgan came in. She gave a wolf-whistle when she saw me. "Ready for your brand-new learning experience?" she asked. "Ready to go?"
"I hate you and wish worms upon your ovaries," I said, darkly, watching the balls click back and forth.
"Aren't you cheery?" she said. I could hear sunshine dripping from her voice. "Come on, Andrew is waiting for you."
"You're on a first-name basis with him now?" I asked, reluctantly rising from my desk. "That's a little informal for a CFO, don't you think?"
"Says the man wearing a Sex Pistols shirt," Morgan said, waggling her eyebrows.
"Shut up," I said. "It was a punk phase. I grew out of it. Let's just go, okay?"
She just laughed at me and took me downstairs.
I'd never really been below the main floor before, except for some publicity photos early last year. It was a little odd, a foray into a strange world I'd often heard about but seldom seen. It got darker, less spacious, and a little bit creepy. The soundproofing covering the walls made everything seemed muffled, and the occasional bass thumps that escaped from the recording studios felt like the steps of giants. Morgan seemed perfectly at home, which honestly didn't surprise me. For someone whose actual job was more or less accountant for the company, she spent a lot of the time wandering around the premises. She said it was to gauge the actual need of the company. I was pretty sure that she simply wanted to hear the interpersonal scandals, so as to maintain a working knowledge of all juicy gossip in the building.
Despite the creepiness, it was still an unfortunately short walk to the new premises of Farthing Records. Morgan, with no regard for my own sensibilities, simply walked in, giving me no time to compose myself or find a way to get out of this. "Andrew, did you need a sherpa today?" she asked.
"I successfully got down here all by myself," called a guy's voice from the depths of the studio. "I barely needed to look at my map. I called it a win."
"Come out here and say hello to your new student," she said, pulling me inside the room after her. "The Oz act is not that impressive without the light show." Then, to me, she hissed, "If you give away the game, I'll tell Uncle on you."
"You're so mature," I whispered back.
"Coming!" came Farthing's voice again.
"How do you know him this well?" I asked, still sotto voice. "You met him all of once, as far as I know."
"We've been emailing back and forth since Thursday," she told me, normally, as Farthing emerged from the back. "I've been telling him your current qualifications and apologizing for dumping you on him when he's still figuring out the ropes."
"Oh, it's all good," Farthing said, annoyingly cheerful. "With what you told me on the autonomy aspect, I'm pretty sure I've got everything down now. And having someone to help out with the simpler stuff will be nice."
"Of course. This is Nathan," she said, tugging me up towards her. "He really is almost completely new to everything, and you are doing me an amazing favor teaching him."
"It's fine," he said, smiling at her. The smile faltered slightly when he looked at me and extended a hand. "Nathan, I know we'll work well together."
"Of course," I lied, shaking hands. "It will be very instructive, I'm sure."
"I'll just leave you two boys to it," Morgan said, smiling sunshine, puppies and lollipops at Farthing, and adding just a touch of arsenic for me. "Have fun."
I restrained myself from muttering sarcastic comments under my breath, but only just. Instead, I turned to Farthing and said, "So what are going to do?"
"Well, I'm assuming that that you are really a rank beginner," he said with a smile pasted on his face. "So we'll begin at the beginning. How much do you know about music theory?"
"I took some music classes in high school, and played clarinet," I said.
"But what about actual music theory?" he pressed. "Do you know what a mode is?" I gave him a blank look. "Circle of fifths?" he asked. Nothing. "Could you point to middle C on a piano?"
More nothing.
It was a couple hours.
At lunch, I escaped, and furiously phoned Morgan from a nearby McDonald's. "This is not. Going. To work."
"You seem stressed," she said, calmly. "Is there a problem?"
"The man dumped an entire textbook's worth of theory on me in a two hour period," I said, whispering despite the fact that Farthing was in his basement, eating lunch there and being unnervingly intense about strange harmonies. "He is insane. He cannot expect me to learn all this-"
"So you can't do it?" she said, cutting off my rant just when my flow was beginning to truly get going.
"What?" I asked, derailed.
"Can you not do what he's asking of you?" she asked. "Because if you can't, I'm more than willing to be the go-between and tell him you felt it was too difficult."
"Of course I can do it," I said, affronted. "I just think he's pushing -"
"Either you can do it, or you can't," she said, pleasantly. "If you can't, I think that we should just finish this now and let you get back to mergers."
"Wait a second," I said, "Why do think I want to leave?"
"Well, you're calling and complaining to me, so I assume you want out," she said.
"That's an assumption," I said, irritated. "Maybe I want to stay."
"That's wonderful," she said, brightly. "I'll see you at the end of the day. Your lunch period is nearly over, you might want to get back." And she hung up.
I looked at the phone, feeling momentarily victorious. Then I realized that she'd just completely snowed me. I thought about calling her back, but decided it honestly wasn't worth it. The challenge present in her words bugged me no end. I wanted to prove here wrong, even though I knew that was exactly what she wanted me to want. There were reasons why I disliked the woman sometimes.
The rest of the day, I acted as polite and paid as much attention as I could. It was an uphill struggle, but I don't think I offended him any worse than I already had.
Morgan shanghaied me on the way back to my car. "You're going on a scouting mission on Friday," she told me. "Just so you know."
"Can I get out of it in any way?" I asked, tiredly.
"No."
"Fine."
Andrew:
My first real day of work went relatively well, for the first hour or so. I didn't get lost, I didn't get in trouble, and the equipment loved me in the way only sound equipment can love its operator. I played a couple sound checks, and for the moment, all thoughts of Tammy and associated emotional issues were put on hold, in favor of my one and only true love. We were soul mates, destined from the beginning to find each other, this sound board. It was fate.
Our happiness together was interrupted, right on schedule, by Morgan the Scary Lady and my new apprentice. I met him for the first time and almost immediately wished I hadn't. He was wearing a Sex Pistols shirt and a sullen expression, and looked a little older than I was. There was nothing about him that gave me hope for a good working relationship. When I began asking him what he knew, I wanted to cry, a little. He didn't know anything. I hadn't thought he'd be a virtuoso, after Morgan's warning emails, but I'd thought that he would at least know the basics about music theory and I could build from there. Unfortunately, when I took him to a keyboard, when I asked him where middle C was, he hit E. There was nothing there off which for me to build.
I decided to start with the basics, and gave him a crash course in theory that morning. He was looking a little overloaded and was beginning to get unnecessarily sarcastic around noon, so I suggested he go and grab something to eat. I ate and texted Grace and worked with some of the tracks for Dresden's Dreams.
/You would not believe my apprentice,/ I sent.
/y not?/ she asked.
/He's a D and knows absolutely nothing/
/that sucks. its the bruise in your perfect apple of a job/
/He's annoying and wasting my time./
/i was thrown up on yesterday. dont talk about your bad job/
/You like your job./
/except that there r bratty kids whose parents scream at me and then the kid throws up on me/
/True/
Then Nathan came back and I embarked on the uphill journey of teaching him the basics of the computer side of things. It was easier than the music theory side that morning, for whatever reason. He was (slightly) less recalcitrant, and he actually had some idea how computers worked. I made a mental note to put him on the mixing side as often as could be excused. He did have a decent ear, although he took the song samples I gave him weird places. He emphasized guitar and drums over the keyboard in all cases, which sometimes didn't work and sometimes brought out some interesting rhythmic ideas between the drums and keys.
I felt better by the end of the day, or at least like this wasn't going to be a complete fiasco. Nathan went home with visible relief, something which I definitely understood. Then I got an email from Morgan, suggesting I show him what scouting was like. I sat looking at the screen for a couple minutes after I got that, mind racing, trying to think of how I could break it to her that her golden boy was absolutely not going to be able to scout well. If he acted with potential talent anything like the way he acted with me, we'd lose any chance we had with them.
Then another email came through which made me wonder, just for a second, whether Morgan was psychic, telling me that of course I should do the talking during any actual meetings. I gave up and replied that sure, that very Friday I was hitting a concert and of course he could come. Then I ran away home and crashed, hard, pausing only to tell Grace that we, unfortunately, had an extra person to get tickets for on Friday.
The company had always been his baby, and I was not going to let him down. And if he said that he thought this little charade would be good for me and the company, then I'd do it. I'd curse Morgan down to the icy depths of her soul for bringing him into this, but I'd do it.
Come Monday, I was sitting in my office, wearing clothes way more casual than I was used to wearing in a business setting. It felt strange to be sitting behind my desk while not only tie-less, but also in jeans and an old band t-shirt from my college days. I was shifting in my seat, playing with the suddenly fascinating balls-on-string desk toy when Morgan came in. She gave a wolf-whistle when she saw me. "Ready for your brand-new learning experience?" she asked. "Ready to go?"
"I hate you and wish worms upon your ovaries," I said, darkly, watching the balls click back and forth.
"Aren't you cheery?" she said. I could hear sunshine dripping from her voice. "Come on, Andrew is waiting for you."
"You're on a first-name basis with him now?" I asked, reluctantly rising from my desk. "That's a little informal for a CFO, don't you think?"
"Says the man wearing a Sex Pistols shirt," Morgan said, waggling her eyebrows.
"Shut up," I said. "It was a punk phase. I grew out of it. Let's just go, okay?"
She just laughed at me and took me downstairs.
I'd never really been below the main floor before, except for some publicity photos early last year. It was a little odd, a foray into a strange world I'd often heard about but seldom seen. It got darker, less spacious, and a little bit creepy. The soundproofing covering the walls made everything seemed muffled, and the occasional bass thumps that escaped from the recording studios felt like the steps of giants. Morgan seemed perfectly at home, which honestly didn't surprise me. For someone whose actual job was more or less accountant for the company, she spent a lot of the time wandering around the premises. She said it was to gauge the actual need of the company. I was pretty sure that she simply wanted to hear the interpersonal scandals, so as to maintain a working knowledge of all juicy gossip in the building.
Despite the creepiness, it was still an unfortunately short walk to the new premises of Farthing Records. Morgan, with no regard for my own sensibilities, simply walked in, giving me no time to compose myself or find a way to get out of this. "Andrew, did you need a sherpa today?" she asked.
"I successfully got down here all by myself," called a guy's voice from the depths of the studio. "I barely needed to look at my map. I called it a win."
"Come out here and say hello to your new student," she said, pulling me inside the room after her. "The Oz act is not that impressive without the light show." Then, to me, she hissed, "If you give away the game, I'll tell Uncle on you."
"You're so mature," I whispered back.
"Coming!" came Farthing's voice again.
"How do you know him this well?" I asked, still sotto voice. "You met him all of once, as far as I know."
"We've been emailing back and forth since Thursday," she told me, normally, as Farthing emerged from the back. "I've been telling him your current qualifications and apologizing for dumping you on him when he's still figuring out the ropes."
"Oh, it's all good," Farthing said, annoyingly cheerful. "With what you told me on the autonomy aspect, I'm pretty sure I've got everything down now. And having someone to help out with the simpler stuff will be nice."
"Of course. This is Nathan," she said, tugging me up towards her. "He really is almost completely new to everything, and you are doing me an amazing favor teaching him."
"It's fine," he said, smiling at her. The smile faltered slightly when he looked at me and extended a hand. "Nathan, I know we'll work well together."
"Of course," I lied, shaking hands. "It will be very instructive, I'm sure."
"I'll just leave you two boys to it," Morgan said, smiling sunshine, puppies and lollipops at Farthing, and adding just a touch of arsenic for me. "Have fun."
I restrained myself from muttering sarcastic comments under my breath, but only just. Instead, I turned to Farthing and said, "So what are going to do?"
"Well, I'm assuming that that you are really a rank beginner," he said with a smile pasted on his face. "So we'll begin at the beginning. How much do you know about music theory?"
"I took some music classes in high school, and played clarinet," I said.
"But what about actual music theory?" he pressed. "Do you know what a mode is?" I gave him a blank look. "Circle of fifths?" he asked. Nothing. "Could you point to middle C on a piano?"
More nothing.
It was a couple hours.
At lunch, I escaped, and furiously phoned Morgan from a nearby McDonald's. "This is not. Going. To work."
"You seem stressed," she said, calmly. "Is there a problem?"
"The man dumped an entire textbook's worth of theory on me in a two hour period," I said, whispering despite the fact that Farthing was in his basement, eating lunch there and being unnervingly intense about strange harmonies. "He is insane. He cannot expect me to learn all this-"
"So you can't do it?" she said, cutting off my rant just when my flow was beginning to truly get going.
"What?" I asked, derailed.
"Can you not do what he's asking of you?" she asked. "Because if you can't, I'm more than willing to be the go-between and tell him you felt it was too difficult."
"Of course I can do it," I said, affronted. "I just think he's pushing -"
"Either you can do it, or you can't," she said, pleasantly. "If you can't, I think that we should just finish this now and let you get back to mergers."
"Wait a second," I said, "Why do think I want to leave?"
"Well, you're calling and complaining to me, so I assume you want out," she said.
"That's an assumption," I said, irritated. "Maybe I want to stay."
"That's wonderful," she said, brightly. "I'll see you at the end of the day. Your lunch period is nearly over, you might want to get back." And she hung up.
I looked at the phone, feeling momentarily victorious. Then I realized that she'd just completely snowed me. I thought about calling her back, but decided it honestly wasn't worth it. The challenge present in her words bugged me no end. I wanted to prove here wrong, even though I knew that was exactly what she wanted me to want. There were reasons why I disliked the woman sometimes.
The rest of the day, I acted as polite and paid as much attention as I could. It was an uphill struggle, but I don't think I offended him any worse than I already had.
Morgan shanghaied me on the way back to my car. "You're going on a scouting mission on Friday," she told me. "Just so you know."
"Can I get out of it in any way?" I asked, tiredly.
"No."
"Fine."
Andrew:
My first real day of work went relatively well, for the first hour or so. I didn't get lost, I didn't get in trouble, and the equipment loved me in the way only sound equipment can love its operator. I played a couple sound checks, and for the moment, all thoughts of Tammy and associated emotional issues were put on hold, in favor of my one and only true love. We were soul mates, destined from the beginning to find each other, this sound board. It was fate.
Our happiness together was interrupted, right on schedule, by Morgan the Scary Lady and my new apprentice. I met him for the first time and almost immediately wished I hadn't. He was wearing a Sex Pistols shirt and a sullen expression, and looked a little older than I was. There was nothing about him that gave me hope for a good working relationship. When I began asking him what he knew, I wanted to cry, a little. He didn't know anything. I hadn't thought he'd be a virtuoso, after Morgan's warning emails, but I'd thought that he would at least know the basics about music theory and I could build from there. Unfortunately, when I took him to a keyboard, when I asked him where middle C was, he hit E. There was nothing there off which for me to build.
I decided to start with the basics, and gave him a crash course in theory that morning. He was looking a little overloaded and was beginning to get unnecessarily sarcastic around noon, so I suggested he go and grab something to eat. I ate and texted Grace and worked with some of the tracks for Dresden's Dreams.
/You would not believe my apprentice,/ I sent.
/y not?/ she asked.
/He's a D and knows absolutely nothing/
/that sucks. its the bruise in your perfect apple of a job/
/He's annoying and wasting my time./
/i was thrown up on yesterday. dont talk about your bad job/
/You like your job./
/except that there r bratty kids whose parents scream at me and then the kid throws up on me/
/True/
Then Nathan came back and I embarked on the uphill journey of teaching him the basics of the computer side of things. It was easier than the music theory side that morning, for whatever reason. He was (slightly) less recalcitrant, and he actually had some idea how computers worked. I made a mental note to put him on the mixing side as often as could be excused. He did have a decent ear, although he took the song samples I gave him weird places. He emphasized guitar and drums over the keyboard in all cases, which sometimes didn't work and sometimes brought out some interesting rhythmic ideas between the drums and keys.
I felt better by the end of the day, or at least like this wasn't going to be a complete fiasco. Nathan went home with visible relief, something which I definitely understood. Then I got an email from Morgan, suggesting I show him what scouting was like. I sat looking at the screen for a couple minutes after I got that, mind racing, trying to think of how I could break it to her that her golden boy was absolutely not going to be able to scout well. If he acted with potential talent anything like the way he acted with me, we'd lose any chance we had with them.
Then another email came through which made me wonder, just for a second, whether Morgan was psychic, telling me that of course I should do the talking during any actual meetings. I gave up and replied that sure, that very Friday I was hitting a concert and of course he could come. Then I ran away home and crashed, hard, pausing only to tell Grace that we, unfortunately, had an extra person to get tickets for on Friday.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Day Six
Andrew (continued)
I don't know what I said when we got to the table - I couldn't hear myself, so they probably couldn't either. We had a conversation consisting of (what I assume to be) pithy comments on the volume in the room, vigorous nodding of heads, the occasional cocking of heads, and the regular loud shout of, "What?!" It was extremely productive.
Finally, though, the lights dimmed even further, and a truly deafening announcer told us to put our hands together for C. Smith. We did so with enthusiasm. It was still quieter than the room had been previously. And then Cale walked onto the stage. I'm pretty sure my jaw hit the table. Here was the answer to all my needs, sitting at an elderly keyboard with a mic stand zip-tied to it. "Hey, everyone," he said. The crowd roared.
The next hour was amazing. His voice - I've heard better, sure. But I've also seen better cars than a Ferrari. It just so happened that those cars were either time machines or sentient. His voice was freaking amazing. The woman at the table next to me swooned a little every time he drew breath, and even as a completely heterosexual male, I thought that completely understandable. But his piano skills made me angry. It was completely irresponsible of someone with piano skills like that to not be famous. Honestly. Some people.
His covers were amazing, his original songs pretty good. Even where lyrics were weak or where his voice wasn't quite right for the song in question, the piano made it all alright. I wanted him to play my songs.
I said as much to Grace, when his set finally ended. She started laughing. "What?" I asked, affronted.
"You said that the way some women say that they want to have someone's children," she said, giggling. "You are such a music nerd, I love it."
"That's my job," I said, with dignity. "Music nerdism is an important trait in someone who makes music for a living."
"Just go and pop the musical question to him," she said, pushing me towards the stage. "But remember, emeralds look good on redheads."
"I'll get him an emerald-studded keyboard," I called back, before I was drawn away by the currents in the crowd. So I fought my way up to the stage area, and then to the stage door. There was an alarming group of hipster girls, who were doing their best to pretend that they were only there to ironically make fun of the girls looking to hook up with the musician. I squeezed around the edge of the group, and told the official-appearing man who stood by the door, “I’d like to speak with Mr. Smith.”
“So would they,” he said, hooking a thumb towards the ugly-sweater-wearing crowd behind me. “Is there any reason I should take you more seriously than them?”
“Tammy told me to go talk to Cale,” I said, a shot in the dark.
A good one, apparently, because his eyebrows rose, and he said, “Oh, that’s fine then. Tell Tammy hi from Josh,” and opened the door. I hurried through, before the hipsters sensed the disturbance in the force and mobbed the poor man.
The backstage area was a long, echo-y hallway that seemed reminiscent of every backstage I’d ever had to stand around in during one of my groups’ concerts. There was a door from which all the noise of the performance area emanated, and another, beat-up door across from it that had a rough ‘Dressing Room’ placard on it. I went towards that one and knocked on it.
“Is someone dying or are you interesting?” came Cale’s voice. “Because otherwise go away.”
“Am I interesting?” I asked. “Because otherwise I’m stuck here, because my sister is a scary lady.”
“Oh, sh-“ I heard, and then the door opened. Somehow, Cale seemed taller. It might have been the hair, gelled almost upright. Or maybe it was the eyeliner. “Do I have to yell at Tammy?” he asked. “I told her not to bug you about hooking me up with anything.”
“I can’t say she’s completely innocent, because she invited my sister, who brought me,” I said. “But as far as I know, there was no plot."
"That's good," he said, leaning on the door frame. He seemed a little awkward, not entirely sure what to do with his hands. "Um. So why are you back here?"
"Oh. Because despite the lack of plot, I want you to play my music?" I said.
He blinked. "Seriously?" he asked.
"Yeah, seriously," I said. "I've got some piano ballads that could use you. And all my pieces include keyboard. And I've got some male solos that would fit you, too."
Cale shifted in the door, withdrawing back into the room a little. "Give me some time to think about it, alright?" he said. "I like what I've got going on right now. I'll need to think before I commit."
"That's fine," I said, mentally crying, /no, it's not! I want your skills/. "Just get back to me whenever. There's plenty of samples of my stuff on my website, so if you want to check it out it's all there."
"Sounds good," he said, his hand finding the door handle. "If you'd excuse me, I want to change out into street clothes, and get rid of all of this," with a vague motion towards his face.
"Sure, of course," I said, backing away. "You do that."
The door closed, and I walked away feeling a little like I'd just been blown off. The walk back to where I'd left Grace was a little harrowing, because there was this dense miasma of Pabst Blue Ribbon in the air, mixed amongst the many, many sweaty hipsters. I began to remember why I'd hung backstage at Thomas's concerts, instead of watching in the 'electrifying' atmosphere. In certain areas, the word electrifying only means that if a power line falls into the area, everyone is going to die a smelly death.
Grace and Tammy were sitting together at the table, engaged in the kind of girl talk that requires the participants to be leaning together closely enough that the tops of their heads touch and furtive glances to be shot off in the direction of any and all watchers approximately once per nanosecond. I felt irrationally guilty interrupting them.
That feeling lasted about the time between their furtive glances, however, because the first thing Tammy said was, "So did Cale agree to join your band thing?" Then it disappeared like water on a hot stove - quickly, replacing itself with steam.
"No," I said,abruptly. Both girls looked affronted. "He said he needed to think about it. And he assumed there was a plot to get me back there, and didn't appreciate it. I don't like people plotting stuff, okay?"
Grace had the decency to look a trifle guilty. She was well aware of my low tolerance level for what I called 'plots' and others called, variously, 'drama,' 'schemes,' and 'shit going down.' I had issues with it all through high school, and still did. People shouldn't screw with other people behind their backs. They just shouldn't.
"Sorry," she said, shooting Tammy an indecipherable look. "And really, the only plot that was going on was seeing whether or not you liked his stuff. We wanted it to be a surprise."
"Well, I'll admit that I was surprised," I said, sitting down beside them. "He's really good. Like, really, really good."
"When he comes out, we should go out to dinner," Tammy said. "He's always hungry after these things."
"Sure," I said. "But I won't be talking about music. Alright?"
"Deal," Grace said, quickly. She knew when not to push me, and finding out I'd been screwed with was one of those times.
"Cool," I said, and let it go.
Nathan:
The weekend was not relaxed. I spent it working on details for a couple acquisitions and the rights for a major corporation's commercials, trying to figure out how to suggest that a song about certain stronger-than-PG-13 practices might not be the best way to advertise laundry soap without losing the deal. It was not fun. Plus I had the whole 'faux apprenticeship' deal hanging over my head. I spent what little downtime I had thinking of ways to get out of it. I kept running up against the same issue, though: my father had said it was a good idea.
Now, if there had been any other force behind this - if it was just Morgan, or if it was just some publicity stunt - then I would have just said no, and to hell with the consequences. But my father was another matter entirely. He was still, in all but legality, the head of the company. That he trusted me enough to let me deal with the nitty-gritty aspects of running the company while he went into medically-forced retirement meant the world to me.
I don't know what I said when we got to the table - I couldn't hear myself, so they probably couldn't either. We had a conversation consisting of (what I assume to be) pithy comments on the volume in the room, vigorous nodding of heads, the occasional cocking of heads, and the regular loud shout of, "What?!" It was extremely productive.
Finally, though, the lights dimmed even further, and a truly deafening announcer told us to put our hands together for C. Smith. We did so with enthusiasm. It was still quieter than the room had been previously. And then Cale walked onto the stage. I'm pretty sure my jaw hit the table. Here was the answer to all my needs, sitting at an elderly keyboard with a mic stand zip-tied to it. "Hey, everyone," he said. The crowd roared.
The next hour was amazing. His voice - I've heard better, sure. But I've also seen better cars than a Ferrari. It just so happened that those cars were either time machines or sentient. His voice was freaking amazing. The woman at the table next to me swooned a little every time he drew breath, and even as a completely heterosexual male, I thought that completely understandable. But his piano skills made me angry. It was completely irresponsible of someone with piano skills like that to not be famous. Honestly. Some people.
His covers were amazing, his original songs pretty good. Even where lyrics were weak or where his voice wasn't quite right for the song in question, the piano made it all alright. I wanted him to play my songs.
I said as much to Grace, when his set finally ended. She started laughing. "What?" I asked, affronted.
"You said that the way some women say that they want to have someone's children," she said, giggling. "You are such a music nerd, I love it."
"That's my job," I said, with dignity. "Music nerdism is an important trait in someone who makes music for a living."
"Just go and pop the musical question to him," she said, pushing me towards the stage. "But remember, emeralds look good on redheads."
"I'll get him an emerald-studded keyboard," I called back, before I was drawn away by the currents in the crowd. So I fought my way up to the stage area, and then to the stage door. There was an alarming group of hipster girls, who were doing their best to pretend that they were only there to ironically make fun of the girls looking to hook up with the musician. I squeezed around the edge of the group, and told the official-appearing man who stood by the door, “I’d like to speak with Mr. Smith.”
“So would they,” he said, hooking a thumb towards the ugly-sweater-wearing crowd behind me. “Is there any reason I should take you more seriously than them?”
“Tammy told me to go talk to Cale,” I said, a shot in the dark.
A good one, apparently, because his eyebrows rose, and he said, “Oh, that’s fine then. Tell Tammy hi from Josh,” and opened the door. I hurried through, before the hipsters sensed the disturbance in the force and mobbed the poor man.
The backstage area was a long, echo-y hallway that seemed reminiscent of every backstage I’d ever had to stand around in during one of my groups’ concerts. There was a door from which all the noise of the performance area emanated, and another, beat-up door across from it that had a rough ‘Dressing Room’ placard on it. I went towards that one and knocked on it.
“Is someone dying or are you interesting?” came Cale’s voice. “Because otherwise go away.”
“Am I interesting?” I asked. “Because otherwise I’m stuck here, because my sister is a scary lady.”
“Oh, sh-“ I heard, and then the door opened. Somehow, Cale seemed taller. It might have been the hair, gelled almost upright. Or maybe it was the eyeliner. “Do I have to yell at Tammy?” he asked. “I told her not to bug you about hooking me up with anything.”
“I can’t say she’s completely innocent, because she invited my sister, who brought me,” I said. “But as far as I know, there was no plot."
"That's good," he said, leaning on the door frame. He seemed a little awkward, not entirely sure what to do with his hands. "Um. So why are you back here?"
"Oh. Because despite the lack of plot, I want you to play my music?" I said.
He blinked. "Seriously?" he asked.
"Yeah, seriously," I said. "I've got some piano ballads that could use you. And all my pieces include keyboard. And I've got some male solos that would fit you, too."
Cale shifted in the door, withdrawing back into the room a little. "Give me some time to think about it, alright?" he said. "I like what I've got going on right now. I'll need to think before I commit."
"That's fine," I said, mentally crying, /no, it's not! I want your skills/. "Just get back to me whenever. There's plenty of samples of my stuff on my website, so if you want to check it out it's all there."
"Sounds good," he said, his hand finding the door handle. "If you'd excuse me, I want to change out into street clothes, and get rid of all of this," with a vague motion towards his face.
"Sure, of course," I said, backing away. "You do that."
The door closed, and I walked away feeling a little like I'd just been blown off. The walk back to where I'd left Grace was a little harrowing, because there was this dense miasma of Pabst Blue Ribbon in the air, mixed amongst the many, many sweaty hipsters. I began to remember why I'd hung backstage at Thomas's concerts, instead of watching in the 'electrifying' atmosphere. In certain areas, the word electrifying only means that if a power line falls into the area, everyone is going to die a smelly death.
Grace and Tammy were sitting together at the table, engaged in the kind of girl talk that requires the participants to be leaning together closely enough that the tops of their heads touch and furtive glances to be shot off in the direction of any and all watchers approximately once per nanosecond. I felt irrationally guilty interrupting them.
That feeling lasted about the time between their furtive glances, however, because the first thing Tammy said was, "So did Cale agree to join your band thing?" Then it disappeared like water on a hot stove - quickly, replacing itself with steam.
"No," I said,abruptly. Both girls looked affronted. "He said he needed to think about it. And he assumed there was a plot to get me back there, and didn't appreciate it. I don't like people plotting stuff, okay?"
Grace had the decency to look a trifle guilty. She was well aware of my low tolerance level for what I called 'plots' and others called, variously, 'drama,' 'schemes,' and 'shit going down.' I had issues with it all through high school, and still did. People shouldn't screw with other people behind their backs. They just shouldn't.
"Sorry," she said, shooting Tammy an indecipherable look. "And really, the only plot that was going on was seeing whether or not you liked his stuff. We wanted it to be a surprise."
"Well, I'll admit that I was surprised," I said, sitting down beside them. "He's really good. Like, really, really good."
"When he comes out, we should go out to dinner," Tammy said. "He's always hungry after these things."
"Sure," I said. "But I won't be talking about music. Alright?"
"Deal," Grace said, quickly. She knew when not to push me, and finding out I'd been screwed with was one of those times.
"Cool," I said, and let it go.
Nathan:
The weekend was not relaxed. I spent it working on details for a couple acquisitions and the rights for a major corporation's commercials, trying to figure out how to suggest that a song about certain stronger-than-PG-13 practices might not be the best way to advertise laundry soap without losing the deal. It was not fun. Plus I had the whole 'faux apprenticeship' deal hanging over my head. I spent what little downtime I had thinking of ways to get out of it. I kept running up against the same issue, though: my father had said it was a good idea.
Now, if there had been any other force behind this - if it was just Morgan, or if it was just some publicity stunt - then I would have just said no, and to hell with the consequences. But my father was another matter entirely. He was still, in all but legality, the head of the company. That he trusted me enough to let me deal with the nitty-gritty aspects of running the company while he went into medically-forced retirement meant the world to me.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Day Three and Four
Nathan (continued)
Several minutes later, Morgan arrived. "What is it?' I asked. "Is there a crisis? Or do I need to sign something?"
"You, sir, are going to do something for once," she told me fiercely. "You are going down in the trenches. You will actually do work. And if you argue, I will make you take a mandatory sick leave and go to Guatemala or something and fight your way through the jungle until you no longer are trying to sabotage yourself and the company just to have something to do. Got it?"
"Got it," I said, meekly. Morgan in a bad mood was not someone to mess with. "And what will I be doing?"
"You will be developing a band from the ground up," she said. "Finding people to play in it, helping with their songs, dealing with their issues, and getting it recorded and mixed. Everything. It should be enough of a challenge that you stop freaking out every two weeks or so."
"But I'm not a scout, or an agent, or anything," I protested. "I'll screw it up. I run companies, I don't actually do music."
"Then you'll have to learn," Morgan said, firmly. "Suck it up and deal, because I phoned Uncle Fred and he completely agrees that this is good for you."
I felt myself go cold. "Calling in my father is completely unfair, and might count as a violation of the Geneva Convention," I said. "Bitch."
"That's why I'm successful. And you a bastard, which is why you are successful. Again, suck it up and do it."
"Fine," I said, standing up and slamming my hand against the desk. "Do I get any assistance with this? Any aid or succor?"
"You're working with the newly acquired Farthing of Farthing Records, who's no longer missing, and is in fact currently down in the recording room," she said. Morgan seemed a little too satisfied with herself at this.
"Oh, lord, what did you do?" I asked her.
"Nothing, yet. But he will think you're a trainee given to him to guide." She smiled like a shark, all sharp, white, evil teeth.
I opened my mouth, momentarily, then shut it again. Then I opened it again, and said, "Fine. Okay. I'll do it. Should I go there right now? Or should I wait until next week, so I can be dressed in suitably ratty clothes?"
"Next week should be good," Morgan said, smiling even wider. "By then I'll have told him about it, too.
"We're both getting screwed here, aren't we?" I asked. "You decided we both needed to learn some sort of lesson, and this is your way of doing it - throwing us together and to the wolves at the same time."
"Maybe. Or maybe I just like playing God with the lives of those around me," she said.
"That's honestly scarier."
"Of course it is."
Andrew:
So after I'd spent a good couple hours getting acquainted with my absolutely amazing new equipment, I finally realized that it was now seven o'clock, that normal people had gone home by now, and I was really, really, really hungry by now. I'd sort of forgotten that during the whole tour and meeting-the-love-of-my-musical-life bit. So, reluctantly, I parted from her, and went off to prowl the unfamiliar night for something that I could eat without getting food poisoning.
Apparently that's a little difficult in this town. On my way to the subway, I passed two Chinese places that a) were definitely cheap rip-offs and had nothing to do with actual Chinese food, and b) probably served both 'chicken' and the much more expensive 'real chicken'. There was also a McDonald's that didn't look like it had been renovated since 1972, and smelled that way, too, and a Starbucks that had no little pastry thing in it. So I was hungry on the subway, my stomach growling audibly enough that people started giving me weird looks. Just a little embarrassing.
On the other end of the ride, there were more restaurants, but these were a bit more high class. Greek places with the menus out front - no prices, which meant you Don't Want To Know,; French places with honest-to-god Maitre-d's, the occasional Italian place with a wandering violinist - not anywhere where I would go alone.
But finally, just as I was giving up hope and about to just look up the nearest Domino's when I got back to the apartment, it appeared - like an oasis in the desert, a place of succcor and sustenance, a tiny little cafe called Care for a Cuppa, not two blocks from my place. It was still open, so I went in without a second thought.
The interior was plastered - absolutely covered, floor to ceiling - with posters. Movie posters, music posters, tv posters, everything. The chairs and tables scattered around were all uniquely painted, each a different color or pattern. The floor was that black and white checker pattern that is ubiquitous in the movies but you never actually see in real life. And the lighting was a warm yellow glow, coming from lights hung from the ceiling, wrapped in paper-machee newspaper lampshades. It was amazing.
I noticed the woman at the counter only after I'd spent a good couple minutes looking around. She was reading a thick paperback book, and I wasn't entirely sure if she was actually aware I was there. However, when I moved towards the counter, she asked, "And what will you have?"
"Ah, roast beef with tomato, cheddar, and mayonnaise?" I asked. "And a Fanta orange, if you have it."
"We've got generic orange," she said, finally looking up from her book. Her eyes were very green, I noticed. "Sorry."
"That's fine," I said, smiling. "I just don't want cola." She put down her book, spread-eagle on the counter to keep her page, and I glanced at the title. Then I nearly freaked out. It was a Neal Stephenson novel, one I'd read last year. I'd never actually met someone who'd made it all the way through one of his doorstoppers. "So you like historical fiction?" I asked.
"Hmm?" she asked, looking up absent-mindedly from my food. Then her eyes fell upon the book and she said, "Oh, yeah, I do. I've been working on this thing for ages, but I never can quite find the time to sit down for seven hours and finish it."
"It's a monster," I confirmed. "But don't give up just because of that. There's a holiday weekend tomorrow, finish it then."
She looked at me with mock-horror in her eyes. "I'm open all weekend," she said. "There will be no time to sleep or breathe, much less finish that thing."
I was about to say something suave, I'm sure - something about me coming in to see her tomorrow, or maybe about we should talk about the book when she did finish it - when a very, very tall man with very, very ginger hair stood up from nowhere behind the counter. It was sort of like watching a stepladder assemble itself upright, only with less finesse. He yawned and stretched, his knuckles brushing the ceiling. It was impressive and cowed me completely.
So instead I simply said something bland and normal, like, "That sounds awful," or "It can't be that bad," and then Mister Really Really Tall said, "Hey, aren't you closing the place up soon, Tammy?"
"Yeah, this guy's probably our last customer," she said, smiling up at him. A mild pang of jealousy went through my chest. I ignored it. It wasn't like I wasn't used to finding out pretty girls were attached.
She finished up my sandwich and handed it and the soda to me, and I paid and left. I ate as I walked home, and debated the merits of going back there again. Pros: it was a cool place with an attractive and intelligent woman running the counter, and very good sandwiches. Cons: said attractive and intelligent girl appeared to be taken, and I would give myself all kinds of grief if I went back. Pros: she might not, in fact be taken. Cons: I was already gettin my hopes up again, which meant I was going to have a hell of a long way to fall later.
Pros won out, of course. I've never been the smartest about stuff like this. I decided I'd get lunch there tomorrow. But I would bring a book and not pay attention to the counter at all.
The mental battle that this decision had taken lasted the walk to the apartment. After fumbling with my keys and my trash and finally getting the door open, I stood, a little awestruck. All the boxes had been unpacked. All of them. The place looked like a legitimate living place now. Grace was sprawled gracelessly - pardon the pun - across the futon, a pillow half covering her face and a strip of duck tape stuck to her jeans. She looked like she'd just, well, completely filled an apartment with four years of stuff. I went to her bedroom (which I discovered was the good one, apparently. I was stuck with a view onto an alley and a tiny closet) and grabbed her comforter off the mattress, then went back out and gently covered her in it. She shifted, then curled around and fell thoroughly back asleep. I went back to my own room, quietly as I could, closed the door, and pulled out my laptop to do some mixing on my own time, with headphones in.
Tammany -
The first day of the weekend was insane, like I'd expected. Just full-on nasty. Rude vacationers with crying little kids, asking why I didn't carry novelty ice cream bars or more than ten flavors. It just was not fun. Grace was a life-saver, though. She came in (early, even!) and just was amazingly competent. I wanted to kiss her by about eleven am, honestly. Even Cale was impressed, which didn't happen easily. The fact that she already knew how to make a perfect iced caramel latte might have had something to do with it, of course. I thought he might hug her when she handed that cup to him.
The three of us were running around like chickens with our heads cut off from nine until one, but finally a lull arrived. We all sank down into the couch, half-listening for the bells on the door or a customer clearing their throat, and Cale and I started badgering Grace for her life story. She acted embarrassed, of course, but she finally gave in after I offered her a free waffle cone.
"It's nothing much, honestly," she said, laughing. "I'm a very boring person."
"You're wearing a shirt that says, 'I can read minds. Yes,' and a pin which says, 'My shirt lies,'" Cale said between licks of his own ice cream. "You cannot tell me that you are boring."
"But I am!" Grace said. "I graduated from Michigan State about half an hour from my childhood home. I got a double major in philosophy and English, because I had a full ride and don't know what to do with my life."
"Oh my god," Cale said, "You were the pretentious barista with the poetry book under one arm, weren't you? That's why the latte was awesome!"
"Lattes are never the same without vague intetntions of great future novels or movements," Grace said solemnly.
I was shaking my head. "So why did you move? Just a change of scene or what?"
"Well, the thing is, my brother and I have always been super close. We're only like a year apart in age, so we were each other's best friends growing up. He graduated about three years ago, with an awesome degree in music stuff, and started his own honest-to-god studio. Just on moxie and a couple garage bands he recruited and turned into something awesome. Have you heard of Dresden and the Dreams, maybe?"
"Didn't they do a gig down at the Oyster a month or so back?" I asked Cale.
He nodded, and pointed at the far wall. "Yeah, the poster's over there."
"That's one of Andrew's first," Grace told us. "And they're going to become something big. I can tell."
"They were really good," Cale confirmed. "Better than the crap musicians in this town."
"You are completely biased," I said to him. Then, twisting to look back at Grace, I said, "Cale here wants a band. He's just looking for other members at the moment."
"Then maybe you should talk to my brother," Grace said. Then the door jingled, and Grace stood up to greet the customer. What she said, though, was, "Well, speak of the devil."
"Grace?" came the voice of last night's bibliophile. "What are you doing here?"
"I work here now, brother mine," she said. "Going to pay my way, don't you know."
"Here?" he asked. I stood up, because he'd been nice, interesting, and not too hard on the eyes last night, and what the hell, he wasn't my employee, it was completely legal. He looked a little shocked. "Um, hi," he said. "Had a chance to keep reading yet?"
"Not yet," I said, smiling.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Day Two - Huzzah!
Tammany:
We were at the shop, not doing much of anything. It was the last day before Labor Day weekend, which meant that none of the regulars were here, and all the vacationers hadn't arrived yet. It was nice and quiet. It would be hell tomorrow, though, and every day after. Why Jane had had to quit now, just before the busiest time of the year, still annoyed me. I'd just put up the 'Help Wanted' sign in the window and was making myself food to calm down.
Cale, of course, was sprawled out on the couch I kept behind the counter, humming along with the radio, hands twitching as he played chords on an imaginary piano. His computer was sitting on the table beside him, the screen dimming every so often as it thought it was being ignored. He'd swipe a finger across the mouse pad to brighten it back up.
"You're going to kill the battery doing that," I told him. "And I thought you had to balance the books for that hardware store down the street. That's not balancing anything."
"I'm working on a project. Don't interrupt my creative flow," he said, with great dignity. The effect was ruined somewhat, because his head was hanging off the edge of the cushions and that mass of ginger hair was brushing the floor.
"No, that's the flow of blood to the head," I said. "You're getting yourself loopy."
"Exactly. Loopy is creative." I watched him slide down the couch a further two inches. His head was now dangerously close to the floor. "Looooopy."
I said, "You're going to smack your head."
"Am I?" he asked, and tilted his head to look at the floor, which cause it to smack into the floor. "Ow! Mother of god, ow. You did that on purpose, woman," he said, looking up at me. "Ow."
"It is completely your fault and I take responsibility for nothing," I said, primly, going back to my sandwich.
"Vile witch," he muttered, twisting and contorting himself until he vaguely resembled upright. "You shall pay for your sins." The door opened, the bells hanging from it jingling. He continued his rant, saying, "Suffer not a witch to live - I shall douse you in cheese and you shall wither -"
"You're scaring the normal lady," I told him, before smiling at our first vacationer of the year. "Sorry, he's a little special. What will you have?"
"A job?" she asked, looking around at the movie and music posters plastering the walls. "That would be awesome."
I blinked. "Wait, seriously?"
"Yeah, seriously. I just moved into the neighborhood." She looked at me, a hopeful smile on her face. "And I sort of really need a job."
I reached under the counter to the slim pile of forms that I'd printed out that morning. "Uh, just fill this out, I guess. You've never murdered someone with a bread knife or by poisoning their food, right?"
"Except for one man in Reno, just to watch him die," she said. Her face was completely straight.
"I like her," Cale said, successfully standing up. "You should definitely hire her."
The chick nodded earnestly. "You really should," she said.
I rolled my eyes. Then I heard the sound that becomes familiar to any owner of a restaurant - a grumbling stomach. The chick looked embarrassed. "Sorry, we were moving furniture all morning. I'm sort of starving."
"What kind of sandwich?" I asked.
She peered over the counter at my soon-to-be lunch. "Whatever that is, with cheese."
"One gazpacho and hummus, coming right up," I said.
Cale flopped dramatically back onto the couch. "I'm surrounded by people who refuse normal sandwiches. Hummus is not a sandwich filling."
"And neither is spray cheese," I told him. "Philistine."
"Gourmand."
As we argued, the chick filled out the papers at the counter. When I finished the sandwich and she handed me a five, she passed me the application as well. Her name was Grace Farthing, apparently. I glanced over the application, noted the lack of spelling mistakes and people murders in her past, and nodded. "Cool, you're hired," I said.
"Really? Awesome," she said. "When do I start?"
"Tomorrow?" I asked tentatively.
"Sounds good," she said, smiling. "I have absolutely no idea how to make a sandwich like this one, though," holding up the hummus-which, "so you'll have to teach me."
Cale said, "I can tell you definitively that no one knows how to make that sandwich except for her, because it is an abomination and should never have been conceived."
"Hummus-hater," I said.
"You say it like that's wrong, when egg salad spread is obviously better."
"It is wrong, duh. Hummus all the way," I said,
"I honestly prefer jam to anything else," Grace said.
Both of us turned on her, and I began to suspect she'd fit in perfectly well.
Nathan:
I was honestly considering whistling while I made my coffee. The day was going relatively well, I thought. No major crisis, I'd secured the music rights deal for the new movie, and none of our people had been accused of major scandals. A success in just about every sense. I hadn't even had to deal with Morgan yet.
Of course, new hires - especially expensive new hires - are almost always trouble sooner or later. Unfortunately, today it was to be sooner. The new soundboard operator, whose self-owned private studio we'd just bought out and whom we'd hired - for a very nice salary, might I add - for the new 'indie' label, was MIA, according to a terrified young intern, who probably didn't deserve to be the one sent to me.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, annoyed that my for once decent mood was being interrupted. "Tell H.R. Not the President of the Board."
"You did send out a memo saying that all developments about Farthing Records should be reported to you," the intern quavered. "And John in H.R. sent me to tell you."
I sighed. "Have you done anything to irritate him? Burn his coffee, maybe?"
"... Yes?" she said. It was a question, asking if that was the right answer.
"Here's a hint - don't do that again," I said. "John can be a little vindictive with interns. Just try to avoid him."
"Yessir. May I leave, sir?" she asked. I nodded and she fled.
Leaving the executive break room, I was even more annoyed. Expensive, brand-new employees should have the decency to be on time. Someone who couldn't even do that was perhaps not the best hire. I'd even had the head of H.R. interview him by phone personally - maybe there was more than just one person I needed to talk to.
My bad mood building further, I headed for James' office. He had some explaining to do. Or someone did - I wanted explanations.
I heard heels clicking up behind me. Morgan said, "And who are you about to unleash sturm und drang on, cousin dear?"
"James. The idiot. The man hired that new sound booth man, who didn't even bother to show up today. Honestly, do I have to do everything around here?"
"No, you don't - you're simply bored and trying to find a new windmill against which to tilt," she said, keeping up with my long strides with irritating ease. "You know it's not James' fault, too. You pushed through the hire, and being late for orientation isn't something that is dealt with during an interview. And on top of that, your newest opponent is not even a real windmill - Mr. Faring or Thaving or whatever his name is, was actually here on time. Early, even. He simply got himself magnificently, wonderfully lost trying to find his orientation guide. He's now being pointed north and you have nothing to worry about. Go enjoy that the company is running well and you have relatively little to do, for once.
I could feel myself deflating, my self-righteous anger disappearing in a long, slow, sad hiss. "Huh."
"Yeah."
"Maybe I am a little bored," I said, cautiously, slowing my steps and rerouting myself to head back to my office.
"Just a little."
"And perhaps that was just a touch out of proportion, just now."
"A bit." She was nodding her head understandingly. Witch.
"And you can stop nodding like you're perfect, because you've got a run in your hose, cousin mine," I said, a little vindictively. "Go make us another million dollars. Be sure to send me the papers once they're ready to be signed - I'm sure you'll have taken care of everything else."
And I walked - calmly, professionally, and not at all like I was perhaps sulking - back to my office to play with those little balls that click back and forth.
The company was running amazingly smoothly. Everything was profit, everything was money in the bank, everything was good publicity, or at the least not bad publicity. And I was getting just a touch bored. I'd been head of the company for three years now, and during those years I'd pulled it from the brink of disaster and made it thrive. And now I was bored out of my mind. Disaster made me think more quickly, made me react better, made me feel alive. Now all I had were silly little executive toys on my desk and one buy-out or new artist after another. It was great for the business, but my brain was going to melt out my ears soon, and not even Morgan would be able to stop me from going a little crazy then. It would not be good.
As I watched the balls swing back and forth, my intercom buzzed. I pressed talk, and my P.A.'s voice came across. "Mr. Harding, Morgan would like to speak with you."
"Oh, lord," I muttered, and then, pressing talk, I said, "Show her in, please."
Friday, November 2, 2012
NaNoWriMo (clap, clap, clapclapclap)
I'm off and running! This year, I'm going to post whatever I wrote the day before on my blog, which means both a) Content and b) Less guilt that I might be ignoring you. Win-win!
This first little section is a good introduction to Andrew, and lets you glimpse Grace and Morgan. Now I'm going to drink caffeine and type.
Andrew:
The apartment wasn't much, but at least all our stuff was in it now. Grace was sprawled out on the monster couch that had been an absolute bastard to move, her red-socked feet dangling over the arm the only part of her I could actually see. I had collapsed onto a beanbag chair that I was pretty sure we hadn't had that morning, and was seriously considering simply passing out from exhaustion. That taught /me/ to move to a town three states away where I knew no one. Grace and I had had to move everything by ourselves, all two thousand pounds of boxes. (Or that's what it felt like anyway.) I seriously hoped the job was worth it, because otherwise I was going to feel silly.
"Do we know any take-out restaurants around here?" Grace asked me, her head momentarily appearing over her feet.
"Not that I know of," I told her. "We literally just finished moving in, or did you forget the couch and the stairs that quickly?"
"That's a critical research failure, brother mine," she said, her head once more disappearing. "We need take-out. Or pizza. Take-out pizza."
""You mean delivery." I lolled in the beanbag. There is an art to lolling, and I had it mastered. "I'm definitely not going anywhere."
"You're so lazy," Grace told me, and hauled herself to her feet. I watched her stumble over to the counter and grab her phone. A moment of tapping later, she said, "Actually, I am going out. There's a cafe I saw earlier that I want to visit."
"Bring me something," I said plaintively. "I've got orientation at three, remember?"
"Fat chance," she said, and grabbed her shoes and left.
I sighed again, a heavy, mournful sigh. She respected me not at all. Then I fell asleep for an hour.
When I woke up, stomach rumbling, I had forty-five minutes to dress reasonably nice and get halfway across town to the main office. Never has such there been seen such a whirlwind of ties being tied and dress pants being donned. I finished tying my shoes while waiting for the 2:36 train. I was completely ignored while I did so, which was a wonderful change from Greensville. This new town bit was awesome. I was so busy pulling myself together that I didn't even remember to freak out for orientation until I was walking purposefully towards the building. Then I stopped, I froze, I had a momentary panic attack, and then I remembered to breath.
It was all good.
Walking into the building, I was once again overawed by the sheer professionalism of the entire place. Everything was red suede, polished steel, and concrete. The kind of place any sound geek dreams of having as a front office. It was sleek. It was cool. It was completely intimidating. I felt sloppy, even though I was wearing completely unstained clothes and a tie that actually coordinated with everything for once.
I knew I was going to the third floor, room 313. But standing in that lobby, I realized I had no idea how to do that. So going to the front desk, I asked the (attractive) woman at the desk, "Ah, excuse me? I'm here for orientation. What do I do now?"
"Walk down the hallway to your left, go all the way down, you'll see a bank of elevators," she said. "Take the elevator on the right and press button 3b - not 3a because the door will open on the wrong side. Then take the first two lefts and go into the Colombian conference room."
Quick interlude: I'm about to betray my gender and admit something embarrassing: I have no sense of direction. I can't find my way out of a paper bag without ripping it and probably hurting myself. I'm not good with directions. At all. Magellan had a better history of arriving intact at his destination than I do. That should make the next bit the tale more understandable.
I made it to the elevators correctly, I think. I know I hit the button for the third floor. I stood watching the door before me expectantly as I went up. When the elevator stopped, the wall behind me opened. This disoriented me, I think. I swear I took the first two rights, like she'd said. And then I was in the middle of a maze of twisty little passages, all alike. That's about when I realized I was screwed.
I did try. I tried to backtrack. I looked for elevators. I tried to use my basic animal sense of direction to find my way back. At one point, I even punched the Konami code into a random keypad, just to appease whatever fates hated me. It didn't work. I ended up on a different floor, in a dark hallway, where red lights blinked at me at waist level every ten feet or so. It was very unnerving. I kept going, though, because at a certain point you realize you're screwed and you've moved to a different state just to lose your job immediately and end up homeless on the streets eating rats for sustenance. That's about where I was. Honestly, though, by that point rats sounded good, because I still hadn't eaten anything.
Beginning to consider autocannibalism, and striking out blindly, I turned a corner and ran directly into someone who was about my height, wearing lots of pointy jewelry, and walking very quickly. It was painful. "Oh, I'm sorry," I said, backing up hastily. "I'm completely lost, I hope I didn't hurt you.
"Who are you?" the woman asked, brusquely. "And why and how are you here? It's a dark hallway, there is no possible way it could have been your destination."
"Did I mention that I'm very, very lost?" I asked. If I sounded pitiful at that point, it was of course completely intentional and served to get this unknown and irritated woman to help me get out and if at all possible back to Michigan. "I think I'm going to be eaten by a grue."
She shook her head (or so I assumed - it was hard to see in the dark). "You're a techie, aren't you?"
"Does soundboard operator count?"
"Of course."
"Then yes. Brand new and, I repeat, very very lost." I glanced around. "I'm honestly not completely sure I'm in the same building anymore."
"You aren't," she told me. "You're in the basement of the executive office building. I was just closing everything up for the holiday weekend. There are pass codes on the doors to get down here, so excuse me if I'm still a little skeptical of your techie claim."
I didn't mention the keypad. "You're more than welcome to call security on me," I told her. "My orientation was at three. It's way past that now, and I've probably lost my job and will have to live off of rats from now on. I'm just looking for a door out, now."
"Rats?" MY stomach chose that moment to growl.
Feeling and invisible blush spread across my face, I said, "I've sort of been lost for a while."
"It's obvious." She shifted, her jewelry clinking gently. "How about this. I take you to the correct office and tell all involved you simply managed to defy all possible laws of direction, and you promise not to leave your new office without a sherpa and a GPS. And there will be no rats."
"Deal," I said.
About three minutes later, we were standing outside the Colombian conference room, and the woman was speaking with authority at some dude who probably didn't deserve it. I was simply grateful that there was light now, so I didn't think too much about the fact that some random person's secretary was saving my ass. That is, until I went inside, and the poor unfortunate soul who'd been on the other end of her talk looked at me and asked, "How did you make the current VP of the board pity you in less than half an hour on the job?"
"Talent?"
"Getting pitied isn't the kind of talent you need, man," he told me, and proceeded to take me on tour.
The rest of the building - now that I was no longer seeing it through panic- and terror-glazed eyes - was just as impressive as the lobby. I did notice that as I was led closer to my actual place of work, we went further and further down, but I'd expected that. I was just a sound dude. Dark, relatively sound-proof places like basements are my friends. But when we got down there, I nearly died.
I knew I was incredibly lucky to get this job. Cobalt Records was the newest up-and-coming thing, and they were picky as hell with their hires. What I hadn't really gotten was some of the benefits being hired by a multimillion dollar company, like, say, absolutely amazing equipment. I'd seen tables like what was before me occasionally, in catalogs, on websites, and in the occasional dream. But now I had one to play with.
"As you were told when you were hired, you will be supervised by a senior recording manager for the first three months or until it is deemed you are fully capable, and only given control of a few songs from a lower-chain band," droned my guide, in full Corporate mode.
I interrupted his flow, as politely as I could. "Excuse me, you're sure this is the equipment I'm to use?"
"Of course," he told me. "This is the room allotted to you on the rooms list, and the equipment allocated to you on the equipment roster. It's yours."
I looked around again, and realized I could probably die happy, if hungry, at that moment.
I don't remember most of the rest of the tour. Visions of my mixing board and computers were dancing in my head, and I'd heard all the corporate stuff before. I wanted to make music, and after the (in my current opinion, absolutely pointless) holiday weekend, I could. It was going to be absolutely amazing. And there would be absolutely no rats involved.
This first little section is a good introduction to Andrew, and lets you glimpse Grace and Morgan. Now I'm going to drink caffeine and type.
Andrew:
The apartment wasn't much, but at least all our stuff was in it now. Grace was sprawled out on the monster couch that had been an absolute bastard to move, her red-socked feet dangling over the arm the only part of her I could actually see. I had collapsed onto a beanbag chair that I was pretty sure we hadn't had that morning, and was seriously considering simply passing out from exhaustion. That taught /me/ to move to a town three states away where I knew no one. Grace and I had had to move everything by ourselves, all two thousand pounds of boxes. (Or that's what it felt like anyway.) I seriously hoped the job was worth it, because otherwise I was going to feel silly.
"Do we know any take-out restaurants around here?" Grace asked me, her head momentarily appearing over her feet.
"Not that I know of," I told her. "We literally just finished moving in, or did you forget the couch and the stairs that quickly?"
"That's a critical research failure, brother mine," she said, her head once more disappearing. "We need take-out. Or pizza. Take-out pizza."
""You mean delivery." I lolled in the beanbag. There is an art to lolling, and I had it mastered. "I'm definitely not going anywhere."
"You're so lazy," Grace told me, and hauled herself to her feet. I watched her stumble over to the counter and grab her phone. A moment of tapping later, she said, "Actually, I am going out. There's a cafe I saw earlier that I want to visit."
"Bring me something," I said plaintively. "I've got orientation at three, remember?"
"Fat chance," she said, and grabbed her shoes and left.
I sighed again, a heavy, mournful sigh. She respected me not at all. Then I fell asleep for an hour.
When I woke up, stomach rumbling, I had forty-five minutes to dress reasonably nice and get halfway across town to the main office. Never has such there been seen such a whirlwind of ties being tied and dress pants being donned. I finished tying my shoes while waiting for the 2:36 train. I was completely ignored while I did so, which was a wonderful change from Greensville. This new town bit was awesome. I was so busy pulling myself together that I didn't even remember to freak out for orientation until I was walking purposefully towards the building. Then I stopped, I froze, I had a momentary panic attack, and then I remembered to breath.
It was all good.
Walking into the building, I was once again overawed by the sheer professionalism of the entire place. Everything was red suede, polished steel, and concrete. The kind of place any sound geek dreams of having as a front office. It was sleek. It was cool. It was completely intimidating. I felt sloppy, even though I was wearing completely unstained clothes and a tie that actually coordinated with everything for once.
I knew I was going to the third floor, room 313. But standing in that lobby, I realized I had no idea how to do that. So going to the front desk, I asked the (attractive) woman at the desk, "Ah, excuse me? I'm here for orientation. What do I do now?"
"Walk down the hallway to your left, go all the way down, you'll see a bank of elevators," she said. "Take the elevator on the right and press button 3b - not 3a because the door will open on the wrong side. Then take the first two lefts and go into the Colombian conference room."
Quick interlude: I'm about to betray my gender and admit something embarrassing: I have no sense of direction. I can't find my way out of a paper bag without ripping it and probably hurting myself. I'm not good with directions. At all. Magellan had a better history of arriving intact at his destination than I do. That should make the next bit the tale more understandable.
I made it to the elevators correctly, I think. I know I hit the button for the third floor. I stood watching the door before me expectantly as I went up. When the elevator stopped, the wall behind me opened. This disoriented me, I think. I swear I took the first two rights, like she'd said. And then I was in the middle of a maze of twisty little passages, all alike. That's about when I realized I was screwed.
I did try. I tried to backtrack. I looked for elevators. I tried to use my basic animal sense of direction to find my way back. At one point, I even punched the Konami code into a random keypad, just to appease whatever fates hated me. It didn't work. I ended up on a different floor, in a dark hallway, where red lights blinked at me at waist level every ten feet or so. It was very unnerving. I kept going, though, because at a certain point you realize you're screwed and you've moved to a different state just to lose your job immediately and end up homeless on the streets eating rats for sustenance. That's about where I was. Honestly, though, by that point rats sounded good, because I still hadn't eaten anything.
Beginning to consider autocannibalism, and striking out blindly, I turned a corner and ran directly into someone who was about my height, wearing lots of pointy jewelry, and walking very quickly. It was painful. "Oh, I'm sorry," I said, backing up hastily. "I'm completely lost, I hope I didn't hurt you.
"Who are you?" the woman asked, brusquely. "And why and how are you here? It's a dark hallway, there is no possible way it could have been your destination."
"Did I mention that I'm very, very lost?" I asked. If I sounded pitiful at that point, it was of course completely intentional and served to get this unknown and irritated woman to help me get out and if at all possible back to Michigan. "I think I'm going to be eaten by a grue."
She shook her head (or so I assumed - it was hard to see in the dark). "You're a techie, aren't you?"
"Does soundboard operator count?"
"Of course."
"Then yes. Brand new and, I repeat, very very lost." I glanced around. "I'm honestly not completely sure I'm in the same building anymore."
"You aren't," she told me. "You're in the basement of the executive office building. I was just closing everything up for the holiday weekend. There are pass codes on the doors to get down here, so excuse me if I'm still a little skeptical of your techie claim."
I didn't mention the keypad. "You're more than welcome to call security on me," I told her. "My orientation was at three. It's way past that now, and I've probably lost my job and will have to live off of rats from now on. I'm just looking for a door out, now."
"Rats?" MY stomach chose that moment to growl.
Feeling and invisible blush spread across my face, I said, "I've sort of been lost for a while."
"It's obvious." She shifted, her jewelry clinking gently. "How about this. I take you to the correct office and tell all involved you simply managed to defy all possible laws of direction, and you promise not to leave your new office without a sherpa and a GPS. And there will be no rats."
"Deal," I said.
About three minutes later, we were standing outside the Colombian conference room, and the woman was speaking with authority at some dude who probably didn't deserve it. I was simply grateful that there was light now, so I didn't think too much about the fact that some random person's secretary was saving my ass. That is, until I went inside, and the poor unfortunate soul who'd been on the other end of her talk looked at me and asked, "How did you make the current VP of the board pity you in less than half an hour on the job?"
"Talent?"
"Getting pitied isn't the kind of talent you need, man," he told me, and proceeded to take me on tour.
The rest of the building - now that I was no longer seeing it through panic- and terror-glazed eyes - was just as impressive as the lobby. I did notice that as I was led closer to my actual place of work, we went further and further down, but I'd expected that. I was just a sound dude. Dark, relatively sound-proof places like basements are my friends. But when we got down there, I nearly died.
I knew I was incredibly lucky to get this job. Cobalt Records was the newest up-and-coming thing, and they were picky as hell with their hires. What I hadn't really gotten was some of the benefits being hired by a multimillion dollar company, like, say, absolutely amazing equipment. I'd seen tables like what was before me occasionally, in catalogs, on websites, and in the occasional dream. But now I had one to play with.
"As you were told when you were hired, you will be supervised by a senior recording manager for the first three months or until it is deemed you are fully capable, and only given control of a few songs from a lower-chain band," droned my guide, in full Corporate mode.
I interrupted his flow, as politely as I could. "Excuse me, you're sure this is the equipment I'm to use?"
"Of course," he told me. "This is the room allotted to you on the rooms list, and the equipment allocated to you on the equipment roster. It's yours."
I looked around again, and realized I could probably die happy, if hungry, at that moment.
I don't remember most of the rest of the tour. Visions of my mixing board and computers were dancing in my head, and I'd heard all the corporate stuff before. I wanted to make music, and after the (in my current opinion, absolutely pointless) holiday weekend, I could. It was going to be absolutely amazing. And there would be absolutely no rats involved.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Character Interview with Jim, Morgan, and Nathan
So the basic layout of relationships at the beginning of the book is going to be three separate, distinct groups - Tammany and Cale, the Cafe group; Jim, Morgan, and Nathan, the Music Inc. group; and Andrew and Grace, the New-to-Town group. The NtT's are hired, one at the cafe and one at Music Inc., and that's when the overlap starts. Outlining through blog posts - acceptable or no?
Background for the three:
Jim Reinhart came from a very blue-collar family, with parents who worked basic service jobs for cash. He won a full ride to College University after writing an essay expounding on the rights of the lower-class and the responsibilities of government. Now a math major, extremely intelligent, will flirt with anything that moves - a defense mechanism, because charm got him out of a lot of trouble as a kid.
Nathan Harding came from American nobility, more or less - his father owns the major recording label Music Inc. He works there as a BI manager, and is amazingly good at what he does. He's more or less expected to take over the company after his father retires. He met Jim when they were in college, and they were roommates for two years - they still are, Jim paying minimum rent to Nathan because he doesn't want to feel like a leach while he figures out grad school. Nathan's cynical, sarcastic, and generally expects the worst from everyone. However, when he meets someone whom he deems 'legitimate,' he is the most loyal person on the planet. Has a soft spot for his cousin Morgan.
Morgan Hart is the other heir apparent to Music Inc. Where Nathan is probably going to be the director of the board, Morgan is going to be the actual power behind the throne - key to choosing soon-to-be-popular bands, etc. to add to the label. She always seems to know just a little bit more than everyone else - wrong-footing her is almost impossible. She loves her cousin, and likes some people, but she doesn't suffer fools gladly. It's a regular joy for those who know her to watch her destroy someone who's being an idiot seemingly on purpose. She will occasionally go a little too far, and tends to feel guilty for that.
These will be fun to write, I think. My favorite character and his sister come next, though - Andrew and Grace something-or-other. Who needs last names?
Background for the three:
Jim Reinhart came from a very blue-collar family, with parents who worked basic service jobs for cash. He won a full ride to College University after writing an essay expounding on the rights of the lower-class and the responsibilities of government. Now a math major, extremely intelligent, will flirt with anything that moves - a defense mechanism, because charm got him out of a lot of trouble as a kid.
Nathan Harding came from American nobility, more or less - his father owns the major recording label Music Inc. He works there as a BI manager, and is amazingly good at what he does. He's more or less expected to take over the company after his father retires. He met Jim when they were in college, and they were roommates for two years - they still are, Jim paying minimum rent to Nathan because he doesn't want to feel like a leach while he figures out grad school. Nathan's cynical, sarcastic, and generally expects the worst from everyone. However, when he meets someone whom he deems 'legitimate,' he is the most loyal person on the planet. Has a soft spot for his cousin Morgan.
Morgan Hart is the other heir apparent to Music Inc. Where Nathan is probably going to be the director of the board, Morgan is going to be the actual power behind the throne - key to choosing soon-to-be-popular bands, etc. to add to the label. She always seems to know just a little bit more than everyone else - wrong-footing her is almost impossible. She loves her cousin, and likes some people, but she doesn't suffer fools gladly. It's a regular joy for those who know her to watch her destroy someone who's being an idiot seemingly on purpose. She will occasionally go a little too far, and tends to feel guilty for that.
- What is your lifelong dream?
- J: Graduate school. Don't know how, because that shit's expensive. But yeah, a Master's in math, if not a PhD.
- N: Becoming the head of Music Inc.
- M: Original. To become a world-recognized salsa dancer.
- N: That's a complete lie. You want to move to England and have ten cats.
- M: Five.
- How do you feel about your life in general?
- N: I'm quite happy with it all. No complaints.
- M: I'm a little bored, but I can usually fix that by meddling in others' lives.
- J: You're an evil woman.
- M: Yep.
- J: Anyway, if I won the lottery and didn't have to work in a freaking gas station to earn enough for my Master's, I'd be perfectly happy. Actually, I'd probably settle for just not having to work at the gas station.
- What do you fear most?
- M: In the secure knowledge that everyone involved will forget this entire conversation, I can safely say my greatest fear is loneliness. That's why I have so many friends.
- J and N: .... Seriously?
- M: Shut up.
- J: Greatest fear would be heights.
- N: Morgan, you're sure no one will remember any of this?
- M: Of course.
- N: Then disappointing my father.
- M: I KNEW IT.
- N: Shut up.
- If you could spend a week anywhere in the world, where would it be?
- N: New York, in the boardrooms of iTunes and Spotify.
- J: All work and no play makes Nathan a dull boy.
- N: It also makes him successful.
- M: Now, boys...
- J: Anyway, Oxford or the Bahamas, with a tall, tan someone.
- M: Any hints?
- J: No.
- M: Fine. Probably Paris during Christmas.
- What's the worst argument you've ever been in?
- J: My father wasn't happy with my choice of career. That's all that needs to be said.
- M: There was that row with my friend Molly, back in high school.
- N: I don't argue. I discuss at high volume.
- Who's your best friend?
- M: These two.
- N: These two.
- J: These two.
- If you knew you were going to meet your true love tomorrow, how would you react?
- M: I'd be incredulous. I don't believe in true love.
- N: What she said.
- J: I'd be interested, but wary. Meeting true love at this point could screw stuff up.
- M: Such a romantic.
- J: Says the woman who doesn't believe in true love.
- Final question: How would you react if your friends suddenly no longer wanted anything to do with you?
- N: I wouldn't be surprised. I migh be a little pissed off if they didn't give me a reason, but I wouldn't be surprised.
- J: I'd say go screw yourselves and find new friends.
- M: ... Have a panic attack, maybe. Enter a depressed spiral of booze and pills.
- N: That would be a sight.
- J: Hey, Morgan, no one likes you.
- M: Go screw yourself.
These will be fun to write, I think. My favorite character and his sister come next, though - Andrew and Grace something-or-other. Who needs last names?
Monday, October 22, 2012
Stuff and a Character Interview with Cale and Tammany
First, I have a guest post - a legit essay and everything - on the wonderful blog The Critical Psychopath. So. Go check that out.
Second, I applied for Harvard and Carleton today. Neither have the best music performance programs - or, like, any at all - but I applied. With essays and everything. There's a really big part of me that's freaking the fuck out. Because I'm going to be a legitimate adult, with responsibilities and stuff, in less than a year.
And on top of that, it just sort of hit me today that NaNo is in about nine days. I don't remember much after that revelation, but apparently I froze for several minutes and whimpered slightly. It was reported that I was also mouthing "Ohgodohgodohgod."
That more or less sums up my current feelings.
So I know I posted here a warm-up for the TCWT blog chain. That's not going to happen. All the people who say senior year is easier than junior year are lying liars who lie. I'm having to work far harder this year than I ever have before, which means that even a plot with the silliness of Ada Lovelace's ghost isn't going to be feasible, because it requires thought, effort, and a modicum of research. None of these are things I have in excess this November. So. Instead. My current plot idea is taking a bunch of characters I've thought about before and throwing them into that omphalskeptic favorite - "A Bunch of Friends Hang Out In a Coffee Shop and Don't Do Very Much," or as I like to call it, "[CENSORED FOR COPYRIGHT PURPOSES]". Highly original, I know.
On the upside, my favorite teacher and possible new best friend gave me permission to do NaNo for class credit instead of the normal assignments. So all of a sudden I have forty-five minutes a day to dedicate to NaNo that I've never had before. He might even participate in it, too. So there's a good thing.
But back on the topic of my own NaNovel, I have some characters that I've been sitting on for a while. I have the dynamic between them ready, I know who they are - I just need to send them into action. So, without further ado - Tammany Dreisang and Cale Smith.
I honestly really like these two. They'll be fun to write, at the very least. Next are Jim, Morgan and Nathan.
Second, I applied for Harvard and Carleton today. Neither have the best music performance programs - or, like, any at all - but I applied. With essays and everything. There's a really big part of me that's freaking the fuck out. Because I'm going to be a legitimate adult, with responsibilities and stuff, in less than a year.
And on top of that, it just sort of hit me today that NaNo is in about nine days. I don't remember much after that revelation, but apparently I froze for several minutes and whimpered slightly. It was reported that I was also mouthing "Ohgodohgodohgod."
That more or less sums up my current feelings.
So I know I posted here a warm-up for the TCWT blog chain. That's not going to happen. All the people who say senior year is easier than junior year are lying liars who lie. I'm having to work far harder this year than I ever have before, which means that even a plot with the silliness of Ada Lovelace's ghost isn't going to be feasible, because it requires thought, effort, and a modicum of research. None of these are things I have in excess this November. So. Instead. My current plot idea is taking a bunch of characters I've thought about before and throwing them into that omphalskeptic favorite - "A Bunch of Friends Hang Out In a Coffee Shop and Don't Do Very Much," or as I like to call it, "[CENSORED FOR COPYRIGHT PURPOSES]". Highly original, I know.
On the upside, my favorite teacher and possible new best friend gave me permission to do NaNo for class credit instead of the normal assignments. So all of a sudden I have forty-five minutes a day to dedicate to NaNo that I've never had before. He might even participate in it, too. So there's a good thing.
But back on the topic of my own NaNovel, I have some characters that I've been sitting on for a while. I have the dynamic between them ready, I know who they are - I just need to send them into action. So, without further ado - Tammany Dreisang and Cale Smith.
- What is your lifelong dream?
- T: To own my cafe, which I've technically accomplished. To have it become a local Place, capital P, not just a Starbucks. To own a first edition signed copy of all of Neil Gaiman's books.
- C: To have a successful band. To not have to be an accountant other than for said band.
- T: And me?
- C: ... Fine.
- How do you feel about your life in general?
- C: Other than wishing I had an actual band, it's not bad. Sometimes a bit lonely, but whatever.
- T: I'm good. I don't really want anything more than what I've got now, except maybe a few more customers. I'm easily contented, I guess.
- C: Except when it comes to the last muffin.
- T: Shut up or I will end you.
- What do you fear most?
- C: Being a white-bread accountant for the rest of my life. And spiders. Spiders are scary.
- T: Teenage vandal hooligans with spray paint coming after the cafe at night and defacing all it's windows with nastiness.
- C: Bit specific, isn't it?
- T: At least it's not spiders.
- If you could spend a week anywhere in the world, where would it be?
- T: San Fransisco, definitely.
- C: Can I travel in time, too?
- No.
- C: Then... Sundance?
- Acceptable.
- T: How are you talking to the questionnaire? Is that even possible?
- C: Trade secret.
- What's the worst argument you've ever been in?
- C: Well, there was a nasty political argument that sort of got me exiled from my group of friends junior year of college, but I think the worst would be when I took Tammany's muffin. She would not rest until I had been thoroughly doused in cheez-wiz.
- T: You absolutely deserved it. A once in a lifetime experience - a cranberry triple-chocolate muffin with walnuts, custom-made by my favorite bakery, and you eat it. Idiot.
- C: You covered me with cheez-wiz. You are not the sane one here.
- T: Well, you grabbed the whipped cream and started spraying me back.
- C: Self-defense.
- Who's your best friend?
- C: We just told you about a cheez-wiz and whipped cream fight. You need to ask.
- T: Yeah, honestly.
- If you knew you were going to meet your true love tomorrow, how would you react?
- T: I'd laugh so hard I'd probably pull something.
- C: Hey, don't knock love.
- T: Wait, the high and mighty Cale with a soft side? Be still my beating heart. No such thing as true love.
- Final question: How would you react if your friends suddenly no longer wanted anything to do with you?
- C: Ask what took them so long. Go write depressing songs. Maybe move.
- T: Spend the night sobbing. Maybe get falling-down drunk and make some new friends.
- C: I don't think I've ever seen you drunk. No one likes you.
- T: Shut up, muffin-stealer.
I honestly really like these two. They'll be fun to write, at the very least. Next are Jim, Morgan and Nathan.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
James Johnson, Blogger Extraordinaire and POV Wonderboy (I Think)
So here's James. He's an interesting fellow, based in bits and pieces of several people I know. Because giving myself a deadline is the only reason this is done, I'll have the basic synopsis of the plot up by Saturday.
Basics
Name: James Robert Johnson
Gender: Male
Date of Birth: 08/14/06
Age: 29
Birthplace: Waynesville, Ohio
Nationality: American
Social Class: Lower middle
Family
Mother: Rachel Travisson, nee Johnson, nee Lasbury
Father: Tom Johnson
Stepfather: Jim Travisson
Younger half-sister: Beth Travisson- 22
Younger half-brother: Paul Travisson- 19
Family Background: They've lived in Waynesville forever. Rachel is a manager at a local diner, and both Tom and Jim were salesmen for various electronics companies.
Marital Status: Single
Children & Ages: None
Pets: None
Physical Appearance: http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQouA__OQm0f3U--n0ecIDhMqSCUoyBFGQLM-8Ir97euFTvXU--Ia7-Ox3K
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 170"
Hair Colour: Brown - ponytail, with sideburns and a goatee.
Eye Colour: Hazel-ish
Tattoos or Piercings: He as a gold stud in his left ear, and a pansy tattooed on the back of his left shoulder, roughly along his scapula.
What do they sound like: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TwX61NkfYTI&feature=plcp - Like Bill!
Typical Outfit: A snarky t-shirt and ratty jeans. Or, when in charge of a press conference for Malachi (which happens with startling regularity now, and /completely/ blows his mind every time) a suit procured for him by Malachi. http://www.barneys.com/Armani-Collezioni-Solid-Giorgio-Suit/500457962,default,pd.html?cgid=mens-suits&index=20 http://www.barneys.com/Kiton-Diagonal-Stripe-Tie/00505018889154,default,pd.html?cgid=mens-neck-ties&index=2
Any Other Info:
What would you find in the pocket/handbag: Bus keys and wallet, with $20, a credit card, ID, and a pic from a beach party with Malachi. http://www.urban75.org/london/images/thames-beach-party-02.jpg
Accommodation
Where do they live (City, Countryside): Technically, he's got a flat in Chicago, but mostly he lives in the bus on the road with Malachi. http://www.creativemobileinteriors.com/sections/portfolio/executive/custom_executive_bus_stockbroker.asp
Living Arrangements (House, Shared, Rented): Bus.
Do they share it with anyone: Malachi and whoever else is doing the tour stop for stop with them at the moment.
What is their home like: It's a freaking luxury bus. The flat is pretty average.
How do they get around: Bus! When he does come back to Chicago, he has an ancient Toyota iQ in bright green. He claims it's a collector thing. It's not.
Personal Information
Hobbies or Pastimes: Watching bad sci-fi movies, ragging on all pop culture created after he turned six.
Favourite Films: Sean of the Dead, Dawn of the Dead, Plan Nine from Outer Space, Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter.
Favourite Books: Anything by Robert Heinlein - the futuristic concepts he likes, but the right-wing stuff he considers to be a bit anvilish. It's the kitsch value. Neil Gaiman is another favorite, as are Neal Stephenson and David Wong.
Favourite Album: In Deed Only, by The Next One
Favourite TV Programme: Mythbusters.
Favourite Sport and Team: Doesn't really care.
Favourite Food: Chinese. Dim sum is his favourite.
Favourite Drink: Miller.
Favourite Colour: Orange
Perfect Weekend: Hanging with Malachi.
Ideal Holiday Destination: Somewhere with beer and a television.
Personality
Best Point: His best point is probably his ability to accept everyone for who they are, regardless of anything.
Worst Point: He's super sarcastic and runs off his mouth at bad moments.
Mannerisms: He snaps his fingers when he's tense, and he shakes his leg when bored.
Morals: 'Do unto others, right?' Ethical, but not uptight.
Fears: Spiders. There's a definite thing about spiders.
What is the thing that worries them most: Malachi flipping out. He refuses to see reason when he does and it hurts his cause.
What do they look forward to: Weekends off with Malachi. New stupid scifi movies.
Temperament: Very laid back. Feels no anger. Can be bitingly sarcastic, though.
Have they lost anything important to them: He lost the normal life he thought he was going to have, but isn't that upset about it.
What do they hate most: Those idiots who rag on Malachi. He's just trying to tell people to be nice, alright?
What is most important to them: At this point, probably Malachi. And the bus.
What are their obsessions: He's obsessed with quoting Terry Pratchett (does that count?) and stuff from before he was born.
Do they have an ambition: To become a big Name in news - a major blogger person.
What do they dream about: There's a dream about a tornado that occurs with regularity. It doesn't seem to mean anything, though.
What are their secrets: He doesn't think that what Malachi is doing will have any difference, but dammit, he wishes it would.
Do they believe in religion or life after death: Nope.
Do they get on with other people or avoid them: He dislikes stupid people, but he can get along with just about anyone. He'll just be sarcastic until they stop being stupid or go away.
Who do they love: Malachi, like a younger brother, even though he's older by two months. His family, although it's best from a distance.
Has their heart ever been broken: A couple times, but nothing big. Jen was the only woman to make a really lasting impression that way, but he's over her now.
Do they have a best friend or someone they can confide in: Malachi.
Did they have a happy childhood: Sort of. He never knew his father, but his mom remarried early enough that the only one he's ever remembered is Jim. He had issues with other kids and authority figures, though, because of a tendency to be smart when intelligent would have been better.
What were they like in their childhood: He was a right rapscallion, and hideously smart. The sarcasm and irony developed as a defense against adults who'd like as not punish him for telling the truth.
When were they happiest: At Harvard with Malachi.
Education
Schools attended: Waynesville High, Harvard.
Current year/grade: Graduated.
How well are they doing: He did obscenely well at Waynesville, writing well enough to get himself a full ride to Harvard.
Favourite Subject: Journalism and Creative Writing
Most Hated Subject: Math
Profession
Job Description: Official blogger and publicist for HELP.
Degree of skill at occupation: Very good.
How does they feel about their occupation: Couldn't think of something better.
Salary: $60,000 a year. A lot goes right back into HELP
Hours Worked: All of them.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Malachi Jones, First Truly American Prophet (Although He Denies It)
Super-long post that doesn't really have any content. Just a character profile for the main character of my Camp Nano, the one who isn't the POV. Hopefully James will be put up day after tomorrow.
Basics
Name: Malachi Jones
Gender: Male
Date of Birth: 06/06/06
Age: 29
Birthplace: Poughkeepsie, Michigan
Nationality: American
Social Class: Definite upper class.
Family
Mother: Daughter of a rich Southern Baptist family, full Southern Belle. The most charismatic woman to walk the face of the Earth since Helen or Cleopatra.
Father: Son of a rich New York Methodist family, Harvard grad, amazingly good lawyer, eloquent doesn't begin to cover it.
One older brother, Mordecai, who is less than pleased with his brother's antics, also a lawyer in his own right, noted atheist, just as scary eloquent as his brother.
Family Background: The family is super-rich, enough that his trust fund is 80k a year.
Marital Status: Unmarried, occasional one-night-stands with his groupies.
Children & Ages: None
Pets: Does James count?
Physical Appearance: Tall corn-fed midwestern type. Looks like Gabriel, if He was incarnated and had some weird ideas.
Height: 6'1"
Weight:180 lbs
Hair Colour: Blonde
Eye Colour: Blue
Tattoos or Piercings: There's a tattoo on the small of his back that he doesn't remember and hasn't noticed. http://www.whale.to/b/sigilluciger867.jpg - Sign of Lucifer
What do they sound like: Stereotypical Midwestern Newscaster.
Typical Outfit: Some variation on Navy Blue Suit with a Slanted Stripe Tie in public, and a Hanes large plain t-shirt and jeans that appear to be tailored.
Any Other Info: He's bisexual, although he doesn't really act on it in either way beyond one night stands occasionally.
What would you find in the pocket/handbag: Wallet, with driver's license, $200, platinum credit card, two condoms, and three photos he won't let anyone see (There's one of Carly and himself, one of James laughing, and one of the three of them, with himself in the middle and absolutely beaming at the camera)
Accommodation
Where do they live (City, Countryside): Chicago, Milwaukee, New York, and Washington, intermittently. Lately he's been spending way more of his time wandering the country, though, sleeping at hotels and on the bus.
Living Arrangements (House, Shared, Rented): He's got two flats, one in Milwaukee and one in New York. He's currently sharing them with some strays who needed homes. But again, currently he lives on the road.
Do they share it with anyone: See above. (Faraday Childe and Erin Rudder in Milwaukee, Jack Young, Douglas Pratchett, and Correy Fasser in New York) However, his current on-the-road status is shared by James.
What is their home like: The flats are both quite nice. The bus is uncomfortable, but it works. The hotels are decent.
How do they get around: Bus. http://www.creativemobileinteriors.com/sections/portfolio/executive/custom_executive_bus_stockbroker.asp
Personal Information
Hobbies or Pastimes: He reads theology, history, and poetry. Has been known to show unrestrained glee when given a Super 3DSi loaded with all the Mario games.
Favourite Films: Has a semi-secret adoration for the POTC franchise. Also quite likes Sean of the Dead
Favourite Books: Has an appreciation of Revelation, as an allegory. He thinks Pope was on the right path with 'Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; the proper study of Mankind is Man.' Appreciates Thomas Jefferson's ideas. So basically the Classics in general.
Favourite Album: 'Surrealistic Pillow,' Jefferson Airplane
Favourite TV Programme: Doctor Who. His favorite doctor is the 17th.
Favourite Sport and Team: Football, the Giants
Favourite Food: Hamburgers
Favourite Drink: Coke
Favourite Colour: Blue
Perfect Weekend: Just sort of hanging out with James
Ideal Holiday Destination: He found the South of France to be lovely.
Personality
Best Point: He honestly wants the best for everyone. He wants everyone to get along for once. He doesn't need world peace - he's settle for world truce, live and let live.
Worst Point: If he gets pissed - like really, actually pissed - he is not above destroying you. Either physically or socially, depending on which will have more effect. Then he will rationalize if to hell and back and refuse to admit he was wrong unless cornered and pinned. James is more than a little freaked out by it.
Mannerisms: He has a habit of rolling his head on his neck whenever he's thinking about something. When he's uncomfortable in a situation, he'll start flexing his hands - stretching, cracking knuckles, etc.
Morals: A devout believer in ethical hedonism, although he isn't aware that he is - it's more of a nebulous 'It's all good, really. Just live and let live.' He is a big believer in honesty.
Fears: An as-yet-to-be-discovered terror of sailing, and an issue with drowning. More abstractly, the possibility that he might lose his best friend (James) like he did Carly.
What is the thing that worries them most: That James may one day get sick of everything; that he's actually talking out of his ass with all his talk; the thought that he might have no effect on the world, that his words won't take any hold.
What do they look forward to: The four days every couple weeks where he just stops and crashes, either at a flat or at a hotel, and relaxes. Catching up on new Doctor Who episodes. The rush after he speaks to a huge crowd (is beginning to discover this last one)
Temperament: Very easygoing, is difficult to anger. Occasionally prone to fits of depression and existentialism, leading him to ask James depressing philosophical questions that he can't answer. Known to express glee in two circumstances: when presented with a Super 3DSi with all the Mario games, and when told he could meet the Doctor Who cast. Otherwise he is Zen like laughing Buddha.
Have they lost anything important to them: He lost Carly because he stopped paying so much attention to college and started focusing way more on philosophy and politics than the lawyerly stuff. She wanted 2.5 kids and a McMansion, while he'd changed and wanted to go proselytize the public. He still beats himself up over this.
What do they hate most: The idea that his rare displays of temper make him a hypocrite (they do, a little). Idiots who can't just live and let live. Techno music.
What is most important to them: James, and to a slightly - slightly, mind you - lesser extent, his chosen Work. His bus is up there, too.
What are their obsessions: To make the world a better place - to get people to get that as long as no one gets hurt, /it's all good./
Do they have an ambition: He feels awkward about admitting it, but he rather wants to become an important political figure. Not in the actual political system, but as the head of of an important society - sort of like the president of NASA or maybe Steve Jobs, to pull an example from history.
What do they dream about: He has two dreams that occur relatively often. The first is a nightmare. In it, he's alone, trapped in some sort of place where he can't get out, and is being forced to watch his friends leave him. For the longest time, it was Carly leaving him, and he watched their breakup a hundred times, followed by her dismissing him, rejecting him, to some unknown observer. Lately though, it's been James leaving, getting sick of the travel and the paparazzi and the accusation leveled against them, and writing scathing posts about Malachi on his blog. The other dream is just an image, almost, a moment frozen in time. He's talking in front of a sea of people, all of them cheering, screaming, and he's completely elated. He knows - /knows/ - that he's finally made a difference, that something he's done is going to stick. That's what he's chasing after, than moment in time.
What are their secrets: The aformentioned adoration of POTC. The fact that he is still beating himself up over Carly. The tattoo, although as he's not really aware of that it may not count.
Do they believe in religion or life after death: He's sort of Buddhist, sort of a hedonist, personally an agnostic but he doesn't care what religion anyone else might follow as long as no one gets hurt. Life after death: Not really.
Do they get on with other people or avoid them: He gets on with people quite well. But there always comes a point when he has to hide for a couple days, avoid the crowds, and regroup.
Who do they love: Carly, in the way that no one can ever completely lose their love of someone. James, in a semi-platonic fashion. His family.
Has their heart ever been broken: Carly.
Do they have a best friend or someone they can confide in: James.
Did they have a happy childhood: More or less, yeah. He's have preferred to have a few more sweets and a few less formal dinners to attend, but it was pretty much idyllic.
What were they like in their childhood: He was a somewhat precocious child, a little spoiled, but basically a good kid. Did well in all his classes, never got into much trouble.
When were they happiest: The party at which the picture was taken. It was two days before the party at which he'd drink too much and end up in a field for his 'awakening' or whatever. It was the last time he really didn't have anything to worry about, he feels. It was before things went downhill with Carly, before he started trying to get his message out. It was the last time he was truly carefree.
Education
Schools attended: A private boarding school in upper New York, then Harvard.
Current year/grade: Graduated seven years ago.
How well are they doing: Quite well. His trust fund is holding out to support him, and all the funds he raises are therefore put straight into helping the people who need it.
Favourite Subject: Political science
Most Hated Subject: Health
Profession
Job Description: Head of a philanthropic organization: HELP (Humane Endowments for Lasting Progress) and main spokesman for the same.
Degree of skill at occupation: Very, very good.
How does they feel about their occupation: Loves it, but doesn't feel he's doing enough.
Salary: $20,000 a year, and that's mostly spent on food and bus maintenance. His trust fund is another 80k a year (there's a looong history of rich people in his family) and that goes into keeping up his flats and buying him clothes and stuff - the rest goes into the business to reduce overhead.
Hours Worked: All of them. He's never fully off the clock except during the four-day weekends twice a month.
Basics
Name: Malachi Jones
Gender: Male
Date of Birth: 06/06/06
Age: 29
Birthplace: Poughkeepsie, Michigan
Nationality: American
Social Class: Definite upper class.
Family
Mother: Daughter of a rich Southern Baptist family, full Southern Belle. The most charismatic woman to walk the face of the Earth since Helen or Cleopatra.
Father: Son of a rich New York Methodist family, Harvard grad, amazingly good lawyer, eloquent doesn't begin to cover it.
One older brother, Mordecai, who is less than pleased with his brother's antics, also a lawyer in his own right, noted atheist, just as scary eloquent as his brother.
Family Background: The family is super-rich, enough that his trust fund is 80k a year.
Marital Status: Unmarried, occasional one-night-stands with his groupies.
Children & Ages: None
Pets: Does James count?
Physical Appearance: Tall corn-fed midwestern type. Looks like Gabriel, if He was incarnated and had some weird ideas.
Height: 6'1"
Weight:180 lbs
Hair Colour: Blonde
Eye Colour: Blue
Tattoos or Piercings: There's a tattoo on the small of his back that he doesn't remember and hasn't noticed. http://www.whale.to/b/sigilluciger867.jpg - Sign of Lucifer
What do they sound like: Stereotypical Midwestern Newscaster.
Typical Outfit: Some variation on Navy Blue Suit with a Slanted Stripe Tie in public, and a Hanes large plain t-shirt and jeans that appear to be tailored.
Any Other Info: He's bisexual, although he doesn't really act on it in either way beyond one night stands occasionally.
What would you find in the pocket/handbag: Wallet, with driver's license, $200, platinum credit card, two condoms, and three photos he won't let anyone see (There's one of Carly and himself, one of James laughing, and one of the three of them, with himself in the middle and absolutely beaming at the camera)
Accommodation
Where do they live (City, Countryside): Chicago, Milwaukee, New York, and Washington, intermittently. Lately he's been spending way more of his time wandering the country, though, sleeping at hotels and on the bus.
Living Arrangements (House, Shared, Rented): He's got two flats, one in Milwaukee and one in New York. He's currently sharing them with some strays who needed homes. But again, currently he lives on the road.
Do they share it with anyone: See above. (Faraday Childe and Erin Rudder in Milwaukee, Jack Young, Douglas Pratchett, and Correy Fasser in New York) However, his current on-the-road status is shared by James.
What is their home like: The flats are both quite nice. The bus is uncomfortable, but it works. The hotels are decent.
How do they get around: Bus. http://www.creativemobileinteriors.com/sections/portfolio/executive/custom_executive_bus_stockbroker.asp
Personal Information
Hobbies or Pastimes: He reads theology, history, and poetry. Has been known to show unrestrained glee when given a Super 3DSi loaded with all the Mario games.
Favourite Films: Has a semi-secret adoration for the POTC franchise. Also quite likes Sean of the Dead
Favourite Books: Has an appreciation of Revelation, as an allegory. He thinks Pope was on the right path with 'Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; the proper study of Mankind is Man.' Appreciates Thomas Jefferson's ideas. So basically the Classics in general.
Favourite Album: 'Surrealistic Pillow,' Jefferson Airplane
Favourite TV Programme: Doctor Who. His favorite doctor is the 17th.
Favourite Sport and Team: Football, the Giants
Favourite Food: Hamburgers
Favourite Drink: Coke
Favourite Colour: Blue
Perfect Weekend: Just sort of hanging out with James
Ideal Holiday Destination: He found the South of France to be lovely.
Personality
Best Point: He honestly wants the best for everyone. He wants everyone to get along for once. He doesn't need world peace - he's settle for world truce, live and let live.
Worst Point: If he gets pissed - like really, actually pissed - he is not above destroying you. Either physically or socially, depending on which will have more effect. Then he will rationalize if to hell and back and refuse to admit he was wrong unless cornered and pinned. James is more than a little freaked out by it.
Mannerisms: He has a habit of rolling his head on his neck whenever he's thinking about something. When he's uncomfortable in a situation, he'll start flexing his hands - stretching, cracking knuckles, etc.
Morals: A devout believer in ethical hedonism, although he isn't aware that he is - it's more of a nebulous 'It's all good, really. Just live and let live.' He is a big believer in honesty.
Fears: An as-yet-to-be-discovered terror of sailing, and an issue with drowning. More abstractly, the possibility that he might lose his best friend (James) like he did Carly.
What is the thing that worries them most: That James may one day get sick of everything; that he's actually talking out of his ass with all his talk; the thought that he might have no effect on the world, that his words won't take any hold.
What do they look forward to: The four days every couple weeks where he just stops and crashes, either at a flat or at a hotel, and relaxes. Catching up on new Doctor Who episodes. The rush after he speaks to a huge crowd (is beginning to discover this last one)
Temperament: Very easygoing, is difficult to anger. Occasionally prone to fits of depression and existentialism, leading him to ask James depressing philosophical questions that he can't answer. Known to express glee in two circumstances: when presented with a Super 3DSi with all the Mario games, and when told he could meet the Doctor Who cast. Otherwise he is Zen like laughing Buddha.
Have they lost anything important to them: He lost Carly because he stopped paying so much attention to college and started focusing way more on philosophy and politics than the lawyerly stuff. She wanted 2.5 kids and a McMansion, while he'd changed and wanted to go proselytize the public. He still beats himself up over this.
What do they hate most: The idea that his rare displays of temper make him a hypocrite (they do, a little). Idiots who can't just live and let live. Techno music.
What is most important to them: James, and to a slightly - slightly, mind you - lesser extent, his chosen Work. His bus is up there, too.
What are their obsessions: To make the world a better place - to get people to get that as long as no one gets hurt, /it's all good./
Do they have an ambition: He feels awkward about admitting it, but he rather wants to become an important political figure. Not in the actual political system, but as the head of of an important society - sort of like the president of NASA or maybe Steve Jobs, to pull an example from history.
What do they dream about: He has two dreams that occur relatively often. The first is a nightmare. In it, he's alone, trapped in some sort of place where he can't get out, and is being forced to watch his friends leave him. For the longest time, it was Carly leaving him, and he watched their breakup a hundred times, followed by her dismissing him, rejecting him, to some unknown observer. Lately though, it's been James leaving, getting sick of the travel and the paparazzi and the accusation leveled against them, and writing scathing posts about Malachi on his blog. The other dream is just an image, almost, a moment frozen in time. He's talking in front of a sea of people, all of them cheering, screaming, and he's completely elated. He knows - /knows/ - that he's finally made a difference, that something he's done is going to stick. That's what he's chasing after, than moment in time.
What are their secrets: The aformentioned adoration of POTC. The fact that he is still beating himself up over Carly. The tattoo, although as he's not really aware of that it may not count.
Do they believe in religion or life after death: He's sort of Buddhist, sort of a hedonist, personally an agnostic but he doesn't care what religion anyone else might follow as long as no one gets hurt. Life after death: Not really.
Do they get on with other people or avoid them: He gets on with people quite well. But there always comes a point when he has to hide for a couple days, avoid the crowds, and regroup.
Who do they love: Carly, in the way that no one can ever completely lose their love of someone. James, in a semi-platonic fashion. His family.
Has their heart ever been broken: Carly.
Do they have a best friend or someone they can confide in: James.
Did they have a happy childhood: More or less, yeah. He's have preferred to have a few more sweets and a few less formal dinners to attend, but it was pretty much idyllic.
What were they like in their childhood: He was a somewhat precocious child, a little spoiled, but basically a good kid. Did well in all his classes, never got into much trouble.
When were they happiest: The party at which the picture was taken. It was two days before the party at which he'd drink too much and end up in a field for his 'awakening' or whatever. It was the last time he really didn't have anything to worry about, he feels. It was before things went downhill with Carly, before he started trying to get his message out. It was the last time he was truly carefree.
Education
Schools attended: A private boarding school in upper New York, then Harvard.
Current year/grade: Graduated seven years ago.
How well are they doing: Quite well. His trust fund is holding out to support him, and all the funds he raises are therefore put straight into helping the people who need it.
Favourite Subject: Political science
Most Hated Subject: Health
Profession
Job Description: Head of a philanthropic organization: HELP (Humane Endowments for Lasting Progress) and main spokesman for the same.
Degree of skill at occupation: Very, very good.
How does they feel about their occupation: Loves it, but doesn't feel he's doing enough.
Salary: $20,000 a year, and that's mostly spent on food and bus maintenance. His trust fund is another 80k a year (there's a looong history of rich people in his family) and that goes into keeping up his flats and buying him clothes and stuff - the rest goes into the business to reduce overhead.
Hours Worked: All of them. He's never fully off the clock except during the four-day weekends twice a month.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Beautiful People, New Characters
So I just heard about the Beautiful People monthly meme, run by the people at Further Up and Further In, from Liam, both of which are wonderful blogs that I should really add to my blogroll as soon as that's a thing that I have. Considering that my Camp Nano novel is basically two characters and the 'roadtrip' premise right now, I decided that I was going to make up three characters on the spot for this blog entry. Spontaneity!- What are their names?
- Sarah Crowley
- Blind Smith John
- Sam Hyde
- Where do they live?
- A small, spartan apartment in Wall, South Dakota.
- New York, New York - specifically, on the streets of NY
- The Northeast in general, in his pickup truck. He can spend days out in the middle of nowhere, not coming back to civilization until he runs out of beer.
- How old are they?
- 38 as of 05/14/20--, according to her ID. She was born in 1904.
- Apparently mid-fifties, but he's not saying anything further. He was born in 1750.
- No one has a clue, least of all himself. Sam doesn't bother keeping count, because 'it would just be depressing, thinking about it.' He was born in 1827.
- What do they do?
- Sarah runs the ice cream shop in the depths of Wall Drug, serving out sundaes, bison burgers, and greasy pizza to tourists. At night she catalogs any weirdness that occurs in Wall Drug that isn't supposed to happen.
- He plays his pipe on an obscure subway platform for change, and spends the nights clearing shadows out of the various rail stations.
- He tells motorists tall tales for beer. Doesn't really need to do anything else, because he's built up enough goodwill to be able to get dinner and any supplies he might want just by showing up and telling a tale.
- What do they love?
- Sarah loves stories. She also loves order - her love of stories spawns from a desire to keep disorder pinned down, neatened up. If something's in a story, she feels, it won't happen to her.
- He loves his pipe. He loves music. He loves the tunnels. He loves the night, and the emptiness it brings. He loves the fact that, down in the tunnels at night, he's more than equal to any person with sight, because he 'don't have to rely on any crutch.'
- Sam loves beer and telling tales, and is delighted by the fact that he can get the one by doing the other. He likes the forest, and the shades it contains. He likes people, and he likes being alone.
- What do they hate?
- She hates disorder, randomness, and chaos. She hates the weird things that happen at Wall Drug sometimes. She hates that she isn't normal.
- Smith hates sighted people with a passion. He hates the shadows that fill his subway even more, because the make it harder to concentrate on the music. He hates the well-meaning people who keep trying to send him to a shelter.
- He hates violence and people who want to start it. Other than that, he doesn't really hate anything. Very congenial guy, Sam.
- What do they want?
- Sarah wants to pin down each and every last anomaly in Wall Drug so they stop happening in real life.
- Smith wants everyone in the world to go away, and he wants the shadows to stop muffling his damn music, thankyouverymuch. He also desperately wants his sight back, but he won't admit it.
- Sam wants another beer and a willing audience. On a slightly larger scale, he wants world peace, or at least world truce.
- What do they fear?
- She fears that the world will end before she dies, and she won't be able to write down what happens so it won't.
- He fears the invention of quieter subway cars, and the fact that the shadows are multiplying more quickly than he can cull them. He fears what will happen to his music if the shadows overtake him.
- Sobriety. But really, he's not afraid of anything. Nothing's killed him yet, and he's so far been able to protect anyone he's met from anything that's tried to happen to them, up to and including 23 machine gun rounds to the skull. He's all good.
- What are they good at?
- Writing and observation are Sarah's strong points. She sees and hears everything, and has a photographic memory. She can't filter anything out, but if stuff is similar enough it will blend together. When she has to take in too much information, she starts getting overloaded and freaks out. That's why she's at Wall Drug - it's always the same, day in and day out. It's also why she hates irregularity, because it won't blend.
- He's basically a virtuoso with his pipe, because he's been playing it for 250 years. He's also good at banishing shadows, the last imprint of a person on the aether and absolutely awful on acoustics.
- Sam is the best storyteller in America. He's got the alcohol tolerance of an ethanol refinery. He's also the most protectingest dude on either side of the Mississippi.
- What are they bad at?
- Sarah can't make pizza or a bison burger to save her life. The only reason she still has her job is because she's had it forever and no one else wants it.
- Smith refuses to use a cane, so he tends to trip or walk into walls when he's in an unfamiliar space. His interpersonal skills suck, too.
- Sobriety. Also, he can't drive for anything, but he's very proud of his skill and so no one has mentioned it to him.
Huh. That was easy. And I have sort of a plot now! Woo!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)