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the_hermitNevermind
He doesn't mind New Orleans.
It's full of easy to read tourists with thick wallets and lowered inhibitions, and he balances things between legitimate performances and what he's jokingly called charity work, relieving people of their burdens - both secrets and cash. He makes enough to pay his landlord and his bartender, and he gets along well enough with the locals. He's even picked up some French - at least enough to flirt with the women behind the counter when he has lunch down the street from the cafe.
He gets them hooting and waving their towels at him, anyway. It's a win.
He doesn't mind his apartment.
It's small, but the view is great, and he's got his couch angled just right that he can lay on it with the window open and read while catching enough of a breeze to break up the humidity and carry in the sound of the jazz band warming up down the block. It's not the grand suites he was used to, but it's definitely better than where he spent the last few years, and he doesn't spend that much time in it anyway.
He doesn't mind how things have changed. He doesn't mind the routine of waking up hungover, getting lunch, spending a few hours making what money he can, getting dinner, getting drunk, and falling into bed with his hat on. He doesn't mind that the most interaction he has with people these days is taking their money from them or giving them his in return for a bottle. It's better this way with no one around to eventually stab him in the back.
(It's easier to lie when you're the guy that knows what face to make so people don't know you're lying.)
The card surprises him, and he doesn't like surprises, not since the last time he had one, it was the fact that his money and his dear old brother were both long gone and that the IRS wanted a word or five. This is the exact opposite of that, though, when he'd heard all about the Eye back when, when it had stung that he had never heard more than rumors. He lets his landlord and the cafe know that he's taking a few days and books the trip.
It surprises him just how much he minds that he's not the only one to show up at the apartment. It surprises - and terrifies - him just how fond he grows of the kids in so short a time when he swore he'd never get close to anyone but his buddy Jack Daniels again.
And when they finally get to Central Park, he's surprised to find out just who he's been working for this whole time.
And he doesn't mind at all.
He doesn't mind New Orleans.
It's full of easy to read tourists with thick wallets and lowered inhibitions, and he balances things between legitimate performances and what he's jokingly called charity work, relieving people of their burdens - both secrets and cash. He makes enough to pay his landlord and his bartender, and he gets along well enough with the locals. He's even picked up some French - at least enough to flirt with the women behind the counter when he has lunch down the street from the cafe.
He gets them hooting and waving their towels at him, anyway. It's a win.
He doesn't mind his apartment.
It's small, but the view is great, and he's got his couch angled just right that he can lay on it with the window open and read while catching enough of a breeze to break up the humidity and carry in the sound of the jazz band warming up down the block. It's not the grand suites he was used to, but it's definitely better than where he spent the last few years, and he doesn't spend that much time in it anyway.
He doesn't mind how things have changed. He doesn't mind the routine of waking up hungover, getting lunch, spending a few hours making what money he can, getting dinner, getting drunk, and falling into bed with his hat on. He doesn't mind that the most interaction he has with people these days is taking their money from them or giving them his in return for a bottle. It's better this way with no one around to eventually stab him in the back.
(It's easier to lie when you're the guy that knows what face to make so people don't know you're lying.)
The card surprises him, and he doesn't like surprises, not since the last time he had one, it was the fact that his money and his dear old brother were both long gone and that the IRS wanted a word or five. This is the exact opposite of that, though, when he'd heard all about the Eye back when, when it had stung that he had never heard more than rumors. He lets his landlord and the cafe know that he's taking a few days and books the trip.
It surprises him just how much he minds that he's not the only one to show up at the apartment. It surprises - and terrifies - him just how fond he grows of the kids in so short a time when he swore he'd never get close to anyone but his buddy Jack Daniels again.
And when they finally get to Central Park, he's surprised to find out just who he's been working for this whole time.
And he doesn't mind at all.
