Participants:
| Scene Title | A Night Out With The Boys |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | A night out at Desperado |
| Date | November 4, 2009 |
This is one of those slightly quirky places that some people find cute or kitschy and some people find intolerable. The theme is apparent even from the set of swinging saloon doors that marks the real entrance beyond the vestibule/hallway used for carding patrons. Inside the bar proper, the theme really takes off. It doesn't look like it was originally built as a saloon, given its rather large, open floorplan and utter lack of old-timey architectural features, but the walls have been papered with imitation wood paneling and a couple of stuffed dear heads are stuck up on the walls. The large dance floor is hardwood, raised slightly from the concrete floor beneath it. The long, polished bar sits sturdily in front of a wide selection of booze and drink specials are chalked up on boards here and there. A few posters on the wall advertise Wednesdays as 'Ladies' Night' and there are a few advertisements for area gay bars. The real feature of the place is a roped off corner on the other side of the room from the bar. It holds the pride and joy of the bar: a large mechanical bull on an amply padded surface. The music is a mixture of country and the usual array of music popular in clubs with bumping beats that the clientele certainly seem to get down with. Speaking of the clientele, they are probably some of the most conclusive evidence that this establishment does indeed cater especially to the gay community. Whether or not that was the original purpose of the bar is hard to say.
Technically? It's Ladies' Night. But that doesn't seem to have affected the clientele /too/ much so far. There is a higher proportion of females here tonight, but not a much lower number of males. Word will probably take a little more time to spread to the ladies, since Buck doesn't have as many friends amongst them. But at any rate ladies get in half price and there are lots of drink specials. Even rides on the mechanical bull are down to $10. Buck's working the bar with his usual grin and lack of particular skill.
Ladies night…yes. Okay. So Raquelle can work on his timing sure! But his begging is still good! And his finding people to babysit his two perfect little baby girl angels (okay…so maybe that's pushing it). Then dropping to his knees, hand pressed together and sweet talking his way into a surprise for the significant other…
"No…it isn't a cowboy bar…" It is a very very lame argument when the saloon doors are pushed open. "Okay maybe it is but it is cute?" Sometimes Raquelle is lucky that he's pretty or something…
He holds the doors open long enough for his date of the evening before slipping in himself. He wears a pair of fitted ie painted on black jeans, black boots, a black and purple flannel shirt left unbuttoned over skin and piercings and it is sleeveless. He's wearing make-up so he's in a decent mood really, a streak of purple in his hair, idly fidgeting with a tiny silver hoop as he chuckles.
Having once made major lifestyle concessions to a nuclear bomb of a man in the middle of Manhattan Island, Bolivar has since made something of an art form out of ~refusing~ to capitulate further to anything else he doesn't terribly mind doing, which may not mean anything much to the average person given the toxic anger syndrome. Sometimes, this means being the victim of a car accident and mild concussion does not obstruct him going to work. Other times, it means he's at a gay bar with his fantastically purple significant other and failing entirely to match the decor.
Oh, well. Standard issue blue buttoned shirt, slacks, coat over one shoulder, the usual array of hideous mutilated-candlewax scar tissue wrought down his left side and the small ruined hand attached to it spasming the occasional grasp at thin air, in automatic check for a dog leash that isn't there. Bolivar has probably just been working too much, lately. Is all. He's also already mildly drunk, squinting at the crowd with the suspicion endemic to being short enough that being trod on by massed individuals with higher vantage points is a realistic possibility.
"In Mexico, stable-themed restrooms are code for farm animals being available for sex, you know," he grunts, always one for delight.
Robin's friend Dean has been talking about this bar — and the mechanical bull — for a week, and has finally managed to drag Robin out to see the place. Dressed almost as casually as usual, Robin's in jeans that fit a little tighter than his standard and a v-neck pullover, with a black corded necklace that holds a subtle silvery rainbow charm.
He's immediately abandoned when Dean heads for the bull, so Rob heads for the bar. He finds a stool and takes a seat, glancing over the crowd as he waits for the bartender.
"Hey! Rocky!" Buck shouts in greeting. Raquelle isn't necessarily hard to miss, even in this sort of place. "Look at you!" he says approvingly. Or pretend-approvingly if it's possible that Buck is that devious. "Hey," he adds with less volume to Bolivar. No name for the fellow comes to mind. So Buck improvises: "How you doin'? Have a seat! What'll you have?" Upon hearing Bolivar's comment, Buck smiles. "So /that's/ why so many pissed-off Mex'cans keep headin' outta this place," he says. "Next time I'll r'member to toss out a 'lo siento.'" His Spanish pronunciation is dreadful. And a quick smile is offered to total stranger Robin, showing plenty of teeth. "Howdy, stranger."
Raquelle's slender eyebrow raises a fraction as he just stares at Bolivar for a few moments, sashaying towards the bar and raising his hands in the air with a wolf-whistle and a wiggle of his hips. "Look at me, aren't I just gorgeous." He flutters his eyelashes and laughs softly as he leans a hip against the bar and eyeing Bolivar. "I'm hopin' like hell this doesn't give you any ideas."
He tilts his head back to address Buck. "Buck Wild, my lovely little lone ranger, you have to roll your Rs." As he does in his pronunciation of ranger. "And caress your os." He chuckles and winks to Robin before gesturing towards Bolivar. "Order up, this one's good at providing the alcohol. Tonight, you shall relaaaaaax. Without a 5 year old riding you like a pony."
"You're confusing me with Nina Lou. Which makes me uncomfortable," says the carping voice at midget-level from Raquelle's elbow, "because we were just talking about besti— do you know him?" Surprise ladders Bolivar's forehead, brows on the incline as he transfers his medium-brown gaze between Raquelle and Buck and back again. He doesn't look entirely displeased, despite the mode of his conversation until this point, and one might guess from the way 'Rocky' takes it in stride that that is perfectly normal.
"This is a pretty fuckin' interesting industry to tide you over until terrorist killing, Lafferty," he observes aloud, while his hand insinuates itself into the right pocket at the seat of Raquelle's jeans. A different medium of observation. Well, when you have five senses to use, one might as well bring them all to the field for investigation.
Robin chokes a little at the farm animal comment but manages to grin at Buck, "Heya, yourself. While 'stranger' is a cool name, most call me Robin." He's a little overwhelmed by Rocky but hopefully seems to take it in stride, and even returns the wink, as well as offering the short guy a small wave. "Friendly place."
Shifting out of his stretched out slouch, he slides completely on his stool to make room for the others, and gives Buck a nod, "Buck Wild, huh? I like it. If you're pouring, I'll take a beer."
"There ain't any Rs in 'lo siento,'" Buck points out. He glances between Bolivar and Raquelle, figuring out that situation pretty quick. He smiles. "An' I don't know how to caress a O." He grins at Bolivar. "Ain't it?" he agrees. "Maybe if I settle into a real job I c'n…you know, prove I ain't soft…" He gestures toward his hat. Or maybe the gesture is meant for his head. He looks over to Robin. "Well, hiya, Robin," he amends, nodding. "You care what kind?" Of beer, that is.
Raquelle adjusts his stance with a purr when that hand finds a home in his back pocket and he just chuckles softly. "Awwwwwwwww, sweetness, I thought you liked it doggi-" No, it is too easy he just looks as innocent as he can possibly look. Which is not much as he waggles his eyebrows. All the while though looking between Bolivar and Buck with a question in his baby blues.
He also nods slowly as he gets his bearings and taps a glossy black nail against the bar, frowning a bit at the mention of terrorist killing. He coughs softly. "Know Buck here? Oh honeycakes not biblically. But you know I get all the good lookin' folks in my chair." He does some how. "And then the gorgeous ones in my bed…that's why life is graaand." He nods slowly to himself and rolls his shoulders as he hums the first verse of so to 'Rockin' Robin' and giggles to himself.
If Bolivar were not already somewhat inebriated, he'd probably have a bidirectionally scathing thing or seven to say about gorgeous people in Raquelle's bed, but as it is, there's merely a vague token's self-deprecation with: "As long as you don't have to kick me out to make room for your moron twinks," distractedly, while he nods his head in salutation at Robin. Hi, other presumably gay random guy who's being admirably discreet about undoubtedly checking Raquelle out.
"What's on tap?" he asks, lifting his head to scout the immediate vicinity for chalk-marked chicken-scratch of dollar values and brand names. Day specials. Ladies' Night specials. Whatever: he's lost enough money to the swear jar that he is not above exploiting such market devices.
Robin shakes his head in reply to Buck's question, "I'm not picky; whatever's on tap that's not light works for me." He's visibly amused by Rocky and even does a little shoulder shimmy when Raq hums the song, humor visible in his dark brown eyes. He's been teased by that one before and is sure to be again.
While Robin does check Raquelle out — it's hard not too — he's getting a definite 'taken' vibe so keeps it to a friendly once over. There's no one in the crowd as interesting as this little group, unless you count Dean falling off the mechanical bull.
Is Rocky insulting Buck's looks? Slightly? Buck ignores anything private-seeming between Raquelle and Bolivar, but when he's judged to be merely 'good looking' he nods. "Maybe that's how come I ain't known anybody Biblically in awhile." He grins, but with his eyes focused on a mug while he gets Robin's beer. "On tap I got Bud, Miller an' Guinness… I got bottled other stuff." He gestures to the chalked sign.
"…I'm gettin' lucky with moron twinks and ain't nobody told me?" Raquelle gasps in mock horror, shaking his head. "Next time tell me honey, so I can take full advantage of my wanton sluttiness." And he leers a leer that would get the censor screen slapped up most likely and can't hold it all that long because he's quick to break into soft laughter, nose wrinkling and eyes crinkling at the edges as they are want to do.
"Robin, baby bird, sweetums…tell Buck Wild could be Nasty here that the only reason he's not getting biblically profane with anybody in a while has nothing to do with his fine ass, thanks darling." Raquelle manages to drawl as he looks around thoughtfully. "Bucky honey, why don't you have an open mic or anything like that?"
Bolivar's super scintillating sniper eyes picks out the chalk lettering, marks the ones that that the cowboy had read aloud. There's a squint. "Miller," he requests, finally, before his attention is gravitationally pulled toward that ludicrous expression on Raquelle's face, the sum of which is greater in its pull than the mass of the planet Earth, apparently, given he looks up instead of down. Oh, God. That accent: he has the feeling he's going to be the only one walking out of here not sounding like the product of Southern inbreeding.
No offense to the native drawlers. In this context, it's probably a little weird that Bolivar's cracked an odd little smile, but it's harmless the way that he otherwise wouldn't be. "It doesn't make any fucking sense you aren't getting laid," he tells Buck, almost conciliatory. "Do you go straight home after your shift? Live with your mom or inpatient psychiatry some shit?" He jabs a scarred finger up at the side of his head to indicate the injury that Beauregard had told him about some time earlier. It's a compliment!
Robin isn't above checking out Buck when he turns to get the beer. Maybe Rocky thinks Buck isn't gorgeous but Robin would have to disagree. He gets his beer and does a little toast to Buck in thanks before taking a long pull — and choking slightly at both Rocky and Bolivar's comments.
"Um. Well." Rob takes another drink of his beer; liquid courage or something like that. "The man's got a point, you do have a fine ass." He leans on the bar, one eyebrow arched as he curiously waits for Buck's reply to all of that.
Buck smiles at Raquelle and shakes his head. "Must be my personality, then," he concludes. On the subject of open mic he looks bewildered. "What, you mean for singin'?" he wonders. "You wanna listen to tone-deaf drunks sing? Cuz I don't. Only so many times in a night a fella can listen to another fella sing to /his/ fella 'bout his um-ber-ella, ella, ella, you know?" Buck gets himself a beer, too. "Sides, if the music ain't got people bumpin', how they gonna work off them cal'ries? Fellas in this town care 'bout that stuff." He gets Bolivar the Miller. "Oh, well, my mama lives in Texas," he explains. "I live by m'self. I mean…I usually go on home after, nothin' else t' do." He smiles at the question about his injury. "Oh, I never really had psychiatric probl'ms, so much. 'Cept, you know, like, 'retrograde amnesia.'" He pronounces it with excessive care to demonstrate that it's not a term that he regularly uses. "Maybe 'brain damage' ain't such a sexy term, y'know?" He grins and turns to catch the compliment. "Hey, thanks!" he says with a total lack of guile. Or else /so/ much guile that it /seems/ like it's guileless. "How you doin' t'night? You said 'Robin,' right?"
Raquelle is quiet as he rests an elbow against the bar, humming softly to himself and giving a tiny nod. Damnit, the accents. His Tennessee upbringing coming back to haunt him as he tilts his head to the side, studying Bolivar's profile thoughtfully and he hmms softly at the compliment, trying not to chuckle as a smile tugs at his lips and he bows his head to Buck. "What the two guys here are saying babycakes." Then he's back to being quiet, nodding. "I just something get my hankerin-longing to make a fool of myself."
"Did you just say 'hankerin'-longing?'" Bolivar asks, as if citing a chemical formula out of a textbook. That sort of incredulous, bemused skepticisim. Altogether stranger to him than 'retrograde amnesia.' "Jesus fuck. You must have a microphone somewhere around here." He's talking to Buck now, undoubtedly, as he pays for his drink, and then some.
More than a handsome tip, the insinuation obvious in the lift of his eyebrow, optimism unusual in the bomb-scarred man, like scuffing apart wilted brown sand to find something shiny buried underneath. He makes a shrug out of his hands. "I'll help you dig it up if you need. I swear, Raquelle isn't a completely fucking hopeless singer. Used to do some professionally, right?" More compliments. Soon dawn will break over New York City at ten in the evening and a fawn wander across the corner of the stage, this age of civil strife abruptly ended in rainbows.
"I did say Robin," he replies with a smile that's more friendly than flirty. Maybe that guilelessness eased him out of flirt mode, or maybe he just doesn't flirt much, who knows. Finishing off the dregs of his beer, he twists the mug around in his hands a few times before sliding it Buck's way. "And I'm doing great tonight, though I'd be better if I could get another one of these." And maybe another look at Buck's ass.
The mention of a microphone has Rob ducking, at least metaphorically. "That sounds like a blast — as long as Rocky here is the one doing the singing."
"Nope, I don't," Buck tells Bolivar honestly. A guy who doesn't like karaoke isn't the type to install a PA system as soon as he inherits a place. "Sorry, but it ain't th' singin' kinda bar. I put a system in here an' then I gotta listen to all the fellas who /think/ they c'n sing. No thanks. Sorry." he picks up the money. "You want change?" At least while he's at the register it'll let Robin look to his heart's content. But Buck soon turns around and puts another beer in Robin. "Here ya go," he says. "But since you prob'ly overheard 'bout half /my/ story…what's yours?"
Raquelle purses his lips and shakes his head. "Nope, I didn't. Why would I say something like that?" Lalalalalalalalala. Innocence really isn't his thing. He tries though, whistling and listening to the questions about the microphone and he smiles softly. "Don't worry about it Bollybaby…nobody needs to listen to my diva squawking."
He tosses the hair he does not have, brushing his emo fringe out of his face with a tilt of his head. "If I'm Rocky…does that make my gallant partner over here Bullwinkle?" He's been wondering this…
[OOC] Buck says, "Sleep in 1 hour."
[OOC] Robin salutes.
If it isn't innocence actual it's a reasonable enough facsimile. Diana and Billy Jean must have gotten it from somewhere. "It's fine," he answers Buck, after a moment. "Probably just as well, we wouldn't want all of these poor fucks mind-controlled into abusing the restroom stalls like so anyway. Get purple his cocktail of choice, should about cover it?"
He scrapes a crooked thumb across his brow, cants Raquelle a look of mild to intermediate indignation. "You are a little shitheel and you just keep digging it in, don't you?" he mutters over his pint glass, breath visibly fogging its curvatured interior. YES he knows he's short, thanks.
"No big story." Robin shakes his head mock-sadly and takes the beer, sliding a twenty across the counter. "Just a regular guy… college drop-out and part time actor. Full time barista. At least for this week." He's focused more on Buck than the other couple, though the Bullwinkle comment gets a laugh. "So you're Buck and you run this place? Your story sounds much more interesting." His friend that dragged him here in the first place is obviously on his own at this point. And probably still falling off the bull.
"Well, I reckon he'd rather be Bullwinkle th'n Adrienne," Buck reflects. He waits for Raquelle's order with an attentive tilt of his head. "Actor, huh?" Buck asks, focusing on the more glamorous part of Robin's comments. "That's pretty excitin', ain't it? That's a real job 'round here. All kinds o' famous people runnin' around…" He shakes his head and smiles. "I just came into this place last week. As in inherited. Army buddy left it to me. So I ain't really a bartender. 'Fact, between you an' me, I'm drunk on the job." He grins.
There is a pause as Raquelle's mouth opens and shuts. "Awww, I'd be good." He finally drawls with amusement. "Just gimme something with vodka in it sweet stuff and put a cherry or something I can play with in it, nothing purple's coming to mind." Then he has to hold up a hand defensively. "Hey hey hey hey, wasn't Bullwinkle the big one?" He looks between the others for support…pauses and then just smiles slowly to himself and looking back to Bolivar. "Alas, young lust. What happened to my youth…it washed away with tiny pairs of socks…"
Oh. What. :(a …
"Television will rot your fuckin' brain," Bolivar says, which feels like quoting a slow-petrifying seventy-year-old in a rocking chair somewhere, but it's probably true, and at least it's negative, so it's not a particularly significant breach of character. He blinks when a gangly redhead is abruptly flung from the bucking machine thing, a brow climbing his forehead. "Have you been on that thing?"
"Bullwinkle was the tall one… Which one was Adrienne?" Robin muses before waving the question away and leaning in to talk to Buck more. "Only a part time actor, and by no means famous." With a quiet laugh, he adds, "Drunk behind the bar is the only way to be… I did my fair share of bartending too. It makes life a lot easier if you've had a few."
Robin's not sure who Bolivar is asking so he shakes his head in reply, "Not me." …He bites his lip against a grin, though it doesn't really work, and adds: "I'm not in the mood to ride anything mechanical tonight."
Buck taps the other bartender's shoulder and asks him to make Raquelle a good drink with vodka and sweet and cherry. Because Buck does not have the training for that! The delicious drink is soon slid toward Raquelle as Buck confirms, "Bullwinkle's the big one. Moose." He quickly pours out a shot of whiskey which he puts in front of Robin, though it wasn't ordered. "Adrienne's Rocky's girl. You know…from 'Rocky?'" He smiles. "Shit, you're a bartender? I gotta actually learn how t' make drinks. I don't have fancy tastes so I don't know fancy drinks. You said you're a barista? Where you work?" He nods toward the bull. "He's a pretty tough customer," he tells Bolivar.
Raquelle reflexively is laying a few bills down on the bar, accepting his drink with a wink and blowing a kiss before blinking at Bolivar and then looking over to the bull and then back at Bolivar. "…I don't know about /you/ dearest but I really really really respect my balls." He nods firmly and takes a sip of his drink before gesturing between Buck and Robin. "You should hold one something where you trade drinks."
"And you should give him lessons," Bolivar remarks between the two young bartenders, deadpan from both the detached buzz left by alcohol and because, you know, that's not an entirely bad idea for business. He angles his head down to study the absurd confection drink in Raquelle's hand, either wondering how anybody possibly could have thought that was a good idea or contemplating stealing the maraschino cherry bobbing accent by its rim. Important thoughts to harbor. "I'm too old for that shit," he agrees, as far as the bull goes.
Swirling the whiskey in the glass, Robin sips it, liking the mild buzz he's got but not wanting to get too drunk too fast. "Yeah, I helped run a bar cafe type place for a few years, so I could show you how to make a few drinks if you want. As far as the coffee shop, it's a tiny place right off of Green Street… you should stop by sometime."
Turning just in time to see someone else go flying off the bull, Robin looks back to Buck, "Do you ride that thing?"
"Yeah, that'd be great," Buck enthuses about the whole package of stopping by the cafe and being taught how to make better drinks. But the question of the bull makes him suppress a smile. Or try to. "Yeah, I rode it when I bought it," he says. "It's got a kick but it ain't as bad as th' real thing. Y'all want me to take it on?"
Raquelle considers something as he sips his drink and he plucks the cherry from the drink to offer to Bolivar. "You're young where it counts." He offers in quiet support of his partner, chuckling softly to himself and cringing as somebody goes flying. "Ow damnit…" Then he just stares at Robin and Buck, eyebrows shooting up as he tries to process that as well.
Bolivar studies Buck with profound skepticism on his scar-bracketed face. "G'wan, gringo," he allows, finally, saluting with the beer. By now, the level of the Miller's meniscus has fallen low enough that it's in no real danger of slopping over the rim and alighting on his hair, fortunately. "Our prayers are with you." His meager weight lists slightly between his shoes, sitting his hip lazily against Raquelle's stupendous height.
Robin takes another sip of whiskey, then grins. "Hell yes, I'd pay good money to see you ride that. And stay on."
Buck bites his lower lip and nods. "Wull all right," he agrees, situating his hat on his head. He swaggers on up to the bull. The drunkenness doesn't show in his walk. He boosts himself into the ring. Then he pauses for a critical…self-adjustment…before hopping on the mechanical contraption with the perfect cowboy slouch. When the bull is started it churns slowly at first but with several harsh bucks and jerks. However, Buck seems pretty accustomed to this sort of motion. He stays on there a lot longer than the average bear, but the thing tosses him off before too terribly long. He lies there laughing on the mats a minute before he gets back up and heads over to the bar. "All right, I gotta go check some inventory, but y'all have fun."
Raquelle watches Buck, following him with his eyes as a hand slips around Bolivar's waist, giving him a tiny squeeze before blinking some more. "…oh good lord he's going to actually do it." Then that arm falls away before he gives a small nod and sips his drink. "Yep. He's gonna do it." Then he just closes his eyes to listen to the water and nod his head a bit. Lala, very nice night.
Little man, small bladder. There's a distracted mutter of annoyance, a backward wave at Buck and then a kiss slanted up on Raquelle's cheek. "Gonna go check out the farm animal sex," Bolivar says, which is code for 'I'm a facetious douche pushing this joke about an hour past its expiration date' among other things. "Don't get raped." He gives Robin a nod of farewell before lurching off toward the exit marked with the appropriately sexed iconograph.
Robin laughs as Buck is tossed off the bull, and nods as Bolivar heads towards the bathrooms. "He lasted longer than I would've on that thing." He also writes his number down on a bill and gives it to the other bartender so Buck will get it. For drink making instruction, of course.
Raquelle chuckles and nods to Bolivar, returning the cheek kiss with a soft moo and a nod. Then he looks over to Robin. "You never know until you tryyyy you know." He drawls and winks before throwing back the rest of his drink and ordering another.
With a shake of his head, Robin flashes a grin Raq's way. "No, no. Like you said, I value my balls. And I'd definitely need to be drunker. Or possibly more sober." It's a toss up!