Participants:
| Scene Title | Abusing Alcohol |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | In which Delia abuses alcohol by not finishing her beer. Smedley plays accompaniment and draws conclusions which are quickly corrected. |
| Date | May 9, 2011 |
Monday nights in bars are generally reserved for a crowd of sport-loving regulars, but Desperado isn't quite like that. And being one who doesn't follow any particular team and doesn't wish to exert the mental effort to follow the course of a game, Wes Smedley, two sheets to the wind, wanders his way into what might be the only real "cowboy" bar in the city. He's able to walk in a straight line to the bar and install himself in a seat before his eyes close in a blink that lasts as long as a good yawn.
That was two hours ago.
Nursing a low-ball glass of whiskey, Smedley stares at the small corner stage, void of any activity but adorned with a single, well-used guitar propped up in a stand. The bar is relatively quiet, the lack of activity a combination of several factors that have most of the city in a choke hold.
And from the tight, studious look on his face, it appears that Smedley wants to do just that to the collection of splinters and sinew.
Being legal has its perks, one of which is being able to talk to old friends without worry. Before going into hiding it was a rare occasion that Delia made the time to hang out with her old high school friends but now that her obligations are more or less clear, she's been calling much more often. Having been at some Italian place for pasta and wine a short while ago, most of her party has dispersed, except for her and one other young woman. Becca DiPalma wasn't ready to go home either.
"Seriously? You got all that done at Cambria? Wow Delia, I didn't know you were into that sorta thing. Cuz like, my cousin Jaime, he's like one of the best beauticians you'll ever meet, I swear to God." The curly haired brunette is even holding up two fingers in Scouts honor before making the motion of the holy trinity from forehead to chest, shoulder to shoulder. "Anyway, where've you been it's been like almost a year, you been touring around like you always wanted? Did your dad finally let you go back to the old country?"
A Queens accent never used to grate on the redhead's nerves but the smile is kept pasted across her face, stiff as a board. "N-no, not really, I was going to see my grandparents but that sort of fell through." Apparently Becca doesn't watch America's Most Wanted or pay attention to the news, because she seems to have no idea that Delia's father is running from the law.
"Do they even serve wine here? What is this place?" Becca's attention veers toward the stage and she pulls on her companion's long sweater to grab her attention. "Look! Live entertainment!!"
You know. Apart from the live part.
But a few seconds after Becca's outburst, Smedley pushes back his stool, grating the metal against the wooden floor. It might be because of her shouting, or it might be something else entirely that propels him from his seat and toward the stage, whiskey held in one hands like a dime store claw clutches a toy bear.
He doesn't touch any of the chairs scattered about the tables between the bar and the small section of raised flooring. Instead, he settles himself down on the edge, leaning to pull the guitar off its stand and into his lap, the whiskey momentarily abandoned at his side.
The warmth of spring has left him in a simple button-up shirt - light blue and white plaid worn over a cotton heather gray t-shirt. Smedley furrows his brow beneath the hair that falls away from his face as he picks at the strings, making no music at first. He twists a few of the pegs before rolling a cord and starting to pick a wandering melody.
"Aaaaaahhh!! I wonder if he's taking requests!!" Becca keeps a tight fist on Delia's sleeve as she drags the redhead toward the stage, mostly to keep her company as she pitches her song idea to the musician. "Oh my god! You have to play Bruno Mars!! They did this acoustic version? Of that song? You know the one?" She's not supplying the title and her friend is staring toward the door with a lost expression on her face.
A firm tug on her sleeve causes Delia to snap out of whatever reverie she was in. "Oh.. uhm… Just the Way You Are?" The tall redhead glances back to see Smedley's face and she widens her eyes a little before turning a sheepish glances toward her friend. "He might not know that one.." Her voice is a little more subdued now that she actually knows someone in the esteblishment.
ORDER: It is now your pose.
Smedley looks up slowly, squinting at Becca before angling his head to look her up and down. Then he shakes it once, all while still plucking away at the strings on the guitar. "Sorry, l'lady," he slurs before inhaling sharply through his nose to pull back whatever lingering winter mucus may be lingering. "Don't know it. Can't play somethin' I don't know."
The melody takes on a slightly more direct pattern - though the purpose is lazy. "Whatcha wanna hear me play for anyway?" he asks, letting his head fall back so that he can watch his fingers rather than the young women, but on its way, he catches sight of part of Delia's face and the mass of red hair in such a way that she isn't too fuzzy for him to make out. There's a hiccup in the music, but when he starts up again, it's with a fervor that makes him play a decidedly wrong note in the pattern. "No Cash."
"Laaaaame~" Becca sing songs as she pulls Delia toward the bar this time. Her sharp features twist and turn sour as she eyes the selection offered. Beer, more beer, hard liquor, no mix. "If they don't serve Moscato here I'm so gone. You're coming with, right?" She doesn't wait for an answer, letting go of the redhead's sweater and slapping her arm once in jest. "Of course you are, where else do you have to go, right? I mean your whole house burnt down. Not like you have a place to live."
Delia's head pivots to look down at the Italian woman. Blinking and shaking her head as if coming out of some sort of daze, she opens her mouth and takes a breath in before speaking. "I— I have a place to live. I live on Staten Island, with a bunch of other people. In Eltingville." There's a small pause where the redhead places a hand on the other woman's arm. "Excuse me for a second, I have to talk to the man with the guitar."
All Becca does is roll her eyes, "Whatever Delia! You're no fun anymore, you know that?! Everyone says so!" And with that, Becca DiPalma flounces out of the bar.
With an arched eyebrow that only climbs higher with time, Smedley watches Becca's antics leading up to her exit, then settles his eyes on Delia's hair again. He starts to hum rather than speak to her, but in another moment he jerks his head toward the edge of the stage in a little less than subtle invitation, on the side where his half-empty drink sits.
"I can take y'back t'Staten, if you want," he offers, his words still slurring somewhat.
"I— I can't exactly afford a dragon skull or anything, what are you charging tonight?" There's a little bit of a joke in there somewhere and Delia's eyes twinkle a little as she tries not to smile at the smuggler. "How've you been anyway?"
Pulling her ID out, she passes it to the man behind the bar without looking at him, she's mostly interested in the cowboy with the guitar at the moment. When he passes it back, she tucks it into her wallet and back into her pocket. A beer is placed in her hand before she edges back to where Smedley's whiskey is making its home. The redhead doesn't ask if she can share the table, she just does. "Do you still uhm… see a lot of people? I guess business-wise?"
ORDER: It is now your pose.
"Who need to be seen, sure," Smedley says with a soft smile. "Take it you don't, business-wise." He pauses, squinting. "I mean, not that you don't get business. Just that they ain't… well, you know." Ahem. "Anyway, I wouldn't charge y'nuthin'. Headed close-by that way. Wouldn't be any trouble."
He doesn't speak for a moment, letting the regular rhythm of the instrument settle him. As he eyes Delia's drink. "Business is good enough for me t'spend a night on t'town, as it were." He glances back toward the door. "Didn't mean to run off yer'friend. Didn't know'er song is all."
"She'll get over it, she had a bit too much at the restaurant," Delia mutters quietly before taking a sip from the bottle in her hand. It's not whiskey, not even a bit as strong as whiskey, but it still causes her to wince and make a face as it goes down. Maybe the young woman's a lightweight when it comes to her Michelobe Light.
"And as for seeing people, no, I don't so much anymore. I was just going to say that if you do… you might not want to give me a ride." Her lips press together and she eyes the door as if waiting for someone to barge in but she doesn't seem nervous. "Because I live in Eltingville." It's said like it's supposed to mean something.
One of Smedley's fingers slips and the guitar twangs in discord. He grimaces, then shakes his head. "Sorry, Red," he says, slowly shaking his head before he picks up a more somber tune. "I fight with the damned toaster." A smile twitches in one corner of his mouth, but it fades not long before it reaches his dulled eyes.
"But if it gets too late, there ain't no reason you can't sleep in the boat and catch a cab in the mornin'. Y'can even have the cabin if you don't mind bunkin' with the pack." Another smile tickles at his weathered face. "Ain't like you never done it before."
"You fight with toasters?" Delia's eyebrows quirk upward at that imagery and she just shakes her head quickly to wipe it out of her mind, like an etch-a-sketch. She takes another sip from her beer bottle, this time her grimace at swallowing is a little less animated. The bottle is placed on the table with a small clunk and she wipes her hand on the thigh of her jeans.
"I don't know if it's a good idea for me to not make it home before curfew," she says in a low voice as she casts another worried glance at the door. "I mean, I've never tried it before but.. I don't want to get into trouble and I don't want to get Mister Logan in trouble if I don't come home." Lacing her fingers together, she tucks them between her knees and rolls her shoulders forward meekly. "Uhm.. if it gets too late though, I can probably text him maybe… maybe if he knows where I am, he won't get in trouble if I don't make it into the gates. You don't think he would, do you?"
Delia's comment on his epic battles with kitchen appliances draws a chuckle from Smedley, but it doesn't change the darker tone of the picked chords. But when she mentions Logan, he slows the music before turning back toward a more uplifting key. "John Logan?" he asks, an eyebrow rising. "John Logan who used'tuh have a place out on Staten, then one in Brooklyn?" He pauses, thinking for a moment with furrowed brows and down-turned mouth. "He might not mind if he knows yer with me, but I can't say for sure. He don't seem the type to wanna mix business in his personal life."
And that's how Smedley marked Delia Ryans as a part-timer for John Logan.
"Business?" The confused expression doesn't seem to leave Delia's face before her complexion begins to match the color of her hair. "Oh! No! No no… he doesn't bring his business home, we're housemates… He uhm.. He did me a huge favor and helped me get registered. Not— no business!"
The beer is forgotten and she gets up suddenly, tipping the chair over to clatter on the floor. Turning, she bends and picks it up with one hand to right it, passing an apologetic glance at the bartender. "Sorry! Nothing broke, I promise!" She pivots back to face Smedley and lifts her hands as she shakes her head again, arguing the notion that she's involved in any of Mister Logan's business. "I— I should get home… It's uhm.. it's a long way."
Smedley doesn't seem to phased by Delia's sudden need to Not Be Here. He does stop playing, however, and squints up at her. "Suit yourself," he says, knowing better than to pry. It's not his place, and in this day and age, knowing too much about anyone is bound to bring either you or that person trouble.
He turns to look at the bar. "S'on me," he says loud enough to be heard over the few other patrons. Looking back in Delia's general direction, he cants his head toward the door. "Be careful out there, Red."He cants his head toward the door. "Be careful out there, Red."
She gives a short nod of thanks to both Smedley and the bartender before wheeling around and heading straight for the door. The warm night air does nothing to soothe her fevered temperature as she hurries toward the closest bus stop. In fact, the humidity causes her hair to spring and frizz out in directions that make her look a bit like a mad homeless woman.
Digging her fist into her pocket, she digs out enough change to pay for her fare, plunking it into the ticket machine fast enough to make it spit out half of what she put in. When she finally boards the bus, she picks out a window seat on the same side that the bar is on, staring at the flickering neon sign as she passes by. She pulls her small phone out of her pocket and begins a small text.
be home soon
- delia