Performance Quality


sable_icon.gif tasha_icon.gif

Scene Title Performance Quality
Synopsis Tasha gets an unexpected visit from an unlikely party with an unusual request.
Date June 24, 2010

Gun Hill

Room 404 - Colette, Tamara & Tasha.

This isn't a door Sable often approaches. To be fair, she doesn't approach many doors that aren't her own or Magnes'. Loud, raucous and outgoing though she may be, she's had little reason to pay calls on her fellow tenants, at least until recently. But desperate times, and all that…

Sable wraps on door to apartment 404 with the back of her knuckles, and calls through the barrier, feet fidgeting as they must when they are fighting an urge to take their owner elsewhere. "Hey!" is her call, "Lookin' f'r an artist with somethin' approachin' generosity in 'er heart!" Which means she's after Tasha. But not, like after after. She promises.

The music within the apartment is probably a touch too loud, playing the upbeat Blitzkrieg Bop while Tasha paints in the bedroom. Luckily the song is just dying out and she catches the tail-end of the knock followed by muffled yelling, so she drops the roller into its tray of bright-green paint and heads down the hall to the living room. One bare foot, paint splattered reaches to turn off the little stereo, before she wipes her hands on her paint-splattered cargo shorts so that she can open the door without getting green paint on the brass knob.

The bourgie girl looks anything but as she smiles at Sable. Green paint smudges her nose and cheek; her hair is in two pigtails, the bangs kept back by a black and white striped tie, the ends dangling down her back, and the tank top she wears is ripped and smudged with red paint that might look like blood if it weren't for the fresher green speckles.

"Hey, Sable. Colette's not here… neither is Tam," she offers, obviously not having heard the request for the artiste, and assuming Sable is looking for anyone but her.

"Then that means I've got y' all t' myself, doesn't it?" Sable says, leaning in the now-open doorway and giving Tasha a wide smile. Her eyes dart up and down, "Y' workin', hon? I didn't mean t' disturb. I mean," she shrugs, "I don't mind disturbin', nor do I mind findin' y' in a state 'f comely disadvantage 'n' all, but…" she dips her head, "May I come in, hon?"

For the sake of clarity, she adds, "I came callin' f'r you."

"Just painting — I finished a wall, so I can take a break, no problem," Tasha says, though there might be a touch of dubiousness in her tone as she looks at Sable curiously. "Let me wash my hands. Come on in — you want a soda or water or anything?" It's no longer sweltering in the apartment, thanks to brand new air conditioning units in the windows that just got installed that morning.

Letting Sable in, Tasha shuts the door and heads to the kitchen to wash her hands, pulling a paper towel off a roll to dry. "Whatcha need?" she asks, leaning in the doorway between kitchen and living room, nodding toward one of the lawn chairs. "Take a seat in our lovely parlor, if you like."

"Ooo, this is real fuckin' nice," Sable says, without any detectible sarcasm, sidling in, and immediately greeted by the cooler air. She needs to get herself some of that. She takes a brief perambulation before settling down in one of the seats, crossing her legs, ankle to knee. "If y' don't mind playin' hostess t' me, I'd sure enjoy a Coke or somethin'. Dr. Pepper if y've got it." She reaches behind herself, scratching the nape of her neck. "Uh… yeah. So, I'm wonderin' if y've any experience 'r flair 'r whatever f'r makeup and th' like. Stage makeup, 'n', like, flashy eye sorta stuff."

Tasha's taken to getting a variety of sodas for their fridge, since there are usually children to coerce into doing odd jobs, and luckily for Sable, Dr. Pepper is Paul's particular poison. She steps back into the tiny kitchen to open the refrigerator and grab one of those maroon cans, then delivers it to Sable.

"Yeah, I can do that. I always did all the makeup for the plays back when I was a thespian," she says dramatically, a smirk at the word and its pronunciation's nearness to another that is less past tense for her. She is, after all, a teenager, and prone to bad jokes.

Sable takes the can with a thankful nod, cracking it open and taking a draught. She gives a lipsmacking sigh of appreciation, and lets the can rest on the chair's arm, balanced by a light grip. "See, I fuckin' knew you'd be th' one," she says, wagging an unoccupied finger at Tasha, "I've got a gig t'morrow, at a, like, goth club thingy. F'r charity 'n' all. 'n' I need t' give the folks comin' t' the venue what they're lookin' for. So I need real fuckin' goth makeup. Black lipstick, some crazy shit around the eyes 'n' stuff. But I dunno how t' apply it all, much fuckin' less the specifics of what it should look like. So… yeah… I was hopin' y'd give me a hand."

Tasha raises a brow at the apparent confidence in her artistic abilities. "Sure. We can look at some stuff on the internet and you can pick out what you'd like, and I can go get the stuff for you… if you're performing, you don't wanna just use regular makeup. The sweat and the lights and everything will just make it run, and you'll end up looking like that sad washed up scrunch-faced religious nut with the makeup. Not what you're looking for, right? There's a costume and makeup shop not too far from here where we used to get the drama makeup. You want the industrial shit. At the very least, like MAC or something. Performance quality, not like, you know. Revlon."

Sable makes a face, maybe in preparation for her potential religious nuttery to come. "Yeeeeeah…" she says, "'bout that, hon. I ain't exactly flush nowadays. Magnes ain't come through with the whole job thing, however eager I am t' start. So I dunno," she looks pained, "I'm good f'r it, if y' wouldn't mind."

Sitting down on the chair across from Sable, Tasha reaches beneath it for her laptop, set beneath the chair from its last use. At the mention of money, she waves her hand at the other girl. "It's for charity, right? Consider it my donation, then. Don't worry about it. You can just thank me when you win a grammy or something. One of the little people." She opens the lap top, pulling up a web browser, typing a few words into Google and then pressing images. "There — see what you like, so I know what I need to buy." She passes the Macbook to Sable, and the browser window is open to images of Gothic makeup. "Or you know, if you have an idea that's not there, I can sketch something up. I just don't want to experiment on you when time is of the essence tomorrow."

Sable diligently navigates the image search, not being terribly computer literate, but at least having some sense of how to get by. It doesn't take her long, actually, to locate something she likes. You can tell she's found it by the grin that lights up her face. She taps the screen. "This 'n'," she says, "This I dig. It's nice 'n' over the top." She motions for Tasha to come over, take a look.

Tasha rises, moving behind Sable's chair to peer at the image. "So very tragic chic," Tasha says with a chuckle and nods. "Easy enough. I'll buy some other stuff too, and you can use it for other shows. A deep almost black red on the lips in addition to that might be a nice touch. Anything else you think you might want for future gigs?"

The yellow eyed girl beams, eyes cutting up to Tasha. "Fuckin' perfect," she says. She sets the computer down and gets to her feet, rolling her shoulders and spinning about. "Thanks, hon," she says and, quite without warning, leans forward to kiss Tasha on the cheek. "Yer a peach," she confides before backtracking towards the door, "No time like the present, eh? Let's go!"

Tasha's eyes widen at the sudden affection — not with horror or fear but just surprise. "Uh. Sure, you're welcome. Let me go clean up quick and put on something that doesn't look like I wrapped road kill on it…" she glances down at her red, brown, and green splattered shirt with a grin.

"Road kill and … um, midori martinis or something. I'll be right out." She heads to the bedroom to put on clean clothes, grab a wallet and write a note to Colette, as well as put a lid on the open paint can and pat Jupiter asleep on a pile of dirty clothes.

Sable has already opened the door, needing to be as close her goal as she possibly can be at any given moment. She's positively buoyant, for whatever goddamn reason. She awaits Tasha's return, and the expedition to come, that same fidget in her feet as when first she came calling. Time to move!

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