Participants:
| Scene Title | Plus One |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | New occupants finally move in to what was once Enlightenment Books… |
| Date | March 20, 2009 |
Offices of the New Voice Newspaper, East Village
"Hey, careful with that!" A lamp wobbles back and forth on a stand as men in dark blue jumpsuits carrying heavy boxes move in a single file line through the red painted fronts door of this modest storefront. Situated on the corner of Avenue A and 2nd Street. The moving crew, carrying the boxes in from a Ryder truck outside.
Navigating around the moving crew, a young man with a mop of dark hair top his head carries something far smaller than the heavy boxes, an old-fashioned typewriter. Lips spread from ear to ear in a goofy smile, he hops over a spool of extension cords and past where a few carpenters are patching up some holes in the sheet rock walls. His feet carry him with bouncing steps up the stairs, and once he's gotten out of sight from the moving crew, he alights into the air, gliding up the last ten steps to land on both feet with a loud clunk in the loft.
"Marvelous," he notes with a crook of his lips, walking quietly over the old hardwood floor to an antique desk situated in front of a circular window. "This is just the new start I needed…" moving to settle the typewriter down onto the desk, the young man looks down at the keys with an amused smile, brushing his fingertips over them while his eyes focus on the dirty panes of glass set into the window.
"West!" a shout comes from downstairs, echoing up the stairwell.
"Up here, Nance!"
Footsteps thunder up the stairs, eventually revealing themselves to belong to a woman in her mid thirties, carrying a small open-top box filled with old picture frames and dust-collector statuettes. "Hey the guys working on the wall found a box of junk in one of the closets, pick through it and see if there's anything you want," she leans over, laying the box down on the table next to the typewriter, eyes scanning over it before she clicks her tongue teasingly.
"Seriously, West," blue eyes shoot up to him, catching the broad smile on his lips. "You aren't really going to type up your articles on that old thing, are you? the computers are in one of the boxes downstairs, why don't you come down and help me unpack?"
Shrugging his shoulders, West begins to palm through the box of pictures absentmindedly, "It's… more a sentimental thing," he looks up to Nancy with a crooked smirk, "It's like I'm channeling the spirit of Hunter S. Thompson, you know?" Her eyes continue to roll back in response to the comment, arms tossed into the air in a helpless gesture.
"You're nine shades of weird, West." The older woman makes her way over to the stairs, stopping as her shoulder comes to lean against it, eyes settling side-long on the West as he paws through the box. "Did you hear what happened to the old lady who ran the book store that used to be here?" One blonde brow rises slowly, and West looks up from the box, nodding in quiet acknowledgment.
Managing a weak smile, Nancy just nods back; silent for a moment. "Your bed should be here on the next load, Frank's going to help you move it up here, okay? I'm going to go call our publisher and see when we'll be able to get the first issue off of the ground, and— I think we have interviews starting next week with a few reporters."
She slides away from the door, still watching as West pulls one of the small frames out from the box. She hesitates on saying anything, then just gives up entirely and slides down the stairs with a thunder of rapid steps. Finding something outside of photographs in the frames, West's eyes settle down on a painting in an old, worn frame about the size of a traditional portrait.
His dark eyes scan over it, fingers brushing dust off of the glass. He recognizes the vista, but not quite the scene displayed. The Deveaux Rooftop, a place he'd brought Claire more times than he can remember, a place overlooking the ruins of Midtown. But here, everything is green, a lush and forested park filled with crawling vines, lush canopies of trees and birds.
"…wishful thinking never got anyone anywhere," he mumbles to himself, throwing the painting back in the box and moving the box down to the floor. All junk. Moving over to the typewriter, West once more brushes his fingers over the dusty keys, looking down to the painting again with a crooked smile. "Then again…"
His fingers slowly brush over four keys, slowly, typing out against nothing but a blank rubber spool a simple ideal, and a simple word inspired by the painting itself. A word that holds personal meaning to him, and to his plans for the future:
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Previously in this storyline… This concludes the storyline The Brill Paintings. |
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