[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]Chiquitita [Halcyon/Windshield]
Oct 18, 2024 1:33:23 GMT -5
Post by Halcyon on Oct 18, 2024 1:33:23 GMT -5
Episode 3.5 | Week 3 | Day 1
Nevada, Off Route 50 | 10:00 PM
Most roads around here were lonely this late at night. No major towns for a hundred miles in any direction, few cars belonging to anyone other than those who were just passing through. But tonight, on this particular stretch of Route 50, just the opposite happened to be the case. The dim glow of a gas station’s tall neon sign cut through dusty desert skies like a beacon to all, advertising gas prices and notice of a live performance bar just a stone’s throw away. The latter of which had not seen its neon sign’s activation for many, many years now.
Most Sunday nights people would be starting to wind down by now, ready to head back to their ranch homes and trailer parks to get ready for the work day to come. But on this Sunday a growing crowd still had yet to gather fully at the venue. Some got their smoke breaks in outside before the supposed main event, others were late arrivals skating in just before the doors closed.
Within the bar a mixture of patrons old and new sat and stood almost shoulder to shoulder with one another as they spoke in tones of excitement the dusty old bar hadn’t seen in over a decade. There was a new solo act on tonight, one that blew all the local sad emboldened drunks and teen garage bands in desperate need of exposure right out of the water. Tonight was the last of three extravagant performances by this solo act, before the singer took their talents elsewhere, likely not to be seen around these parts for a long while, if ever again.
Word had quickly spread across the county, simple and excitable souls eager to tear away from the monotony of their daily lives to experience something that didn’t come around often before they would have to go back and face the music of their own lives again. For some, sitting in this audience might have been a more routine thing back in the day, hence the wide variety of ages present for the show– plenty of old timers back for nostalgia's sake whether the performance was worthwhile or not. Others might have heard of a mythical penchant for this building’s stage to spawn some of the greatest talents of local legend in ages past and hoped to see the start of a new one yet again.
Only time would tell, as the bar had just about filled now, while a single technician worked tirelessly behind the stage to wrangle a testy old speaker system. At the back corner of the stage sat an older gentleman. His visage was cast half in shadow by the brim of a cowboy hat that had seen a 13-hour day tilling the fields outside the farm he’d lived his entire life on. The first of many acres that would need to be tilled after tonight. But that was tomorrow, and this was now.
The man silently puffed at a cigar, the image of patience despite the chaotic rowdiness of the bar all around him. An acoustic guitar lay beside him in wait, its strings ready for the calloused hands that had perfectly tuned them the night before. What couldn’t be seen behind the eerie glow of his cigar was the subject of his gaze.
A young woman, sitting on a stool at the edge of the bar with one combat-booted leg hanging off and pointed at the stage. Her blonde hair fell down around her face in a messy cascade, giving her the appearance of someone who’d just stepped inside from a back alley brawl. While the oval-shaped sunglasses obscuring her eyes gave her the impression of someone who had only stepped in to take a breather before going out to face their next opponent.
That she wasn’t from around here was clear enough by her state of dress– an anarchist fashion time capsule dating back about three decades at least. A studded, white leather jacket adorned with flashy golden epaulets hung loosely over her shoulders as she leaned over the bar top, exposing bare arms inked in all manner of inane phrases and images. Black denim dungaree shorts peeked out under the jacket, under which black immediately terminated into red tartan leggings on one leg and partially torn black fishnets on the other. Twin black platform combat boots rooted her outfit, even as one of them swung lazily off the edge of the bar stool.
Beside her on the bar sat two fully untouched glasses of liquor, and a third would arrive shortly afterward along with a coy message sent by another patron via bartender. A simple nod was all the barkeep would receive in response as the woman leaned over the bar, hastily scribbling at a notepad, far more invested in whatever it was she was writing than any attempted flirtations.
Despite the now packed venue and three ignored pick-up lines, there was still a single empty seat on the bar beside her, the last one available. The tatted biceps that would have looked more at home in a boxing ring on the Vegas strip seemed to be doing their job thus far, even as the excitement in the room rose to a fever pitch. It wouldn’t be long now, but there was still some time for the final few late arrivals.
But were their intentions all the same?
Nevada, Off Route 50 | 10:00 PM
Most roads around here were lonely this late at night. No major towns for a hundred miles in any direction, few cars belonging to anyone other than those who were just passing through. But tonight, on this particular stretch of Route 50, just the opposite happened to be the case. The dim glow of a gas station’s tall neon sign cut through dusty desert skies like a beacon to all, advertising gas prices and notice of a live performance bar just a stone’s throw away. The latter of which had not seen its neon sign’s activation for many, many years now.
Most Sunday nights people would be starting to wind down by now, ready to head back to their ranch homes and trailer parks to get ready for the work day to come. But on this Sunday a growing crowd still had yet to gather fully at the venue. Some got their smoke breaks in outside before the supposed main event, others were late arrivals skating in just before the doors closed.
Within the bar a mixture of patrons old and new sat and stood almost shoulder to shoulder with one another as they spoke in tones of excitement the dusty old bar hadn’t seen in over a decade. There was a new solo act on tonight, one that blew all the local sad emboldened drunks and teen garage bands in desperate need of exposure right out of the water. Tonight was the last of three extravagant performances by this solo act, before the singer took their talents elsewhere, likely not to be seen around these parts for a long while, if ever again.
Word had quickly spread across the county, simple and excitable souls eager to tear away from the monotony of their daily lives to experience something that didn’t come around often before they would have to go back and face the music of their own lives again. For some, sitting in this audience might have been a more routine thing back in the day, hence the wide variety of ages present for the show– plenty of old timers back for nostalgia's sake whether the performance was worthwhile or not. Others might have heard of a mythical penchant for this building’s stage to spawn some of the greatest talents of local legend in ages past and hoped to see the start of a new one yet again.
Only time would tell, as the bar had just about filled now, while a single technician worked tirelessly behind the stage to wrangle a testy old speaker system. At the back corner of the stage sat an older gentleman. His visage was cast half in shadow by the brim of a cowboy hat that had seen a 13-hour day tilling the fields outside the farm he’d lived his entire life on. The first of many acres that would need to be tilled after tonight. But that was tomorrow, and this was now.
The man silently puffed at a cigar, the image of patience despite the chaotic rowdiness of the bar all around him. An acoustic guitar lay beside him in wait, its strings ready for the calloused hands that had perfectly tuned them the night before. What couldn’t be seen behind the eerie glow of his cigar was the subject of his gaze.
A young woman, sitting on a stool at the edge of the bar with one combat-booted leg hanging off and pointed at the stage. Her blonde hair fell down around her face in a messy cascade, giving her the appearance of someone who’d just stepped inside from a back alley brawl. While the oval-shaped sunglasses obscuring her eyes gave her the impression of someone who had only stepped in to take a breather before going out to face their next opponent.
That she wasn’t from around here was clear enough by her state of dress– an anarchist fashion time capsule dating back about three decades at least. A studded, white leather jacket adorned with flashy golden epaulets hung loosely over her shoulders as she leaned over the bar top, exposing bare arms inked in all manner of inane phrases and images. Black denim dungaree shorts peeked out under the jacket, under which black immediately terminated into red tartan leggings on one leg and partially torn black fishnets on the other. Twin black platform combat boots rooted her outfit, even as one of them swung lazily off the edge of the bar stool.
Beside her on the bar sat two fully untouched glasses of liquor, and a third would arrive shortly afterward along with a coy message sent by another patron via bartender. A simple nod was all the barkeep would receive in response as the woman leaned over the bar, hastily scribbling at a notepad, far more invested in whatever it was she was writing than any attempted flirtations.
Despite the now packed venue and three ignored pick-up lines, there was still a single empty seat on the bar beside her, the last one available. The tatted biceps that would have looked more at home in a boxing ring on the Vegas strip seemed to be doing their job thus far, even as the excitement in the room rose to a fever pitch. It wouldn’t be long now, but there was still some time for the final few late arrivals.
But were their intentions all the same?
