NEW YORK ISN'T NEW YORK

◊ ♫ ◊— look what the cat dragged in! that’s FIONA VARGAS and SHE is an around 29-year-old REGULAR to the store, but they’ve been in the neighborhood for 6 YEARS. I think they are a PUBLICIST and I overheard them listening to GINGER by BROCKHAMPTON, and, I dunno man, it seemed pretty fitting. Like, call me shallow but I look at them and think of JULIANA HERZ and A GLASS OF RED WINE WITH EACH MEAL, RISING AT 6 AM AND GOING TO BED AT 2 AM, EMAILING IN THE MIDDLE OF CONVERSATIONS and WILD LAUGHTER WITH HEAD THROWN BACK AND EYES CLOSED. (ooc info: minnie, she/her, est, 24)

Rey had spent all afternoon and at that point all night at work, her partner had had some sort of emergency and as Rey was the one in charge and would never think of neglecting her job, she’d taken on twice the responsibility. There was a funeral happening early the next day and everything had to be perfect and ready. She understood when you were dealing with grief the last thing you wanted to do was have to deal with a million other details, that was what Rey’s exact job was. It was about eleven when she finally managed to change her clothes and get out of the building, she headed to the only spot she knew would be open, Rose Diner. 

Mat stuck an umbrella into another towering drink of a horrifically unnatural colour, sliding it across the sticky and coaster ringed bar, to the sweaty and red woman who was waiting for her Mai Tai. “Forty grams of sugar in that,” he said as cheerfully as he could muster, adjusting the collar of his Hawaiian shirt, waiting for a tip to be passed his way. The woman glared before hopping off the stool with her prize, a horribly mixed drink that he personally wouldn’t have tipped for— but still found it him to be offended. “That’s what you get for offering shining customer service these days,” Mat grumbled, turning his attention to the next patron. His head canted and his tone dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “You know, I shouldn’t be saying this, but if you want something good— order something on the rocks or go somewhere else. Don’t think we’ve had new cranberry juice for the vodka crans in two months, I just keep topping up the tank with water every shift.”

Skating down the sidewalk in zigzags, with her headphones in, Beatrice twisted her shoulder swiftly to pirouette. The soft swat of the wind whipped her hair, “Oh, fuck!” she yelled as she felt her body collide with a passerby causing her to lose balance and fall bottom to the ground. Instead of growing embarrassed, she dropped her head back and fell into laughter. “My poor, unfortunate ass!“ she cried, finally looking at the person. “God, you’re like a god damn brick.”

“For the last time you can’t return something you’ve already eaten.” Juliette tells the middle aged woman in a dry tone. Morning shifts also happened to draw in the more entitled patrons to the Rose diner it seemed as she continued to complain, telling the girl to “watch her tone” because she has an “influential mommy blog”. Whatever that meant. “I don’t care.” She snaps.  Her customer service skills weren’t known for being, well, good. It was honestly a miracle she held on to her waitressing job for as long as she has. “My manager is going to tell you the exact same thing I just did. So I could listen to you talk more or I could stab myself in the face with that fork and honestly the latter sounds more appealing. Ma’am.” Her eyes roll back as she finishes her sentence with a forced smile. 

Finn was overwhelmed; deadlines, budgets, the next project. Everything. Naturally, he made a to-do list to help ease the jumbled tasks in his mind, but Finn’s biggest problem was procrastinating what really needed to get done by completing some other mundane task on his list. Instead of posting on job boards for a narrator, he didn’t really want to go through the hiring process just yet, he’d decided to pick up some more books for researching. Why use the internet when he could waste more time with physical copies? 

◊ ♫ ◊— look what the cat dragged in! that’s [FINNEGAN MITCHELL] and [HE] is an around [27]-year-old [NEWCOMER] to the store, but they’ve been in the neighborhood for [13 DAYS] I think they are a [PHOTOJOURNALIST] and I overheard them listening to [VIOLENCE] by [THE UNLIKELY CANIDATES], and, I dunno man, it seemed pretty fitting. Like, call me shallow but I look at them and think of [CHASE STOKES] and [EXPEDITION,  SPONTANEITY, AND CHEWED PENS ]. (ooc info: kj, she/her, est (changes often!!), 24)

◊ ♫ ◊— look what the cat dragged in! that’s [BEATRICE HARPER] and [SHE/HER] are/is an around [25]-year-old [CASUAL VISITOR] to the store, but they’ve been in the neighborhood for [5 YEARS]. I think they are a(n) [EMPLOYEE AT ROSE DINER] and I overheard them listening to [ROLLER DERBY SAVED MY SOUL] by [UNCLE LEON & THE ALIBIS], and, I dunno man, it seemed pretty fitting. Like, call me shallow but I look at them and think of [MILENA TSCHARNTKE] and [FRESHLY SCRAPED KNEES, BURPING CONTESTS WHILE TRYING TO CATCH POPCORN IN YOUR MOUTH, WORN OUT ROLLER BLADES]. (ooc info: chels/toon, she/her, est, 23)

◊ ♫ ◊— look what the cat dragged in! that’s CHANDLER LINWOOD and HE is an around 21-year-old CASUAL VISITOR to the store, but they’ve been in the neighborhood for 2 YEARS. I think they are a STUDENT/MUSIC PHOTOGRAPHER and I overheard them listening to DEAD WEIGHT by PVRIS, and, I dunno man, it seemed pretty fitting. Like, call me shallow but I look at them and think of ALEX FITZALAN and GROCERY LISTS, CIGARETTES AND VODKA. (ooc info: lyn, she/her, EST, old af / late 20s)

◊ ♫ ◊— look what the cat dragged in! that’s HARLEY HUA and HE is an around 22-year-old REGULAR to the store, but they’ve been in the neighborhood for 3 MONTHS. I think they are a BARTENDER/ARTIST and I overheard them listening to DOWN by ANDREW BELLE, and, I dunno man, it seemed pretty fitting. Like, call me shallow but I look at them and think of CHELLA MAN and PRINTED BUTTON DOWN SHIRTS, COFFEE AND GRAPHITE PENCILS. (ooc info: lyn, she/her, EST, 21+ )

Sonata had rarely stepped foot in Allied, choosing to consume their music from other outlets, and Allied wasn’t exactly the kind of place where The Phantom of the Opera was being performed in full, nor Giacomo Puccini’s La bohème. They stood, posture straight, and always a bit uncomfortable (location rarely mattered for that). Looking around for Julius, who was not only the reason they were dragged here tonight but the reason they were dragged most places, and though Sonata was thankful for him it didn’t stop them from being a bit of a brat about it. “Do you know who’s playing tonight?” they asked, only half curious, before placing their fingers on the bar top and strumming them to the song in the background, looking hesitantly behind the bartender. “Sauvignon Blanc, please.” they smiled disarmingly, because if they were going to spend the night listening to underground punk music, they might as well do it in style. 

◊ ♫ ◊— look what the cat dragged in! that’s CECELIA MUELLER and SHE is an around 22-year-old REGULAR to the store, but they’ve been in the neighborhood for 22 YEARS. I think they are a UNEMPLOYED and I overheard them listening to NO BRAINER by ASHNIKKO, and, I dunno man, it seemed pretty fitting. Like, call me shallow but I look at them and think of MADISON BAILEY and BLOODIED KNEES, BRACELETS STACKED ON YOUR WRIST, and MAKING MILLION DOLLAR PROMISES WITH NO FOLLOWTHROUGH. (ooc info: garnet, she/her, est, 22)

It was late when he stepped outside of Allied, the heavy door creaking shut and muting the bar’s loud music, replacing it with the sounds of Brooklyn at night: a car alarm going off on a distant street, conversations happening on the sidewalk. The pavement was dyed crimson in the glow of the bar sign, and everyone standing beneath it— smokers, friends of smokers who didn’t mind polluted air— looked strangely lurid, bathed in blood, like extras in a Stephen King movie. His own friends had dispersed (making excuses to head home long before last call; how boring everyone was, now that they all felt the need to act like adults), and Julius was planning to smoke a cigarette, scroll through his contacts, and play a speedy game of roulette to see where he might end up tonight. Only when his hand slipped into his empty back pocket did he remember: he’d finished the last of his Galouises this morning. Fuck. His brows dove into an unhappy child’s pout. At least in Williamsburg, he’d had that bodega on the corner of 10th and Wythe and the little European grocery store right next to the Bedford subway, reliable vendors of French cigarettes that only Julius seemed to be buying. Here in Crown Heights, the name elicited blank stares from bodega owners. Might as well have been asking if they sold Fabergé eggs. But whatever, he’d make the trip to Williamsburg tomorrow and buy out whatever supply he could find; the more pressing matter was needing a cigarette now, so Julius turned to the person closest to him on the sidewalk, lighting up behind their cupped palm. “Hey, cigarette for a dollar?” There was an etiquette to follow; you could ask for a light and expect it for free, but bumming a smoke meant a fair exchange. Cigarettes were too precious a commodity to give away for free. The open carton was held out, and Julius selected one of the sticks from inside (God, what were these, Camels? Pall Malls? Too dark to really tell; maybe for the best) with a muttered ‘thanks’. He stuck it between his lips, ignoring the lighter that was also extended and fishing for his own. Sparking the cheap plastic Bic, one hand sheltering the flame, he kept it lit till the cigarette caught; then dragged deep, welcoming the restorative burn into his lungs. The wind took the smoke from his mouth in a thin stream. Besides him, the person was still waiting. Julius looked at them edgewise, without fully turning his face, and rebuffed the expectant gaze with a single, arched eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t have a dollar. Sorry. Used all my small bills on tips.”

location: fidelity records