"In Which Reality Involves a Scheming Fairy Godfather"
(Pt. 2)
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8:30 PM
The Garage, Downtown Square
He nods thoughtfully, staring at an empty space.
"You should go," he finally comments after a long thought.
I look at him, puzzled. "What?"
What's with the sudden approval? It's like he doesn't want me around here. Frankly, it kinda hurts.
He waves me away."Go embrace your youth."
"But"—
"O-puhp-puhp!" — he raises his hand to shut me up — "Before you say anything, I'm not gonna pay for any overtime."
"Is it so hard to believe I'm here because I just love to listen to your elderly wisdom?" I bat my eyelashes at him, pouting my lips.
He rolls his eyes, "The same way I just enjoy your youthful sarcastic quips, too. Too bad, I'm closing early."
"But you never close up early," this time it was my turn to scrutinize him suspiciously. I squint my eyes. "Unless..."
His eyes stray off, refusing to meet my probing stare.
Suddenly it hits me.
I squeal, jumping up and down while pointing at him like a child. "You have a date!"
A drop of sweat trickles his brow. "Kid"—
"You finally did it and asked her out!"
"List"—
I urgently grab his collar. "Please tell me you're planning to use a deodorant or at least a shower. You can't have Clem smell" —
Before I close in for a sniff, he shoots his hands out and captures my face.
He stretches and kneads my cheeks, making me stop. My weakness!
"Ow-ow-ow-ow!" I swat his hands away to no avail.
"Don't be ridiculous. Old Man Jin just invited me for a pint at the pub," he explains, releasing my aching red cheeks.
I lightly rub my cheeks and wince at the tingling sensation. "Really? I never knew you were best buds."
"We're not," he says cryptically.
"A-ha!" — I smack my hands together — "Then why's he treating you for a pint? Everybody knows he's a total miser."
"It just so happened that somebody" — he sharply stares at me — "helped his wife on a limb yesterday. Covered for the rest of her car repair when her cash ran short and told her she won it on a special raffle I've never even heard of" — he shoots me again with the same stare.
I raise my brows in curiosity. "Really? Wonder who."
"Well" — he sniffs — "whoever it was, I hate to dock their pay so you might as well help me ease my conscience. "
He reaches into his overalls pocket and hands me a hundred bucks.
"What's this?" I ask, dumbfounded.
He claps my shoulder. "Go have fun. You all deserve a night out. "
I glance over my ink-stained jeans and my lint-covered shirt and frown.
I was not in the mood to be too wasted to drunk-email Pulse and accuse them of being a tease like a petty reject who can't handle rejection. Scratch that, I would totally be drunk and just do that.
I shake my head. "I dunno, Pops. This might just be the catalyst to my marginal propensity to consume. Next thing you know, I'll be knee-deep in debt."
Pops pats my head. "Trouble, if you can still remember something like that in class, then you have nothing to worry about overspending. Worst case scenario, we have Jack as an accountant."
He motions his head to someone behind me and nods at them with two thumbs up. "Looking sharp, Jack!"
"You know it, Rick!" replies a gruff voice.
Speak of the devil, a chunky long-haired bushy-bearded man clad in full biker regalia nods back at Pops before heading inside his office.
Dammit, he had a good point. Jack was nothing, if not efficient with his numbers.
"But"—
He shoves his index finger to my lips. "No buts. No more of this..." — he gestures his hand all over me and sucks in his breath — "pity party," he says for a lack of a better word.
"I'm not having a pity party!"
COUGH! He covers his mouth. "Sure, you're not. That's why you're going out with your friends," he proudly states, arms crossed to his chest.
I make a face. "I'm not even dressed for a night–out!"
He smirks. "Already had Tia deliver your outfit this afternoon. You can change in my office. Oh, and by the way" — he leans down and hovers his hand beside his mouth —"your eyeliner's running."
He winks at me.
I gasp in horror and quickly opened my phone's front cam. My eyeliner was still in place.
Using this momentary distraction, he saunters away to an empty workstation to my left and tinkers on some thingamabob with that annoying self-satisfied expression.
I scowl at him. "Not so fast."
Sensing the ice-cold daggers aimed at his back, he freezes.
I fold my arms, tapping my fingers against them. "So you were plotting with my best friend behind my back right from the start."
He stiffly turns to me. "Erm, she made an interesting case."
I narrow my eyes. "No, it's sneaky and devious. Frankly, I don't know if I should be proud or annoyed that I had to pretend to work for the last three hours if you were only going to send me to the club in the first place."
Pops shrugs, and in his deep gravelly voice, sing-songs, "What can I say except 'you're welcome?'"*
I simply kept staring at him, unimpressed.
He goes back to tinkering, whistling to an old '50s tune.
I suck my teeth and stuff the hundred-dollar bill into my pocket. "Fine."
I grab my bag while shooting him a resentful scowl.
A few steps away, I hesitate. He couldn't have thought all of these through. I just needed to find a reason not to go.
I pivot and stalk towards him. "You do know, sending me out there equates to unleashing trouble throughout the town and ending up with me in jail?"
"Squirt, trouble finds you, whenever and wherever you go. Besides, I'll just bail you out again, like last time. And, the time after that...and, the time after the time after that. And the" — he stops himself — "Let's just say, I always do."
My jaw drops, my face nonplussed. "You do realize you didn't have to say that, right? You just wasted seconds making a valid point."
"Kid, everything with you needs to have a valid point before you do something."
I close my eyes with a loud sniff, sticking my nose up in the air. "Yeah, but you didn't need to rub it in! I know when I'm not wanted," I mumbled in a sulky voice.
I peek at the corner of my eye, waiting for him to disagree with my statement.
No reaction at all.
I pout.
"You do know, that me" — I point to myself — "getting arrested is gonna develop into a habit? I don't know about you, but it sounds like you're raising me into a felon. Some would say that's very irresponsible."
He scratches his scruffy beard, his eyes still on whatever job he is doing.
Still, it was clear he was getting peevish.
I take that as a point for me.
"It doesn't count as a felon until you're eighteen. Look at it this way" — he glances at me — "I'm letting you venture out and grow into your own person. I call that progressive parenting."
"Parenting" — I scoff at the word — "right. You really want to sic me at any unfortunate soul out there?" I ask in a soft somber voice, emphasizing the dark warning in my words.
"Even a tiger has to let his cub hunt on its own."
"You mean 'tigress,'" I slant my head in a know-it-all way.
He places his hands on his waist like a Power-Woman stance — or was it a Power-Man stance? "Some kids, in your place, would thank me for this."
"But I'm not some kid, am I?" I smirk, imitating his pose.
Not that I was intimidating him, with his towering height and all. But, I can be as vexatious as a Cornish pixie.*
"I'll take this one night off and think you are one," he says finally, magically grabbing a bottle of dark lager out of nowhere and taking a generous swig.
"Who knows you might meet someone and finally give me hope of having grandkids someday."
"Ugh," I make a disgusting face and go on my way. I pause, "Okay, last cha"—
"I'm not hearing any of it yada-yada-yada!" He covers one of his ears with one hand while his other hand waves me away with his beer, drops of deep amber liquid spilling on the floor.
"Fine! But you should know, I'm gonna hate every sucky moment of it and it's a-a-all" — I gesture my finger in a circular motion before aiming it at him — "on you."
"I'll live with the guilt," he sarcastically retorts as I begin to walk away. "And Ave" —
I pause in mid-step, my ears perking up. "Yeah?"
"Brush your hair before you leave, kiddo. You're still a lady. Don't drink too much, and stick to your friends. If a guy touches you inappropriately or just even looks at you funny," he finishes off with his finger in a slow throat-slitting gesture.
"Oh, gasp!" I clutch at my chest. "Now how will I find a guy to share your grandkids with if I can't"—
He cuts me off with a silencing look, his conditions not up for debate.
I screw my face in a grimace.
"Knee him in the balls 'til he can taste them in his mouth. Got it."
"That's my girl," he nods approvingly with a deep hearty chuckle.
Overly-protective old man, my ass.
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Meanwhile...
9:50 PM
Sing Street, Downtown, Averill
It was a dark cold night, barely a star in the sky graced the dismal storm clouds looming over the entire town. The warm nightly breeze of summer was gone, overtaken by an almost wintry assault.
The dimly lit street lamps with their orange streaks of light gleamed past the rows of trees by the streets, their leaves showing hints of warm autumn shades in contrast to the cool bluish tones of the night.
However, for the wandering residents of Averill, it meant a few more hours before the downtown's weekly Friday-night bazaar closes.
As for the youth, they never cared to stay indoors or stay out in the late hours of the night. Even if the threat of a heavy rainstorm is creeping at bay.
Especially not tonight of all nights, when a nightclub has finally passed through the city permits despite the town council's unfaltering opposition.
Vie Nuit — or simply in its ordinary English context of Night Life, before a survey proved an exotic translation would benefit its marketing — is gradually viewed more and more as an average teenager's prosaic chance to propel their status in the high school hierarchy.
Of course, participating in this madness also permits the use of bragging rights on the next school day. It was, naturally, a place of potential mindless fun, a hub of meaningless hookups, and a breeding ground of hangovers product of a night well-lived.
And that is exactly where these six particular friends are about to lead into.
One person to note in particular was a slender male in the middle and clad in an ensemble with a monochromatic shade of white. With his long flowy blonde hair and pale translucent skin, he simply dazzles everyone in the vicinity while walking purse first* — although, technically, he is holding a man's clutch.
In fact, everyone beside him was turning looks from left-to-right, front-and-back.
Dressed to kill, the Haus of Misfits gives the impression of strutting the sidewalk akin to a slow-motion walk in most teenage films while a cool gentle gust of evening breeze blows past them, drawing every person's eyes to their direction.
They were a group of eclectic, creative, and infamously eccentric deviants to the social norms of their middle-class suburbia.
Hence, the fitting title of "misfits" — amongst other interchangeable names such as, "mistresses of (conspicuous) misdeeds" and "mischievous miscreants".
They also viewed themselves as more than just friends. They were a family, a single unit or "house", born out of choice to eventually fulfill significant roles in each others' lives. And just like any family, they had their own dynamics to deal with.
Take now for instance, as this close-knit chosen family walks as if they own the place with confidence and youthful enthusiasm.
At least, that's how any common person would perceive them from afar.
Up close, they go through what any group of teenagers would normally do. And by that, they don't always agree on the simplest of things.
"I can't believe you parked us five blocks away," Tamieke grumbles, stuffing his beefy hands inside his jean pockets. He holds off a shiver from behind his neck.
"Hey, I just got my car minted très fresh, I'm not gonna have someone jump on it and scratch it," Jhett defends, twirling his car keys.
"Looked like somebody already did — just not in your car," Tamieke fires back with shade.
"Nobody told you to skip your truck and hop into my baby with your big bear ass, "Jhett snaps back, just the same.
After all, Tamieke could've just joined the girls in Tia's car on the way.
Though looking at his friend's large stature and visualizing Tia's MINI Cooper, he shouldn't have wondered.
"It's more economical this way," Joule inserts in his usual bored tone.
"Is that why you decided to wear a bow tie and dress like a boujee-ass Filipino Carlton?"* Emile asks, wrinkling his nose at his friend's outfit with disgust.
"I am Filipino. Thank you for getting that fact straight... three years later," Joule replies in a wry tone.
Emile blinks. "I'm sorry, do you not realize that one misplaced piece of clothing can make or break the whole vibe of a squad?"
He looks up and down at Joule's outfit. It was a perfect ensemble of an old-fashioned yuppie in the 80s, consisting of a boxy sweater with an argyle pattern and a bow-tie over a collared shirt and without a pop of color in sight. His rolled-up pants, long white knitted socks, and nondescript sneakers were of no help either.
"Apparently, not," Emile sniffs. "Since you chose to raid your guncle's yard sale box."
In his defense, Emile wasn't exactly known for being the most considerate friend.
Joule simply stares at him with a bored look. "Contrary to resembling a twink* who decided to dress up as a cloud, I consider fashion waste as a serious issue."
"Will you four snap out of it? We're almost there," Tia sharply cuts in, one hand covering the bottom mic of her phone.
She bites back another round of shivers, grateful for the bomber jacket she opted for the evening. Her low-heeled boots clack at her every step.
Holding one finger to her mouth, she goes back to her call.
"Anyways, tee-tah.* I promise that we'll take care of your little hija* and have her home tomorrow morning," Tia reassures the person on the other line in a tone so gentle and sweet, despite a halting accent, that no one —aside from her friends — would've known because of the warning glare she was currently directing towards her friends.
She hands the phone to Kiana who reluctantly takes it.
"See, ma? I'll be back tomorrow afternoon para mag-upod sa inyo sugat kay Tito Kenji.* I promise," Kiana says, a hand raised in the air as if she's sworn in at court.
Tia and the others patiently wait as the mother and daughter end their call before slipping the phone back into her jacket pocket.
She glances briefly at her reflection by a nearby parked car, checking to see if the sharp cat-eyed tips of her eyeliner are still in place.
"Isn't it beautiful?" Jhett sighs, taking in the bright blue neon sign hanging on a wide steel awning.
"And crowded," Kiana uneasily eyes the long line by the entrance that was guarded by two heavyset and bull-necked men.
Short and slender she may be, Kiana still finds it difficult to stand being crammed into a tight space.
That, and the high possibility that she might be, yet again, mistaken as a 13-year-old. It's ironic that, despite uncommon knowledge and quick assumptions, she was the eldest of their little group by at least three months.
Not far from them are two men behind a makeshift table.
The table was filled with random wares ranging from shirts and other accessories to bottles of liquors and shot glasses.
The two men are both similarly dressed in ordinary street clothing. Yet, the way they carry themselves with swagger, makes them difficult to be ignored.
"Step right up, folks. Got everything you need to make this your greatest night, yet," says the younger-looking of the two in a faint South Harlem accent, a hint that he was not a resident of the town.
"Great" — Emile says in a snarky tone — "another couple of hacks."*
"Oh, come. You don't mean that. I, for one, am a bit curious on what kind of moisturizer he uses," Tia says, extending her hand almost as if to reach out and caress the younger man's smooth carob skin.
"From my experience with men in sketchy vans and a fashion sale in a run-down bodega,* you don't listen to them," Emile nods in the two men's direction.
Tamieke makes a face. "Ugh, I know what you mean. Quick, let's white-people this and pretend we're on the phone."
He whips out his phone and presses it to his ear, gesturing with his other arm for them to follow him.
Tia, rarely one for theatrics, simply grabs Kiana's arm. "Let's just go."
"Yeah, uh-huh," Tamieke ignores her and mumbles unintelligibly to his phone, narrowly missing the aforementioned 'hacks'.
Tia and Kiana follow his lead, walking continuously, and not bothering to spare sideway glances to acknowledge the pandering sales talk.
Joule, with his resting poker-faced expression glued to his phone, easily goes through.
Not far along, Jhett dramatically giggles into his phone, his head thrown back.
"So true" — he turns towards the two men and side-whispers — "sorry we're on the phone, we're ignoring you" — before catching up to Tia and the others.
They look at each other and shrug, before catching sight of Emile.
"You, sir!" The older man raises a russet hand and points at Emile.
Emile pauses and looks curiously around him before pointing at himself.
Bingo, the man thought. Flashing him a flirty smile that generally works for any female and male customer, he nods. "Yes, you, gorgeous piece of specimen, you!"
And just like that, saying that particular word, Emile stops."Don't wait up bitches, he just called me gorgeous. I'm gorgeous, baby!"
Tamieke, who had already reached the dwindling line with Tia and Kiana, stares at him in spite.
"What is he up to, now?" Tia hisses through her teeth.
"He's being..." — Kiana searches her vocabulary briefly — "Emile."
He waves a hand in their direction, trying to capture their attention.
"Don't look at him. Pretend you don't know him," Tamieke whispers, veering Tia and Kiana by the shoulder, to turn their back from their coquettish friend.
"We can't help but notice your friends there seem to be a little tense," the younger man leans in, motioning his thumb to Emile's friends.
Emile pouts. "Tell me about it. They just can't have my amazing personality."
"Maybe we can help with that," the older man — Señor Hottie — suggests, wagging his dark coarse brows.
He procures a small bottle from a box underneath the table and extends it for his blue-eyed customer to see.
"This" — CLINK-CLINK! he taps its glassy surface — "is a special blend of pure absinthe, also known as the"—
Emile sucks in a deep breath, eyes sparkling in interest.
BAM! He slaps two hundred dollar bills on the desk. "I'll take it."
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And so, here lies the final chapter of "Ditch".
.
.
Just kidding!
Ever written a story with multiple points of view and just debating how you can make it work?
Anyways, hope the switch in the POVs is clear enough.
You can comment on what you think of the overall chapter. (Isn't that great?!)
That's it, laters!
P. S. Scroll further down below for a short sneak-peek of my next chapter: "In Which Reality is a Wild Pony Ride".
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PLAYLIST
I Like It — Cardi B, Bad Bunny, J Balvin
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*[F/N]*
What can I say except 'you're welcome?' — a line from the chorus of the hit song of Disney's film Moana.
Cornish Pixie — (Harry Potter lore) a mischievous, ill-behaved creature that causes serious amounts of damage when not restrained, known for wreaking havoc in Professor Lockhart's classroom during Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets.
Purse First — RPDR S8 winner Bob the Drag Queen's catchphrase when he walked into a room with his arm extended and purse sticking out during a design challenge.
Twink — (gay slang) usually considered a homosexual male with attractive, boyish qualities. Typically from the ages of 18-25, and often thought of as a young, white, fashionable male.
Tee-tah — (Tita, Filipino term) means aunt/ie. Filipinos use this term to call their aunts or female strangers who they perceive as the same age as their actual aunts. Tee-tah was spelled to emphasize Tia's accent.
Hija — (Filipino and Spanish term) means daughter.
Para mag-upod sa inyo sugat kay Tito Kenji.*— (Hiligaynon phrase) roughly translates to "(I'll be back tomorrow afternoon) to join you in picking up Uncle Kenji."
Hacks — (plural for hack) people who are not great at what they do.
Bodega — (in the US) a small grocery shop, especially in a Spanish-speaking neighborhood.
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SNEAK PEEK
Emile elbows Tamieke and motions his head towards the people on the dance floor. "Let's show those amateur hoes what dancing is."
Tamieke grins, his pearly whites glowing blue under the backlights. "Ladies" — he snaps his fingers — "the category is... Let's Get Into Formation!"
"If you're so eager to dance, why didn't you join the dance team?" Tia inquires.
Emile scoffs. "Potts, please. The only way you'll see this" — he gestures all over himself — "dancing is when I'm holding a drink and twerking against a tall glass of water. Now, come on!"
"I'm gonna have to sit this one out," Tia, abandoning her stiff upright posture, sprawls over the seat into a much more comfortable position.
"That's new, "I comment. And totally uncharacteristic.
Most times, Tia simply takes a quick drink before her ass is back on the floor.
"Boo!" — he turns to me — "Ave?"
Usually, the 'mos asking me was a general after-thought.
"Nice try. She doesn't dance, remember?" Tia says on my behalf.
I never liked dancing. Mainly, because dancing never liked me back. Bu-u-ut, something in my gut and my semi-inebriated mind, held me back from saying my typical 'NO'.
"You know what?" I take another glass of Emerald Sunrise and down the last of it in a matter of seconds. I stand up, earning a curious look from Tia, Keke, and the judies.
"I think I wanna dance."
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Copyright © 2017 Lei André