ArchivedLogs:Minding the Bar

Minding the Bar
Dramatis Personae Alexandrine, Dan
In Absentia	15 February, 2013 Alex runs into Dan in the most unlikely place.
Location Molly's Pub, Lower East Side
This bar is literally a hole in the wall that is the Lower East Side. Grimy tables litter the small common room, nearly pushed up against the small bar in the corner. On the mirror behind the bar, a greasy menu has been taped, with a small offering of pub food to purchase. A jukebox, at least forty years old, sits in the corner, an 'out of order' sign on its cracked glass face. This is a bar to come to when you want to drink to forget, or maybe pick a fight. Certainly the crowd looks rough enough to oblige the latter, and the booze is cheap enough to indulge the former. A Friday night should be a bustling night for any bar within the boundaries of New York. And it's not any different at Molly's. There are a whole /four/ people scattered among the tables, drinking in what appears to be morose solitude, until one realizes they're all conversing amongst themselves, raising their voices so that their neighbors can hear them. It sounds raucous, but civil, and is something ignored by the man behind the bar. Dan sits vigilantly on a stool in front of the grimy mirror, a book propped on the bar's surface that he leans over, reading intently. At his elbow, an ashtray sits with a cheap-smelling cigar slowly burning itself out. Somewhere, a tinny-sounding stereo system is currently working its way through the entirety of 'Slippery When Wet.' Current track: You Give Love a Bad Name. A song which, apparently, requires the meager clientele pause their conversation join in on the chorus. Friday night, and the redhead is bored. This can be a very bad thing, or a very interesting thing, depending on who you are, and the circumstances. Alex strolls on into the dive, not exactly dressed to high society standard clubs in New York. Red hair is curly, loose over her shoulders, her shirt a loose, one shoulders satiny affair in black with jeans and heeled boots. She does have make-up on, a hint of warm sparkle on her eyelids, lips painted a vibrant red color. There are silver sparklies dangling from her ears, but no purse, and her coat is already off. She moves with purpose up to the bar, humming along with the boys from Jersey. "Bourbon, straight up, please." Comes the drawl before she even looks up, freezing for a heartbeat at the recognized face of the bartender. The entrance of a pretty redhead in an Irish pub is enough to gain the attention of the crowd, and the chorus dies off as the newest patron makes her way to the bar. A couple of the rough-looking men shift uncomfortably, and one, a skinny fellow with a shock of messy, straw-colored hair even attempts a seductive come-hither sort of smile. The activity is enough to bring Dan's attention up from his book, and his gaze narrows as he searches his memory for the face. She certainly looks familiar, but the memory is hazy, and is dismissed when she rolls up on the bar. Plucking up the cigar, he jams it in his teeth with a nod, fetching up a glass and a bottle from the shelf behind -- a nice brand, from the label, 'cause she's too classy for the rotgut Fred tries to pass off as good bourbon. Then he's pouring out two fingers' worth, closing one eye thoughtfully at the redhead. "We met before?" is asked around the cigar, rendering it more growly than his easy grin would suggest. Alex has discovered lately she enjoys the scent of a cigar and a growly voice...though not this one, or in this bar. Money is put on the bar, slid his way without a single glance of real attention to the blonde or the tough guys. She perches on the stool, taking a long swallow of the bourbon. "We might have, sugar..." She teases, a smile she can't quite squish surfacing as she so, so carefully eavesdrops. She's not going to nudge or pull a goddamned thing, this time. Something about the accent catches Dan's attention, and he frowns. "The other morning," he says as part of the memory crystalizes, taking the money and moving to the ancient-looking cash register. "At that coffee shop around the corner. You're from Shreveport?" That doesn't sound right, and he squints as he brings back change, placing it in front of the redhead. "Your name is Alice or something, right?" Again, that doesn't sound right, and he narrows his eyes as he spins thorugh a mental rolodex of A names, trying to match them with the face. "What brings you to Molly's, tonight?" Alexandrine laughs, tipping back her glass to finish off the bourbon in no time flat, something wicked in that gaze. "N'awlins, sugar... or shall Ah call you Dan?" She leaves money on the bar. "Alice? Now Ah'm offended. It's not often someone forgets Alexandrine... though you were in pretty tough shape." Her elbow rests on the edge of the bar, so her hand can cup the side of her face while she watches him. "And what brings a person to any bar? Ah'm in search of getting good an' drunk, of course. It /is/ the weekend." Dan seems impressed with the way Alexandrine handles her booze, and his grin slips a bit wider as he moves to refresh the glass. "Yeah, when I'm that hungover, everything is just white noise, mostly." He sound apologetic as he moves to replace the bottle. "Alexandrine. I won't forget it, now." Don't know why I forgot it in the first place. Sounds exotic; I should recall it. "Dan's not very hard to remember." Especially when you have a goddamned panic attack in front of you. Shit, was that her? He grunts, and pulls the cigar from his teeth to inspect the ember at the end. "You picked a rough place," he notes, glaring over Alexandrine's head at the leering group. "You bastards get your eyes right, or I'm calling wives right the fuck /now/." It's amazing how effective the threat is. Immediately all four men are suddenly engaged in their conversation, images of angry wives dominant in their thoughts. Pretty redhead? What pretty redhead? "You were pretty rough, Ah'll give you that. Ah've spent a couple days that way, jus' before Lent kicks in." Alex chuckles, lashes sweeping low. "Ah gave up pralines for Lent, instead of booze. Good call, Ah think." Lashes lift, flashing those bright blues Dan's way. "No rougher than some of the darker places on Bourbon that lack the tourists." Her head finally turns, a wisp of laughter before she coughs to stifle it. "Aren't you sweet." She murmurs in Dan's direction. "Bein' all protective." "It happens," Dan says, unwilling to share the number of mornings he's spent in that condition, Lent or no. There's a twinge of guilt at the mention of the holiday, and the man wrinkles his nose, jamming the cigar back into his mouth. "I didn't give up anything," he confesses. "I figure I'm pretty much destined for Hell, so Lent's just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic." He offers a smile to take some of the sting out of his tone, and grunts a laugh at the comment. "You should see this place on St. Patty's Day," he says, moving to close his book (revealed to be a Tom Clancy novel) and put it behind the bar. He checks to make sure the men are behaving themselves, and shrugs at Alexandrine. "They see a woman in her who isn't their wife, and they forget how to act," he says. "But they're harmless." I think. "It does. Ah'm not one to judge. Worse things a man can do, an' all that. Besides, ain't my place." She sips at this bourbon, red painted nails tapping against the glass. "Raised in it. Goes too deep to stop, Ah guess. Even if Ah don't know that Ah /believe/ anymore. You know what Ah mean?" Eyes glance up to the mirror. "St. Patty's is a fantastic holiday. You'd be amazed how popular Ah get, that day, especially in bars." It's a drawling tease with a slow smile. "Ah'm not exactly country mouse, sugar. Ah can handle myself." There's a wink his way with that, glass lifted for a long sip of bourbon. "Well, my mother would say I was raised in it, but I'm pretty lapsed," Dan admits. Lost too much faith to even go through the motions. Just on the holidays. He moves to sit on his stool behind the bar, and leans back, folding his arms over his chest with a smirk. "I don't doubt that," he says. "A red-haired girl in an Irish bar on St. Patrick's day is almost a fucking tradition. You want to keep 'em here as long as possible." When Alex proclaims her ability to defend herself, he smirks. "You Southern women are tough. My brother married a girl from Charlotte. She'd kick the ass of any of these bums in a heartbeat." Alexandrine pauses with the glass lifted halfway to her mouth, looking at Dan over the glass. "Ah'm tough, southern /an'/ a redhead. Ah'm practically deadly, sugar. But Ah'm incredibly lucky, really. Ah don't usually get in spots like that, too often." The rest of her bourbon tossed back, more money on the bar. "But yeah, we Southern girls have daddies an' uncles who teach us to take out any guy who jus' doesn't take no for an answer." "Irish girls have dads like that, too," Dan says. "There were many men who regretted putting their hands on my older sister without her say-so." He leans over the bar, picking out a man with black hair and eyes who is much too large and muscular for the chair he occupies. "Isn't that right, Mickey? Didn't you traipse into our neighborhood only to limp home?" The big man ducks his head, grunting something that is affirmative, the memory of the crushing knee spiking in his brain, briefly. Dan nods, and leans back. "Still. These guys have better manners than that, and they know it. I was just reminding them." He grabs the bottle and refreshes Alex's drink. "So, what do you do?" he asks, taking the money and pushing to his feet. "You said something about dancing? You on Broadway or something?" He asks (and thinks) this as if asking if Alex were carrying a virulent disease. Alexandrine laughs softly, a hand through her hair, a glance over at the poor Mickey. "Bet he learned his lesson, eh?" Is aside softly to Dan, before she's reaching for that glass. Eyebrows lift at that question, shaking her head. "Gawd no. Ah teach dance. Ya know, little girls twirlin' around in pink tutus, older people how to quickstep an' foxtrot, that sort of thing. Ah'm no actress." At least not on stage, in every day life ...well... Dan closes one eye in a slow wink for the aside as he puts the money in the register and returns with the change. "Old school, huh?" he asks, setting the money down and reaching for a clean glass. This gets two fingers of bourbon that is for him, judging by the rush of pleasure as he pours. "My niece likes to dance. She twirls all over the goddamned place." He growls this, and there's a sharp-edged memory of a tiny purple thing spinning and laughing in a piping voice. /Watch da -- It cuts off in a jagged tear, matched by Dan's small wince. He lifts a shoulder, then. "I keep telling her she's going to throw up, but you can't stop her." "Little kids are like that, though. Got some kinda inner mechanism, lets them turn around and around and around in a way that would make us lose lunch." Alex says with a shrug, sipping at her glass. "Since ya can't teach a six year old the tricks Ah'd use, that's a good thing." There's a hint of a smile. "It's not all old school. There's the ballet, but there's contemporary stuff, an' hip hop and all of that we teach, too. Ah just teach more of the ballet and jazz and such. Lots of little kids." "She's three, not six," Dan corrects in a distracted tone, gazing at his smoldering cigar and spinning it slowly in his fingers. Images race across his brain almost too fast to pick up: A blonde woman, with grey eyes smiling at him, a tiny purple face with eyes the same color as Dan's. A Disney jungle. All of it comes with a fair amount of pain behind it. Then a door closes, and the images disappear as Dan looks up. "That's actually a thing," he says. "Something about getting older, and our inner ear changing. Losing fluid or something. I saw it on the Science channel." He tucks the cigar back in his mouth, puffing on it a moment to bring the fire back up. "I meant old school like you're not one of those crazy teachers that's all about competitions and shit. Like that reality show. You're just teaching dance, sounds like." Blue eyes blink "Hmm? Oh, your niece. Ah was talking about the little girls Ah teach. The youngest is four." She murmurs, feeling that pain, a dazed expression for a moment. "See what Ah get for not watchin' more television?" Alex teases, pulling herself together. "Oh no. Ah mean, some of the older kids compete, but Ah don't do any of that, no. Ah.. Ah wouldn't want to be caught up in all that." "You okay?" Dan asks, frowning deeply at Alex's dazed look. "You're knocking 'em back pretty good. You want a bottle of water?" He's already standing and bending down to reach in the small refrigerator and extract a bottle. This gets placed on the bar in front of the redhead. Fred will kill him if he lets a pretty girl get sloppy drunk in here. Or maybe not. "That's good," he says of the lack of competitiveness in Alex's studio. "We could use a little more old school like that." His mouth pulls into a tight line. "World's tough enough on kids; no need to put them -- or yourself -- through that." He /might/ be trying to convince himself, as a hazy image of a permission slip flashes briefly in his mind. "Dancing's supposed to be fun, after all." "Was just remembering bein' little, how excited Ah was for my first recital. Ah figure recitals an' performances are enough stress, kids need to be kids. Probably part of the problem anymore. Kids need to know three languages before middle school an' stuff. Ah didn't compete until later, when Ah was about thirteen. That's young enough. " She picks up the water for a swallow, clearing her throat. She knows better than to let herself feel.. "Ah still love it, all these years later." Dan's smile is tight. "Yeah. That's how it should be. Biggest competition I was in at that age was some soapbox derby thing. Spent two weeks building that car." It was shiny, too. Painted apple-red and made out of scrap wood, it speeds down an impossibly tall hill (that could never exist in New York) in Dan's mind. "I think the prize was a coupon for a hamburger or something." He watches as Alex drinks, plucking the cigar from his lips to tap ash into the ashtray. "Well, that's all that matters," he says with a chuff of air that doesn't quite reach grunt status. "If you love it, and you're happy doing it. Most people look all their lives for that kind of..." he wrinkles his nose. "Strength? That's not quite the right word, I guess. Passion." He brightens, a bit. "That's it. That kind of passion." Alexandrine smiles, a hint of sadness behind it. "Makes me sad my dad never got to have a little boy to do that kinda thing with. Ah was all about dance an' swimmin' and things." She shrugs, polishing off her bourbon. "Ah'm very lucky to know what Ah love, yeah. Became a student teacher in dance when Ah was fifteen, an' knew. Here soon Ah'm gonna start wotking for a prep school, too. Not everyone gets to do what makes them happy.” "Prep school?" Dan's eyebrows lift and the corners of his mouth pull down. "That tears it. You're definitely too classy for this joint." He smirks. "You just sitting in here raises us to half a star." There's a low, truly amused laugh. "Work there, darlin'. Work there. Good thing, too, Ah was startin' to worry about how to keep makin' rent." A waggle of brows, as she pushes that glass forward. "That help lower it back down?" "Nah," Dan says, pouring out again. He manages this without moving from his stool. "Even working at a prep school means you're in a different league than the rest of us." He's not bothered by this fact, something that's more than evident in his current thoughts. "They don't let just anyone teach at those places, after all." He chuffs a laugh. "Everyone scramble to make rent. It's New York. If you're not scrambling to pay rent, it's because you can afford the building." "Ah sort of knew someone who knew someone, who knew someone. It's amazing what people will do for you, if you're nice to them. Ah mean, Ah thought all you Yankees were cranky an' cynical an' stuff." There's a hint of a grin. "Well, Ah'm not used to worryin' so much about rent." Dan grunts a laugh. "We're not all bad," he says. "I mean, /I/ am, but a lot of the rest of them are all right." He leans back on his stool, and smirks. "But, with connections like that, you're already halfway to true New Yorker status. Everyone here knows a guy who knows a guy." He lifts his glass in a toast. "Congratulations."