ArchivedLogs:Busking Requests and Reunion

Busking Requests and Reunion
Dramatis Personae Hive, Jim, Melinda, Shelby, Ryan	2013-01-20 '
Location <NYC> Midtown East
A dense, skyscraper packed neighborhood, Midtown is the busiest commercial district in the United States, and one of the busiest pieces of land in the world. Day and night, Midtown is filled with people going to and from work, enjoying the nightlife, and walking quickly through the streets. Very few live in Midtown proper - only the most wealthy and work-obsessed - but many who live in and around the City work here. In many ways, Midtown is the heart that beats in the city that never sleeps. How about that weather, huh? It's nice out! A warmer weekend has melted much of the snow, leaving the pavement and asphalt shining wet. Blue skies are framed by the bright glass of the skyscrapers, reflecting paler blue and glints of gold back to those who are hurrying by far, far below. Within the boundaries of the Museum of Modern Art, art-lovers are strolling in and out, relaxed and generally oblivious to the importance of the day--just a few blocks down, a bank of TVs in a store window are flashing repeating montages of newscasters talking about the new President's inauguration, intercut with film of the event itself. But who cares about politics, right? The sun is shining, it's damn near balmy out and no security guards have shown up yet in spite of Shelby's "brilliant" idea to set up her busking shop within the grounds of the museum. The girl has chosen a tree as backdrop and stands with her back towards it, battered guitar case at her feet. She's fiddling with the tuning pegs and tossing comments at the woman who stands nearby. "Okay, so you like stand there and act like I'm the best fucking thing ever. Maybe toss a dollar or two in. Then other people will think it's allowed and they'll join in, that's how it works." Melinda comes striding out of the Museum of Modern Art after an extended period of time inside. While there is some natural light allowed inside, the brightness of the exterior gives her pause for a few minutes. It also causes her to slip back on her trench coat over her blue knit dress. Once collected, she moves away from the entrance and down toward the street. The sound of the guitar catches her attention and she slows down. She fishes around in her purse, toward the bottom, and selects a small handful of change and a single dollar. She walks purposely toward the case and tosses it in. "That's the best tuning I've heard all week." Hive has apparently been Museuming today, too. He emerges some shot while after Melinda, in company with another young man, taller, dark-haired and better dressed, inked leaves and branches visible tattooed on his arm where the short sleeves of his black button-down end. Hive is turning for the subway, but stops at a tug from his companion, gesturing to the girl with her guitar. At first Hive just chuffs an impatient breath, but then looks over again, and raises eyebrows; after this he drifts along in his friend's wake to take up a spot nearby Shelby. Hive watches her with a curious expression, the other man with a thoughtful one that seems directed at the guitar as much as the guitarist, lazy-casual with thumbs tucked into his pockets. "Hi." Hive might be greeting Melinda with this. Maybe Shelby. It's directed somewhat upwards towards the sky. "You're damn straight it is. I tune like a boss." Twang! Shelby grins at the discordant sound her fingers have summoned up but a few quick adjustments and the guitar--which is battered to hell but seems to perform well enough--sings out properly. A stream of experimental chords fades into the immediately recognizable 'Hail to the Chief'. The notes continue even when Hive & Friend are spotted approaching, though there is a wobble in her grin. Why's he staring? Why -isn't- he staring? Damn it. "Hey, Hive. Who's your friend?" Ginger brows are lifted. "Got a request?" "Oh, hey, Hive," Melinda smiles as she looks him and his companion over. She raises an eyebrow at the other man before turning her attention back to Shelby, snickering at the song choice. "You've got an audience." She's definitely excited for the girl. She digs her hands into her pockets as she allows the unknown man to pick the music. "You could just break into 'Goodbye Horses" again," she offers at length. "You didn't get to play much last time." Hive's companion wears a quick warm flash of smile that dims, slightly, at the first chords but is soon to return. "Sure. Know any Chili Peppers? Californication, maybe." He gives a friendly nod to Melinda, though most of his attention is on Shelby. "Hey," Hive says, "this is Ryan." He jerks a thumb towards his companion. "Ryan, Shelby. Melinda. How's it going? You just starting out here?" Ask and ye shall receive! With a burst of amusement that's keyed to an image of Melinda blushing--and a famous movie line--Shelby shifts to the suggested song. You told me, I see you rise... "It doesn't have the same ring when it's played straight," she claims, but the notes continue to flow from her fingers. Ryan. Her eyes cut in that direction. "Nice to meetcha...yeah. Figured maybe some of the artsy fartsy types had cash to burn, and Mel got me this to replace the last one, so..." She makes it through half of the song before readjusting her fingers on the bars to jump into the new request. "I owed her some music. What're you guys up to?" With three people now circling the players, they're starting to get looks. A couple pauses as they walk by but they move on soon enough, without leaving a tip. Melinda notices the people passing by without leaving a tip and moves away from Ryan and Hive a bit, leaving there a bit more room for passerbys to access Shelby's guitar case and therefore give her money. "Oh, don't worry about my request. Take hints from people you don't already have as your fan base," she offers magnanimously and nods to Hive and Ryan. She's curious about the new comer but is content to allow Shelby to take the spotlight for the time being. She's just 'the friend.' "We were arting," Hive says with a nod tipped back towards the museum. "Sometimes he feels like I need culture. Were you just in there, Melinda?" "Sometimes," Ryan objects, "I feel like you need to get out of the fucking house." He is watching Shelby's fingers on the frets, his fingers drumming against his pants absently. His brows pull into a frown. "Where'd you pick that up? What was the last one?" "You got a fan base?" Hive is smiling as he says this, but it isn't a mocking kind. "Can I be a groupie?" "Hey, you got me the guitar, you get to make more requests. For free." Or technically free. Kind of. Twenty bucks is twenty bucks. "Tampa," Shelby says, rather unhelpfully, for Ryan's sake. The song stops and she rewinds, repositioning her fingers a little more slowly to find the chord--she knew which one he meant, anyway, probably because it's the one she was cheating on, with her hand twisted over and her thumb pressing down on the strings. "'Cause I got small hands, see?" But the teenager is distracted. Just a little. On the inside, she has gone allll girl--on the outside she's trying to play it cool. "I got Mel, so far. Want my autograph?" And phone number? Shit, I gotta put minutes on the phone. "Oh, I'm basically the roadie." Melinda jokes lightheartedly, looking to Hive a moment later. "OH, Well, yeah. Actually. I was having a pretty decent time. Saw the Cezanne and there was this sculpture called 'Violet Beach,' but it turned into something more about conversation. When the conversation left... I don't know. Just kind of felt like it was time to head out." "Might manage it easier if you put your fingers like so --" Ryan doesn't actually try touching the guitar, but he does extend a hand in pantomime of a slight position adjustment on the strings. "Tampa, shit. Glad you made it out of /that/ cesspit." "Sure," Hive's smile is curling wider, a hint of amusement in it as he pulls out a beaten old canvas wallet, fraying at its edges; he frowns inside it, tipping it towards himself to hide its contents before pulling out a pair of singles and dropping them into the case. "You should have merch I can get signed." "You could have her sign /you/," Ryan suggests with a snort, "groupies are into that kind of shit. I love the Cezanne. Was it good conversation?" "Nuh uh," Shelby says to Melinda, "you're the president of my fan club." Look who just got promoted! But she's pulled away from further teasing--and from fluttering like a complete dork at Hive--by Ryan's attempt at instruction. She looks between his fingers and hers, adjusting to match the air guitar. And check it out, it works! "Thanks, man! You play, huh? Got a fan club?" The song begins again, distinctive chords now booming out as they should be. "You -could- have me sign you," she says, going with the flow, grin fit to bust her face. "If you had a pen or a sharpie or something..." What in the hell is a Sayzon? "It was distracting conversation," Melinda admits with a smile. "Someone I met before claimed to be in securities and was 'casing the joint,'" oh, yes, there are air quotes in her tone of voice, "to take something later to help the museum with their wholes in security. It was either the most imaginative and almost believable fake occupation dreamed up just to hit on me, or a once in a life time chance to meet someone who really had that job." She shrugs and keeps her words quiet, not to drown out Shelby too much. "OH don't sign someone, hun. It promotes poor hygiene when they swear to never wash again so it doesn't fade." "Securities? So, uh, someone was openly admitting to being a thief? Sounds ballsy. Or ridiculously stupid," Hive says with a raise of eyebrows. "Was he at least /good/ at flirting? Seems a bit over the top," Ryan muses. He's already reaching into a pocket to extract a Sharpie. He hands it to Shelby with a twitch of lips. "Yeah," he allows with a quick nod, "I play. You a friend of his?" He flicks fingers to Hive. "I'll be hygienic," Hive promises. "This is just incentive for Shelby to put out an /album/. Then I can get something signed that's permanent." "Seriously? He came right out and said that?" Shelby is intrigued by Melinda's description. Or maybe it's the thought of art theft--no, wait, it's -definitely- the thought of art theft, because she is experiencing a fun little daydream of strolling in and sliding the Mona Lisa onto the skin of her arm, like a fancy tattoo. Ahem. She is summoned back to the present when Ryan comes up with a Sharpie, though there is some hesitation because of Melinda's warning. "Uh..." I bet I could sign something permanent -now-damnityoubetternotbelookingknockitoffIknowyou'refuckingwithmewhydoyouhavetobeso-- "I'll sign somewhere he can wash easy," she promises the other woman, stooping to place the guitar butt first in the case. Bills are squashed and the Sharpie is uncapped. "I guess we're friends. He's not a dick to me, anyway! That's a good sign, right?" "Well, he was completely into it, so it was either real, or he was counting on me to swoon as he walked away - more of an ego fluffing flirting, I guess." Melinda purses her lips and considers the situation seriously. "I wasn't really about to swoon, so I guess if it was flirting, it wasn't working? Then again, I'm not really the swooning type." Eyes dance over in Shelby and Hive's direction, amusement wrinkling the corners of her eyes and pulling the edges of her mouth into a smile. "Well, good. Hygiene is important." She chuckles at her description of friends. "I guess that's one way to describe it." "That is a good sign. He's a dick to most people," Ryan says solemnly, which earns him a punch in the arm from Hive, though the telepath is still smiling. Maybe a little /wider/ at Shelby's stream of thought. He shucks his jacket, rolling up the sleeve of his long-sleeved tee to hold an arm out to Shelby. "It's a low bar for friendship," Hive allows, smirking. "Lots of my friends /are/ dicks to me, anyway. What if it's a /friendly/ kind of dickish?" He is standing nearby the Met, with Shelby and Melinda nearby. The former /has/ been busking, but has recently exchanged her guitar to wield a Sharpie instead. "The important thing is," Shelby is saying as she closes on the unfortunate Hive's arm, "was he hot? Probably not, if it didn't make you go all oooh." Case in point: the color in her cheeks and ears as she begins penning something on the arm bared for her. There is a certain hell to being a ginger. Or certain layers to that particular hell. As she etches in her autograph--but not numbers--she is thinking very, very hard. Something along the lines of, Thisissonotfair. "I guess maybe it's easier to fuck with the folks you like." Melinda snickers and shakes her head at the friend dick conversation, thinking of a couple people she knows who are dicks and the only way they can communicate is dickishly, but there is a friendly quali-- and then she's stuck remembering Remy LeBeau's red iris eyes - like two burning coals in dark pit. She considers for a moment, much in the same way one might appreciate art - and definitely removed from a sexual appreciation. "Oh, I don't know. I guess. He wasn't horrible to look at, but it's more about the personality for me and I can't say off the conversation." Another thought pops up - is that why Jax wears sunglasses all the time? The Met plays its curious games of catch and release beyond, pulling in a family of Japanese tourists in high fashion Tokyo attire, unleashing a small torrent of preteens shepherded by two haggard looking middleaged women. A lone young man in an Armani suit with a briefcase trots up the stairs and holds the door open to allow /Jim/ to exit first, tossing the young man a jerk of his chin in city-signlanguage 'thanks'. With hands crammed down in corduroy jacket, he skip-hops down the steps and angles with scanning eyes to head in... the direction of this lovely little affair of people, recognition of Shelby pull enough, working up a sarcastic comment about what dumpster she must have hauled /that/ guitar up from. He's digging for a cigarette first, though. Got to keep the pipes from getting too clean after all that sterile breathing in the museum. "It's definitely easier to fuck with folks the more you know them," Hive agrees, head tipped downwards to watch the autograph process. "Hey, maybe this'll be worth a lot some day. I'll just have to -- uh." He frowns. "Mummify my arm. I don't know, that conversation sounds telling. Are you into art thieves? I guess there's a kind of daring there." Hive's head turns, briefly, then, with a slight frown towards the door of the met, eyes narrowing on the stream of traffic heading in and out. And then his lips quirk upwards. "Hey, s'like a fucking /reunion/." "Reunion?" Ryan lifts his eyebrows, glancing the same way. "You all going on tour?" "Sounds like he's gotta work on his mooooves." Shelby is light, Shelby is amused, and Shelby has finally summoned up the boldness needed to begin drawing in her phone number beneath the scrawl of a permanent marker signature. Can't make fun of a guy for blowing it if she's not willing to take the risk herself, right? She writes faster, at least, because maybe then no one will notice what she's done. "You can't mummify it," she says, tossing her head to send her hair over her shoulder and then stepping back. The pen is recapped. "I wrote it there so you could wash it off so Mel won't..." With her head up, she's got a prime view of the large, unwelcome visitor heading that way. Her response is silent but emphatic--stomach dropping suddenly and a resounding OHSHIT ringing in her mind. The teen twitches. "..so hey, maybe we should set up somewhere else? I don't think we're supposed to be here. Need a license or whatever." "Gosh, guys, if you really like the signature, get it tattooed." Melinda shakes her head, it is after all the most obvious thought to follow preserving a mark on the skin, not mummification. She follows Hive's gaze toward Jim and when she recognizes him, there's a mixture of fear and concern, fresh with memories of the shooting. She inhales deeply and turns to look back sheepishly at the group. "You wanted to know if he was all right, Shelby. Now's your chance." "Y'know, law in Michican says y'don't need a busking permit unless you're expecting a crowd of twenty or more?" Jim is lighting his bobbing cigarette while saying this, grinning fiendishly behind it and thanking Failed Law School for his increased usefulness in Sunday night Quizzo at the bars he can't drink at. If he hadn't been shot, he'd totally have paid off his loans in gratitude (sarcasm). "Not like cops know the damn law, and good luck filing a complaint if they shut your ass down. Heyhey, kid." GRIN. This grin is for Shelby, though it settles into something less manic when he squints between Hive and Melinda, "Nah, we caught up the other day. Ran into her at the IHOP. She bought me dinner," with translates into a mental image of him chasing a screaming Shelby down a dark street with a fistful of hashbrowns. "I saw you two at, uh." He grimaces, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. The shooting range, he doesn't say. Hive glances down at his arm, autograph and phone number both, his smile pulling up a little crookedly as he takes these in. "Look," he shows off to the others, "this arm's a collector's piece now. Bona fide Shelby, 2013." "You're probably alright," Ryan says with a casual shrug and an even more casually amused smile, "they're used to artists around here, they don't hassle much." "Besides which," Hive adds, "I don't think anyone nearby's got a gun. Hi, Jim. Glad to see you up and -- not riddled with holes." I don't want to. Uh uh. Shelby crouches and turns the guitar, laying it flat in its case. There's a crunch of paper money and she pauses to lift it again, sifting out the few bills that go into her rear pocket. Snap snap, the case is latched. "Yeah, and now I can't go back because you told them I stole your fucking wallet," she mutters, not -quite- brave enough to say this at full volume. There is a definite humiliation to having been scared out of her wits and suckered by the big guy. Humiliation and about two metric shit-tons of resentment. She hides from it by shuffling back to take shelter with Melinda. "Too bad." About the lack of gun thing. Subtle, she is not. Melinda looks on with concern for Shelby, moving between her and the others in the group when she starts to show signs of being upset. She attempts to hide her frown and only purses her lips more. She alleviates her consternation with a deep breath, trying to ignore Hive's attempts to joke about it. "Well, it's good to know you're okay." She gives a polite smile, but is still thinking about Shelby in the back of her mind. "Please," Jim snorts amiably at Hive -- crap, what the fuck was this guy's name again -- "This is New York, guy. /Dogs/ in this city got guns. Kid," this to Shelby while flicking away ash into a nearby snowed over garden bed, "you gotta learn someday, you try causing a scene, you gotta make sure you're gonna be in control of it or it's gonna run you down a lot worse than a pancake house. -- Yeah, I got lucky, huh?" More than you know, sister. "Who's this guy." He jerks a scruffy chin at Ryan. "Nobody nearby's got a gun and any plan to use it," Hive clarifies lazily, watching as Shelby puts her guitar away. "-- You what? That sounds kind of dickish." "In the friend way, or the not-friend-way?" This is probably a rhetorical question, from Ryan. He's slung an elbow against Hive's shoulder and is ticking a glance between Shelby and Jim. "In the dick way. But this is New York. It's mostly a case of dick or be dicked. This is Ryan. He's cool. You gonna be aright?" Now Hive is chin-jerking; it seems to be a fad. He's doing it at Shelby. "I wasn't making a scene! You started it." And now I sound like a kid. Great. Shelby puffs out a breath and drops back into too cool for school mode. Now new and improved with a chin-toss instead of a chin-jerk. "But whatever. I mean, if you gotta run a scam to cover an IHOP dinner, you must be pretty hard up, right?" She'll give it to him--this time. A slight adjustment of her center of balance has her leaning in towards Melinda, who has been promoted again to security blanket. She's finally able to crack a crooked and not at all sincere grin. Stop looking at meeee... "We oughta get Ryan to play a little. Maybe pull in enough for coffees." "OH, hey!" Melinda speaks up, thoughts promoting her to have something to change the course of conversation. "Thursday night, Shells, I got you a slot at the open mic from eight to eight thirty." She peeks around back at the girl, brows lifted and knit. "If you're still interested. You can have a tip jar and I can't promise anything, but it's a warm place to play and I'll make sure you get a sandwich and a drink." She glances toward Ryan, wondering about his skills and whether she should offer it to him too, but he looks well dressed enough to not need it as desperately as Shelby, and while Hive's a freeloader, he could probably watch out for his friend just fine. If Ryan is interested, he'll probably ask about it himself. "Pff, who isn't hardup these days," Jim will hand Shelby this one. Take it while the gettin's good, kiddo, you'll not get another free one. He runs an impersonal scan up and down Ryan - you eyeballin' me, man? A'ight, you sniff me, I'll sniff you - with the cigarette jutting out of his mouth unfurling a tendril of smoke that he's just /used/ to winking one eye shut against, "You play, too?" He mean 'cool' or does he mean COOL-cool. What kinda cool. Christ. "Yeah, we outta get Ryan to play a little," Hive agrees with a hint of smirk. "Thursday night?" Ryan wants to know. He's already kind of casually reaching a hand out, fingers curling in beckoning for the guitar. "You want a cheering section?" His head tips in a nod to Jim. "I play, too. What's it you do?" "Besides get shot," Hive tacks on in addendum. "Gotta be a cheering section." He taps a forefinger against his autographed arm. "We're /groupies/ now, remember?" "Seriously? Seriously?!" Score one for Melinda, Shelby lights up like a Christmas tree--one of those old style flammable ones. Whoosh! "Oh my god, Melllllll! You're like Santa Claus! Except skinny and cuter!" Unlike -some- who are present and she's not going to name names but she's thinking them, JIM. The timing is perfect too--Ryan reaches for the guitar and gets the case and all with an excited little push, so that the teenager can round on Melinda and squeal at her some more. "Eight? I can totally do eight! -Everyone- has to come. You and you and you," and Jim is skipped, "and I'll make the doc come too, fucker's always working and needs a break. Poof, you're groupies!" she crows, waving an imaginary magic wand. Melinda blinks at the pair of music appreciators and considers before reaching into her purse and pulling out the cafe's business cards. She picks out a pair of them and hands them over toward Ryan and Hive. "It's here." Her finger knuckles twitch to divide the cards and splay them out for each of them to take one. She turns a bit red when Shelby calls her Santa Claus and shakes her head. "Sheesh. I'm a roadie, remember. IT's far more respectable than just the groupie." "Oh, me? I'm an investigator." Jim pulls out a couple business cards from an inside pocket of his jacket, and /he/ hands them out to /everyone/, inwardly adopting a shrill valley girl falsetto as he dishes them out, one for you and you and you and - that's /right/ kiddo, I'm going there, just watch me - /Shelby/ as well, extra daintily. The card information entails only limited information: James Morgan. Private Investigating. A phone number. A fax. No email. "You know the deal, dig dirt, take pictures, buy the t-shirt, sell it to the client." Even YOU can get paid to be a peeping tom, he does not think this like it's a /good/ thing, about as wry as the concern all that shrill girly screaming is going to burst his ear drums. "What do you investigate? What if I need someone investigated?" Hive's smile is a little bit more strained at the sudden explosion of EXUBERANCE, but only slightly. He reaches to take a card -- both the cards, actually, while Ryan is occupied with removing the guitar from the case again and absently picking at the strings, testingly. "Sure, we'll be there. Should we whoop and holler at appropriate intervals or just sip our coffee and snap?" He takes Jim's cards, too, pocketing all /four/ after quick look-overs. "That's poetry, dumbass," Ryan mutters. He has apparently fiddled with the guitar to his satisfaction, starting to play, now, an upbeat tune that has, in recent months, gotten a fair bit of airplay on the radio. Around them, there is a subtle shift in mood, with his playing, something warmer and upbeat to match tugging emotions more /cheerful/. Hive grimaces, to be contrary. "What doc?" Bam, the happy girly act ends. Oh shit. PIs are like cops, aren't they? Shelby doesn't -want- to take the card but she does, if only to scan it anxiously. "Roadie, groupie...they rhyme," she says absently, off-kilter. No badges, maybe it's okay. -Fuck-, I told him how old I was. No full name though...it's gotta be okay. Right. Cue the head toss, as she stuffs the card back where she'd put the money too. "Anyway, you're the president of the fan club," she says as she tunes into Ryan's playing, chin bobbing time, "and that's plenty respectable. That's like practically being my manager." Doc Do-Gooder. "Huh? Oh...Doctor Ee-i-ee-i-o. I claimed his couch in the name of me." The cards that Mel hands out mainly say 'Montagues' and gives a location and phone number. There's a fax and an email for larger orders or to reserve the back room. "Huh. You play that well." Melinda mentions as her gaze shifts to Ryan instantly. She pockets her hands and listens, a smile tugging at her lips. She takes a card from Jim, but only takes a cursory glance at it. It doesn't matter. Ryan's really good. At least he's going to be there Thursday. That'll be nice. Oh, but he's not playing. Maybe he'll fill in if one of her performers ditches again. "Oh no, don't make me your manager. I'm too busy." Jim is quirking a bemused semi-smile up at the sky as the music plays, flicking his cigarette filter into passing traffic. It bounces off a Beemer's front windshield. Fuck-yeah-two-points. "Well, it ain't like fuckin' Dick Tracey shit," except when there's /guns/, fuck me, "you get a lot of insurance fraud and adultery horeshit, sittin' outside hotels and takin' pictures of jackasses being jackasses. Kinda good time, the only way to catch a guy red-handed is if they're /doin'/ what they're suspected of. I've gotten a few guys exonerated over the years, too. Lotta law shit, delivering subpoenas and summons, process serving bureaucratic wankery. This guy's not half bad on the guitar, huh?" He thumps an elbow with Hive, "But you wanna guy looked into, you give me a call, give me some information, I'll set you up for a consult'. Go over your options." God knows I could use the fucking work. "Sounds thrilling." Hive's grimace fades the longer Ryan plays. "Except for the guns part," which Jim didn't actually voice. "Might actually look into that. I got a thing." He quirks a grin at Melinda. "But. Are you busy managing a /rock/ star? Because that's a whole different kind of life. -- Wait, your doctor is Old McDonald?" His eyebrows lift at Shelby, amused. Ryan's song continues, bright and lively, a tune called 'Glasshouse' by Ryan Black. Their block of street is still cheerful in time with the music. People passing by drop money into the case, a trickle at first but then more steadily. Hive presses knuckles against his lips. So it's smiles all around, with this guy pulling a few fancy footwork moves to jokingly show off to a girlfriend, and that mom urging her little one to toddle over to drop a fiver in the case? Shelby sees all, and y'know? It doesn't bother her in the slightest that he's pulling in the rubes. Because damn, he -is- good. "Hey, you scored me a gig," she tells Melinda, "that makes you honorary, anyway. When I make it big, maybe I'll even pay you...yeah?" Her head turns so she can focus on Hive and she lifts her eyebrows right back at him, grinning easily. You got a problem with that? "He's out a lot, needs someone to look after the place. I'm -killer- with order-in." "I got you one spot and I kind of am the venue. I just... don't want to disappoint you in the future." Melinda's mind is awash with the wonderfulness of the music and how damn similar it is to the song on the radio. OH, hey, maybe this Ryan is /the/ Ryan that sings this song. That can't be. Mel never meets real famousish people. She just inhales and decides that Ryan is fine just as whoever he is. Shelby needs to be quiet. She's always saying something loud when things are going well. At least no one is going to get hurt or killed this time. Oh wait. What did he say? "Oh, Well, no. I just have prior commitments and they're kind of important to me. Besides, Shelby, are you a /rock/ star, or are you going for something more ... I don't know. Have you written anything of your own yet? What would that sound like?" "I like things." Jim utters around his fresh Marlboro, lipped from its box. He then sends his hands pocket-diving through out his coat and trousers for a lighter. Swear to god, he has twenty on him and not one to be found when he needs it. "Even if there's guns. It just means you're doing something right," -- shit that's not night. I didn't say anything about guns. Abruptly, there's a run down montage-memory of a bloody apartment and curious, sniffing blue faces with teeth, and two words endcap it on either side: Hive? And SHIT. Then: Fuck it. Musics good. Work is good. It's all good. Why the fuck not. "Gimme a call." And, he does add at a stage whisper, "I think you hear about a guy called Doc Ee-i-ee-i-o, you'll find him wearing feathers and a /cane/, y'knowwhatImean." "Purple velvet. Yeah." Hive looks amused at this thought, at first, but then drastically less amused as he looks to Shelby. "You're being careful, yeah?" He slips a hand into a jacket pocket, extracting a lighter to offer it to Jim with a smile. "Right. Huh. I guess I never counted near-death as a /success/. You could be a rock star. You probably need to look like more of a freak though. Bit of ink. Bit of piercings." Ryan lifts a (pierced!) eyebrow, amusement curling his lips through the last few strains of song. It fades, the warm cheer fading with it and Shelby's guitar case a generous amount more filled. "/Do/ you do your own music?" he echoes Melinda's question. He stoops to collect the bills and tuck the guitar away, handing the small sheaf of notes towards Shelby. "Of course it's a success," he says, "it means you cheated death." Hive just snorts, at that. He's looking towards Melinda with a bit of a smile. "I guess a rock star lifestyle does kind of cut into /real/ life time. But open mic time and free sandwiches is still nothing to scoff at." Shelby, put on the spot, has to pause for a minute to think about that. What would it sound like? "It would sound like awesome. I mean, maybe not like this awesome but..." Maybe I should start working on that. Hell yeah. Singer-songwriter? I could do that. "I'm not the doc's type and he doesn't do feathers, like -some- people," she scoffs, going to a knee to help Ryan with the monies earned. She taps a few into a tidy pile and though it pains her to do so--in a wistful sort of way--with all of these witnesses hanging around, she's quick to wave off the offer. "I'm working on the ink though...just gotta find the right artist, y'know?" Someone who doesn't check ID, until I can figure out the trick. Ink to skin, no needles, thanks. "Here...you earned it. That was fucking incredible, man. You oughta do the open mic thing. Give me a little time to figure out my own stuff." "Oh, I'm sorry Shelby," Melinda is embarrassed on the inside, more so than her words say. She's so young, she thinks, and just barely living on the streets and all. How could I ask if she's writing music? She's probably just trying to figure out one day to the next -- then again, that could be good song fodder if she's got a knack for it. Hmmm. Shit. She looks to Hive and shrugs, wishing she could do more. "I know it's nothing to be scoffed at..." It's just what I can do without making myself too vulnerable. Though, if anyone was to get me killed one day, it'd be Shelby. She always seems to find a way to explode a bad situation. She remembers the shooting now and the bagel place. Fuck that crazy lady with the broom. "Hey, weren't we going to go out to eat with that?" That way she gets some benefit. Hope no one minds. "Let's say that in my line of work, if no one's nervous, you're probably not close yet." Jim shrugs, and nudges Shelby in the foot, saying with a sudden blunt energy, "What? C'mon, kid, fuck that. Play a few covers, get your face out, fake it til you make it." Where's that fuckin' big thang attitude? You're not gonna make it out here, you start backin' down. Though damn, your buddy's got a knack, Hivey. It's like Hy-Vee. Get it? Hahadon't hit me. "Thanks," Ryan says, which might be to the compliments or might be to the money -- though probably to the former, as he considers the stack Shelby hands back to him and then splits it, roughly in half. He proffers one side (the larger one) to Shelby. "Your axe," he says easily, "'least some of this is your take. I know a great artist." He waves at the gingko leaves tattooed on his arm, and then jerks a thumb to Jim. "He's right about that, though. You gotta think like a star long before you are one." Hive hits Jim, a lazy punch to the shoulder. Probably on general /principle/. "You do what you can," he says lightly to Melinda. "You all should go eat. We were supposed to, too." He nudges Ryan with a sneakered toe. "I'm /craving/ some pho. We'll see you Thursday, though, yeah?" "What for?" The question's for Melinda, Shelby's head turned briefly so she can look over with a grin. "I'm still awesome. Just not like, superstar awesome yet." But she's working on it and hell, if everyone's gonna insist, she'll gather those offered bills right up--after she swats at the foot nudging hers. He's not allowed to give good advice! That's like, a rule somewhere for assholes. "Right, so, lunch or whatever is on me this time, huh? I'll even pay for it," she says, bouncing to her feet and counting through the take. Then, without ceremony, she shoves the money into her pocket, swings up the guitar case and sets off--anyone who's looking for a free lunch better follow along, PDQ.