Brighton, by the Pier, Thursday Evening
Valentine was a very important man. He had a...
Well. He didn't have a tower. He had a flat, now. In Brighton. A high school education. A decent job waiting tables. A beautiful girlfriend. He'd auditioned for a role in some sort of local play last month, and rehearsals were already underway. He was almost starting to get used to the fact that he was missing his face. This was, apparently, all part of being real.
Who would have thought?
Still and all, old habits tended to die hard. And so, this particular afternoon, he was standing by Brighton Pier, taking full advantage of the city's thriving tourist population by juggling, his jacket spread out on the ground in front of him.
No, he wasn't necessarily soliciting for money. But he certainly wouldn't turn any down, should any wealthy tourist decide they would like to help him line his pockets.
"And anyhow," he said, his words falling into a rhythm with the one-two-three of the juggling balls hitting and leaving his hands again, "the man is absolutely daft. Can't make up his mind if he's coming or going. Directors these days. Absolutely nothing like the way I would run a show, you know. I'd bring a sense of style to the performance. Of class. And I would know, of course, which way is up."
[For one! NFB, 'cause this is Brighton and all. YAY.]
Well. He didn't have a tower. He had a flat, now. In Brighton. A high school education. A decent job waiting tables. A beautiful girlfriend. He'd auditioned for a role in some sort of local play last month, and rehearsals were already underway. He was almost starting to get used to the fact that he was missing his face. This was, apparently, all part of being real.
Who would have thought?
Still and all, old habits tended to die hard. And so, this particular afternoon, he was standing by Brighton Pier, taking full advantage of the city's thriving tourist population by juggling, his jacket spread out on the ground in front of him.
No, he wasn't necessarily soliciting for money. But he certainly wouldn't turn any down, should any wealthy tourist decide they would like to help him line his pockets.
"And anyhow," he said, his words falling into a rhythm with the one-two-three of the juggling balls hitting and leaving his hands again, "the man is absolutely daft. Can't make up his mind if he's coming or going. Directors these days. Absolutely nothing like the way I would run a show, you know. I'd bring a sense of style to the performance. Of class. And I would know, of course, which way is up."
[For one! NFB, 'cause this is Brighton and all. YAY.]