Bar has supplied Jack with adequate clothes for a day in town. He walks confidently to Satine's room, trusting that Bar's given her proper 1933 attire.
She really rather likes it. She has too much hair for the hat, and she feels strangely naked when the dress doesn't weigh ten or more pounds, but there's something to the sleek lines of the skirt. And the heels. She adores the heels. The colors are lovely muted earth tones -- it must be fall, she thinks as she slips into the outfit.
Satine is a bit worried that she'll seem out of place, though. She has no idea what the mannerisms of her would-be children's era are like, how they wear their makeup, how they do their hair, all the little things. But she's always had confidence in her ability to pull off a mask off the cuff, and so when she opens the door to her room to find Jack waiting for her, she holds her purse over her head and spins. "Do I look all right?"
"You look wonderful," he replies. Satine is in that rare category of women who would look good in anything, paper and trash bags included. If he knew what Mary Anne Bell was thinking just a few days ago, he'd be inclined to disagree: the guide would be looking at the tourist more than he would the scenery.
He steps forward, leaning against the doorway, his hand in his pocket. He's dressed in a cap and a well-tailored brown suit. In his opinion, they would make quite the dashing pair on the streets of Manhattan.
Jack links their arms together and leads the way downstairs. He spots Carl seated, as always, near one of his rediculous signs, with a bottle of Jack Daniels nearby.
Carl, looking up from his writing-blinks at Jack, then nods blearly. Shuffling over to the door he grips the handle and opens in to a late-fall early winter New York. 1933.
"g'wan Millie." Carl stifles a yawn, "I'll take the dog to school and feed Danny in the morning..."
Jack looks at Carl curiously, then to the bottle of Jack Daniels, then to Carl.
"...I'll see you later, Carl," he says warily, escorting Satine out the door. It's cold outside; the streets are crowded. He stops just outside the door to let Satine exit before he turns and says, "There's something I need to tell you first."
New York, New York! Satine almost isn't paying attention to Jack when he speaks: he's got both America and thirty-three years in her future to contend with.
She turns to face him. "What is it, Jack?" She's grinning. She can't help it. Her wildest dreams never included anything like this.
"Well, times are a little rough here," he begins, shoving his hands in his pockets nervously. "You're probably going to see a lot of poverty. I...I don't want it to ruin your enjoyment of the city."
Suddenly nervous, Satine looks around. The faces on the street are gray and grim, now that she studies them more closely. It's been some time since she's had to contend with conditions like this. She looks at Jack, frowning anxiously. "But... we're all right, aren't we?"
"What? And miss my chance to see your city?" She leans against him to peck him on the cheek; with her foot, she pushes the door shut. Not giving it another glance, she smiles at him. "Well. Shall we?"
He grins, links their arms and begins to walk forward. Overhead, a train rolls across an elevated tracks, as another throng of people walk down the stairs onto the streets. There are a few homeless lined up against the brick wall of a closed building. Jack frowns. Some of these faces are familiar: faces of actors he had seen on the stage not too many years ago. Indeed, he doesn't question their current place of residence, as just around the corner is Broadway.
Satine is the Platonic ideal of a tourist. She gapes and stares and points and marvels at everything, from how commonplace electricity has become to the number of automobiles to the different things people are wearing. She asks Jack to explain nearly everything.
The sight of Broadway, with enough light bulbs to make Zidler keel over with delight, is a show-stopper. She hardly moves for a full five minutes when they reach it. "I wonder if Paris will be this wonderful," she says finally, leaning closer to Jack. For warmth. Yes.
Jack grins and walks a little ways down the street until he stops in front of a rather humble theater, in comparison to the others. He pushes through a glass door leading to a small, red-carpeted lobby. A pair of glass doors stands before them, and through the doors Jack and Satine can see a troup of actors in the middle of a rehersal. Jack peers through the doors, as if searching for someone, before pushing the doors open and walking down the aisle
( ... )
She really rather likes it. She has too much hair for the hat, and she feels strangely naked when the dress doesn't weigh ten or more pounds, but there's something to the sleek lines of the skirt. And the heels. She adores the heels. The colors are lovely muted earth tones -- it must be fall, she thinks as she slips into the outfit.
Satine is a bit worried that she'll seem out of place, though. She has no idea what the mannerisms of her would-be children's era are like, how they wear their makeup, how they do their hair, all the little things. But she's always had confidence in her ability to pull off a mask off the cuff, and so when she opens the door to her room to find Jack waiting for her, she holds her purse over her head and spins. "Do I look all right?"
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He steps forward, leaning against the doorway, his hand in his pocket. He's dressed in a cap and a well-tailored brown suit. In his opinion, they would make quite the dashing pair on the streets of Manhattan.
"You ready?"
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"Completely." She shuts the door, locks it, and drops the key into her purse. "Lead on, Mr. Driscoll."
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"Carl...have time to open the door?"
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"g'wan Millie." Carl stifles a yawn, "I'll take the dog to school and feed Danny in the morning..."
He's still holding the door, asleep on his feet.
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"...I'll see you later, Carl," he says warily, escorting Satine out the door. It's cold outside; the streets are crowded. He stops just outside the door to let Satine exit before he turns and says, "There's something I need to tell you first."
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She turns to face him. "What is it, Jack?" She's grinning. She can't help it. Her wildest dreams never included anything like this.
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The sight of Broadway, with enough light bulbs to make Zidler keel over with delight, is a show-stopper. She hardly moves for a full five minutes when they reach it. "I wonder if Paris will be this wonderful," she says finally, leaning closer to Jack. For warmth. Yes.
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