M: Clarence Russel, Rhythm Revolutionary Codename Sonata
sonata
GENRE: Futuristic political dystopia.
ARCHETYPE: Frat boy who loves women and Jesus.
REPRESENTATIVE JOURNAL ENTRIES: ONE
REPRESENTATIVE ROLEPLAY LOGS: Forthcoming!
PERSPECTIVE ESSAYS: Forthcoming!
NAME: Born Clarence Arnold Russel, but answers most to Sonata, William Adams Jr., and John Coltrane.
DATE OF BIRTH, AGE: 11 November 2050, 25 as of 4 April 2075.
AFFILIATIONS: Rhythm Revolution, Ass-Kicking Tigers
PROFESSION: Bus-boy, The Homestead and janitor/helpful hand, Piano Bar. Old Paul is a friend of the family, and as such, Sonata has been working at the Homestead for as long as he's been at university; thanks to his upbeat personality, he's managed to be somewhat of a hit with the regulars, although such popularity is inversely related to their age. In concern of his second place of employment, Sonata has only been working at the Piano Bar recently, and his general appeal seems to be the same -- but at least his habit of singing Louis Armstrong hits while mopping the floor isn't looked on with nearly the same amount of double-taking or whispering behind hands. With the rising cost of living, Sonata is sending half of his paycheck (including the tips) to his parents in a few boroughs away, saving most of his portion for food and contributions to Revolution bills.
PERSONALITY: If there is one thing Sonata is, it is cheerful. It's a rare moment when there isn't anything but a goofy smile on his lips and a bounce in his step, laughter bubbling in the back of his throat. It isn't a facade, either; Sonata, despite whatever might occur, was always taught to be thankful for what he has, and since he has a roof over his head, food in his belly, and good friends at the moment, he thinks that he currently has more than plenty to thank the Good Man for on a daily basis. He does more than just wear his heart on his sleeve: he shouts it loud and proud from the bottom of his lungs and through whatever physical gesture he can manage. It's hard to get the boy down, even now, his optimism beaming forth in whatever he attempts. It is Sonata's crowning personality trait -- arguably, his best -- and to many, aside from his more pubescent habits, it can look as if Sonata is the eternal Pollyanna in the guise of a giant.
Arguably, it's easy to be footloose and fancy free when you have Sonata's work ethic -- which is to say, almost nonexistent. When he has a goal, of course, Sonata is more than capable of busting his ass; within the Chemist divison, his work has been prolific, and at both of his part-time jobs, he ensures that he does the maximum amount of hours in order so that he has enough to send a generous portion of his checks home. But if there's no proverbial carrot at the end of the stick for Sonata, he deigns to do the least amount of exertion as possible. His room is an excellent example of this; sloppy, sticky, smelly, and covered with alcohol promotional posters and stacks of beer bottles alike, it is something straight out of Animal House on steroids. As Sonata sees it, he's comfortable within his surroundings, and if his roommate isn't bothered by it, he won't change a thing. When people see his room, it's often a bit of a shocker considering the amount of time that he spends grooming himself, but it all comes back full circle -- Sonata always was taught that the pretty ladies always liked a well-groomed boy, and so in the event that laundry day comes to Sonata's house, he sorts everything carefully and presses it nicely. (Women, Sonata thinks, are probably the best proverbial carrot in the world.)
Pretty girls, actually, seem to hold sway in a lot of aspects of Sonata's life. He's inherited his father's penchant for loving the little everythings of a woman, from the way their nose might curl up to the lashes on their eyes, and he's just as game on the idea of finding the perfect one eventually. The thing is, all the tits and ass in the world have a way with making Sonata's poor, feeble brain melt into dribbling puddles of infantilism. His tongue grows dumb, his thoughts inaccesible, and -- worst of all! -- he has no moves! In earlier days, Sonata had the illusion that he would eventually be in control of this situation after getting to know a woman by upping false bravado, but after his pseudo-relationship with Susalee (who taught him that women are no conquest, dear Clarence, nor that they have no ambition), Sonata has resigned himself to the sucker-punk nice guy who is head over heels for anything remotely attractive, feminine, and in possession of a vagina. He's still trying the false bravado, though; after all, he's also under the impression that being a big, macho man is the only way to be "swimming in the pussy." It works with some girls, sure, but to Sonata's chagrin, rarely the ones that end up fascinating him to no end.
At least with his bros, he's chill. Sonata is an excellent example of the man's man -- he loves impromptu games of any sport (but basketball especially), playing video games with a six-pack or three, pranking the living daylights out of the target of the week, the sports page, cruising titty bars, being the ultimate wingman, and eating. He'll out-belch you, out-fart you, attempt to initiate bonding shits in public bathrooms, out-drink you, and out-wrestle you in the least Greco-Roman manner possible. His ego is healthy, let it be known, and his manners can be downright revolting if he's around anyone with the XY chromosome pair for more than a half hour. But there's something that Sonata really revels in when he's with his posse that he really treasures -- although he thinks it's hella gay to say anything of the sort.
But hell if he doesn't clean up nice for Sunday, though. Sonata, even after a night of getting trashed on Saturday, will get up without fail to arrive at his local congregation by 9:00 to get ready for his spot in the choir. Sonata's faith is, save for perhaps parental influence, the strongest motivator of all his actions. His Bible is the one book in his apartment with its own special place on an actual shelf, and even at the Institute, he would make a point to write devotionals before going to sleep. Sonata is a man who prays, he says, throughout the day, and his preferred method of worship is through song -- it explains his fondness for randomly belting out a line or two (or even humming) during times that most "normal" people would find inopportune. Admittedly, in his youth, Sonata's form of Christian doctrine was closer to his Southern Baptist roots -- witnessing, for example, was something he was particularly fond of doing, and his opinions were certainly closer to that of Shusai. Of course, his experiences at the Institute and within his short time in the Revolution has loosened some of his beliefs in that vein. Now, his philosophy has mellowed to the point that Jesus loves all His children, whether they want to hear about it or not -- although if anyone wants to talk church, Sonata's more than ready to listen.
Sonata wouldn't want you to think he was an excellent listener, of course; that's kind of, well, "unmanly." It's a truth, though, and something that started in his university experiences and expanded at his jobs. He's a collector of down-and-out stories (part of the reason why Sonata is so able to keep a grin on most days, since he knows the various ways in which it could be much worse) and rarely gives advice on preference of allowing the individual to form their own opinion on what he or she should do in the situation. The length at which he will listen betrays this other strength that Sonata holds: patience. To this, Sonata would quote Ecclesiastes: "To everything there is a season, a time and purpose under the sun." There are times unto which he can talk about his own issues, but he prefers to give himself to this time of others -- this time of good works, if you will. Yet, it works into almost any and everything within Sonata's sphere of influence: the hurtful disappearance of Susalee, his beginning tenure as a Revolutionary, and even his fall from opportunities. There is a time for failure as much as there is a time for glory, Sonata would often say if approached on the subject, and that's the gospel truth.
LIKES: The Bible, drinking games, "having fun" as defined by him, fart jokes, pretty girls, fireworks, singing in the shower, singing on the street, singing at in appropriate moments, singing... in general, the posse, his room at the Compound, his darling roach babies, Susalee Pryor, looking nice and presentable, chillaxing and relaxing, funky hats, Sunday morning in the choir, anything involving basketball or baseball, cooking just like his mama's, freestyling, ladies with long and curly hair, blowing shit up, fire (!!!), not having to write term papers, drive-by post-it note-ings, inside jokes, pranks, t&a, penis jokes, not doing anything domestic, his mama and his papa, keeping it real, pet animals of any shape or size, children, families, jazz, his regulars at Homestead and the Piano Bar, internet movies, internet humor period, and cat macros.
DISLIKES: Hateful cusses, men who are rude or otherwise disrespectful to ladies, people who like to shove being tidy on him, clinically spotless interiors, dirty underwear on his head, those really creepy people who breathe heavily on his shoulder in the library instead of actually asking him to move or make comment that he's a big-ass fuck, people frowning on cussing, golf clapping, being the object of condensending actions, brussel sprouts, slimy vegetables in general, the bastards who took the goddamn shop, not knowing what happened to Susalee, and not being able to do a damn thing about a problem he has.
HISTORY: The Russels were never the type to want for much, necessarily. Ambition was defined in the sense of doing what the Good Book said, making your mama and papa proud, continuing the business, and maybe managing to find a pretty girl in the process and settle down. It was that way ever since the Russels had established themselves in what was Atlanta and built Russels Pyrotechnics from the ground up in the days before The Bomb, when funk was on the mind and all that integration shit was just getting sorted out. Michael Russel wasn't about to shift the status quo; he liked the idea of finding a pretty girl from church who sung like the angels in her favorite hymns and making fireworks with whatever children that God'd give him until he died and was gathered into Heaven like a good, Christian soul. Joanne Tyler certainly fit the bill (especially that voice; oh, how it'd make Michael cry like a baby), and almost a little too close to the marriage for comfort, little Clarence was born on a drizzling morning in November. Still, he was loud and rambunctious enough for the two to forget that the sun might not be shining or that the hospitals were getting increasingly bare. Michael never felt so full in his life than at that moment, holding his wife's little hand with his son's and thinking that everything that was worth anything was right there.
Clarence's childhood was filled with construction paper Sunday School projects, singing at breakfast, and helping dad in the shop. Although Clarence had a bit of a habit of dragging his feet with the chores (to the point that his mother always ended up picking up behind him instead), going down to do anything in the downstairs lab was more closely akin to a magical game to the boy, who would watch in amazement as his dad would light things in the chemical hood and watch the resulting reactions. And so he would sweep happily and polish without question, all under the happy command of his father, who forever seemed to be David at the foot of the Goliaths that would try to purchase away the Russel livelihood. He was the man that helped Clarence with his homework (his mother would always demure it away, claiming ignorance), pushed him to do his best in classes so that he could think of university and a way to push Russels Pyrotechnics into a new age, and played one-on-one games of basketball in the backyard. His mother would smile and bake pies, read the Bible to him as a bedtime story, practice hymns for Sunday choir service, and tell him the importance of treating pretty girls with respect on penalty of spankings with the wooden spoon. Of course, Clarence had his moments of mischeviousness and trouble, but for the most part, he was a good old boy that would be perfect for a fabricated Shusai story of the fact that people still can rise up throughout the ranks of City society -- and, for a while, it looked as if it was quite possible that such a possibility existed.
It's because Clarence was accepted into university, of course -- and the New Institute of Science and Technology, no less, which liked to boast the acceptance of only the best and the brightest minds in the area. To this day, Sonata swears he isn't quite sure how he got in; perhaps it was because Shusai wanted to have a little success story in the making, or it was possible that he'd get too dangerous if he was allowed into a lower school that wasn't nearly as capable of monitoring its student population. The New Institute, of course, was more than able; equipped with the finest "security" that money could buy, Institute students were "safely monitored" at all times and had access to the best multimedia that was possible. Suffice it to say, Channel 83 was popular fare and students mysteriously disappeared in the night after complaints about something as trivial as a shifty casserole dish in the canteen on Wednesday, much less anything else. At the time, this was of no concern to Clarence, who was too busy struggling between the high-octane caliber of classes offered on campus and working full time at The Homestead in order to pay the bills. Old Paul, a friend of the family courtesy of church functions, was kind enough to make Clarence's hours as flexible as possible, but even in those early days at the Institute, it was hard for him to keep up. Still, he pushed forward with a smile and the knowledge that his hardest work was enough to make the family proud. Little did he know that his faint, freshman struggles were only the tip of the iceberg.
It was the spring semester of his junior year when he met Susalee Pryor, who was pretty enough, sure, but was the kind of crazy smart that Clarence knew that the New Institute was made for explicitly. She was his biochemistry tutor, and although she seemed to loathe the very idea of meeting with him at first glance, the two soon came across a rather amicable friendship. Clarence, of course, was besotted but confused; she seemed so utterly determined to go to the public sector, which was bizarre -- why would she need to? Big, pretty green eyes and gorgeous curls (and curves) like that, and she'd be able to get any boy to give her the ultimate Mrs degree... right? Yet, Susalee seemed determined to be one of the sharpest minds in the department, with special aspirations to eventually become a professor. Clarence had to concede that it was an excellent job choice if she had to take one; somehow, every chapter he ever had trouble with seemed to blossom into a comprehensible form whenever she'd talk about it at length, and she made chemistry as interesting as his father did. He had started asking her out on little dates in the early days of his tutorship, but now, as the two started to gain an understanding for each other, Clarence was a little more subtle and Susalee was a little less abrasive towards the idea. There was kissing in coffee shops, eventually, and holding hands in the middle of shadowy library niches, but Clarence never quite managed to get around to asking her about something a bit more.
Of course, then Susalee went and disappeared.
It was at more than a shitty time for Clarence, of course. Weeks prior, his father had been talking about how government agents had been coming to the shop for impromptu inspections. Rent was skyrocketing, of course, as always seemed to be the case even though the news never quite managed to discuss it, and despite the fact that Clarence knew of his father's impeccable business practices, land agents were threatening to buy Russels Pyrotechnics due to "dangerous displays of incompetence." Only a few weeks after Susalee's dorm room was found eerily tidy and bereft of any personal effect, Shusai purchased Russels Pyrotechnics and promptly evicted Clarence's parents, who were at the mercy of whatever savings they had and the money from the store. They managed a small house in a shiftier part of town, but the Russels were soon without a steady source of income that wasn't part-time jobs at a local grocery store. Clarence was forced to quit the New Institute by the end of the spring semester and think about supporting his parents, much less pay back the loans that the higher education system of the City is so dependent on for funding.
Old Paul, bless his soul, gave Clarence full-time hours and a roof to sleep under while he adjusted to the idea of being a college drop-out with two parents who were trying to live from paycheck to paycheck and a girl that he was particularly fond of suddenly went missing. He, along with Marlene, are quite likely the only reason why Clarence is still the cheerful and upbeat soul that he is today, for it was their call to faith and prevention from a road to destitution and destruction that diverted Clarence from a path unto which might've been a sad end of a boy before his time. Soon, he started to move on beyond Susalee and flirting with a few girls on his shift, and his father managed a promotion at the grocery. Things were looking alright, sure, but that seed of discontent was already planted in Clarence's mind. His friendship with Susalee had already forced him to think about the rights of women and where God and society had a place in such things, but always being two steps away from destitution was also starting to press through Clarence's blissful ignorance. Some of his patrons started to look at him with a sense of pity or even disgust the few times he made a mistake of making small talk of his recent experiences, and Clarence wondered where a man of Christian conscience could fit into the scheme of things anymore. The more and more he pondered upon it, the more and more he couldn't say that the contemporary traditional path that society was offering him was the answer -- but what was?
The answer, strangely, happened when he was cleaning up just before closing time. There had been a few of the regulars that were always lingering in the background sitting at tables, and Clarence was used to cleaning around their last plates and having a talk or three with them, laughing about the hardships (or lack thereof) of the day. It was Jack, that particular day, that was the only one left; Clarence always thought him the kind of guy he'd like to play beer pong with on the weekends, maybe, or enjoy a night at a bar as his wingman -- after all, from all the drinks and looks and dates that he saw the man have, he figured he had a point or two to learn. But Clarence always did enjoy talking to Jack, and it was that night that he figured that Old Paul'd be okay if he pulled up a chair afterwards with a long-neck and had a longer chat than he ususally did. Clarence hadn't realized, though, how much of a relief it was to talk to someone who didn't just know about his parents and all of his college bullshit, and although he generally liked to listen to Jack shoot the shit about nothing in particular, it was Jack that was lending the ear that time around. In retrospect, of course, Clarence should've known that Jack wasn't just Jack and that he was talking to one of those Revolutionaries that the government liked to talk about but never show, but at the time it was a surprise when Jack looked around a few times before taking off his wig and saying something about an organization that might need a good hand like him. It was a proactive idea, which appealed to Clarence's frustration and disenfranchisement, and so Sonata was born that night, over a lager and a handshake.
That was three months prior, of course, and since that night, Sonata has managed to move out of the cramped room at Old Paul's to a cramped room at the Complex and finally find his niche within the Revolutionary network as a Chemist. The danger, of course, hasn't quite sunk in yet, so Sonata's recent janitorial position at the Piano Bar is because of the need to support Revolution bills and his parents instead of a need to distance himself from Old Paul and Marlene (although with all the impending violence, he's bound to start thinking such sentiment is a good idea). Overall, he's taken to the Revolution like a fish to water, mostly in hopes that the current state of events is but a speed bump on the age-old Russel ambition of simply keeping the family business afloat.
GAME(S) PLAYED: "thugalo" at The MAIMED PROJECT at Insanejournal.
STATUS: Active
PLAYED-BY: Kele Okereke