This here, thinketh Miniver, looks really, really, really cool. Therefor, here is a hippie, peering over the back of the booth, watching with curiousity the goings-on below.
Somewhere around the rafters, in Miniver's general vicinity, is a soft bell sound every now and again. It may reveal its source presently.
Being as how he was an authentic hippie, he might recognize some of the designs. Maybe.
Most of what Clive was drawing and stapling fabric swatches to was what would have happened had the neuveau goth movement taken over the flower-child era instead of the Victorian.
He reached for his cup, hand waving vaguely near it while he scribbled another quick note, looking up to find the cup, finally, and blinking when he spotted Miniver, "Hi."
Clive smiled, setting his cup down again after having taken a gulp, "I'm, uh, I'm a fashion designer, and I've got a showcase coming up at the, the show in Milan, so I'm... doing my best to get ready in time."
"Yeah? Milan? Seriously? Dude, that's pretty fantastic. Can I... I mean... if you don't mind too much, can I watch?"
He'd offer to help, too, but by the look of his clothing... it would be a genuine disaster. Miniver's clothes have seen better days. They have probably seen better DECADES.
"Yeah. I mean, no... uh..." He shook his head, laughing once and sweeping a hand over his bangs in an attempt to tuck them behind his ear, "Go ahead. Have some paradoxes too, if you want, I've got a heap. Think Bar's trying to make sure I don't get so busy I forget to eat."
Miniver climbs over the back of the booth and plops himself down across from Clive. He takes a paradox and eyes it, then nibbles idly, peering and pawing carefully at the stuff all over the table.
"I'm Miniver, by the way. Miniver Cheevy New York 1967." Because around here, where and when you're from is as much as who you are.
"Yeah? The City, right? I'm an hour from there by train. Or was. Never going back. Never never never." He shakes his scruffy hair, then tosses it out of his eyes." Um, I've met some people from that time. I'd be um..." Finger-counting ensues. "...I'd be sixty then. Good thing I left when I did."
A pause, as he keeps inspecting the cloth and designs and whatnot.
He smiled, "Heart of the city, not too far from a nightclub called Mother. My friend, roomate, confidante, role-model and the only girl I'll ever love works there. I help out with costumes sometimes."
The designs were... interesting to say the least. Bellbottoms and Punjab tops with zippers and patent leather patches, paisley that was varying shades of black and grey, pentacles in place of peace signs and flowing scarves in spiderweb patterns.
Clive's home life kind of sucked too, but whatever, he'd overcome or something like that.
He nodded, "My sister's got her own family now, can't take care of me anymore." A pause, "Uh, yeah, that's complicated too." He shrugged, "Gypsy and me though, she's always been there for me, made sure I didn't do anything stupid..." His brow furrowed, trailing his fingers over a stack of swatches, "Well... made sure I didn't do anything I'd regret in the long run anyway."
"April did that for me, for the like, three months I knew her. Three months and forever." He sighs softly, tosses his hopeless hair again, and leans against the table to watch what Clive is doing. Closely.
Somewhere around the rafters, in Miniver's general vicinity, is a soft bell sound every now and again. It may reveal its source presently.
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Most of what Clive was drawing and stapling fabric swatches to was what would have happened had the neuveau goth movement taken over the flower-child era instead of the Victorian.
He reached for his cup, hand waving vaguely near it while he scribbled another quick note, looking up to find the cup, finally, and blinking when he spotted Miniver, "Hi."
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"Hi," he answers, voice soft. "Um, what're you doing?"
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He'd offer to help, too, but by the look of his clothing... it would be a genuine disaster. Miniver's clothes have seen better days. They have probably seen better DECADES.
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Miniver climbs over the back of the booth and plops himself down across from Clive. He takes a paradox and eyes it, then nibbles idly, peering and pawing carefully at the stuff all over the table.
"I'm Miniver, by the way. Miniver Cheevy New York 1967." Because around here, where and when you're from is as much as who you are.
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While chewing and talking he'd scribbled notes on a different drawing than before and stapled down another swatch of fabric.
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A pause, as he keeps inspecting the cloth and designs and whatnot.
"This stuff is nice."
He really is QUITE mousey.
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The designs were... interesting to say the least. Bellbottoms and Punjab tops with zippers and patent leather patches, paisley that was varying shades of black and grey, pentacles in place of peace signs and flowing scarves in spiderweb patterns.
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"Yeah? I loved a girl once. My sister. She um... she left." It's complicated.
He takes another paradox, looking misty-eyed.
Above his head, the jingling continues in the rafters.
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He nodded, "My sister's got her own family now, can't take care of me anymore." A pause, "Uh, yeah, that's complicated too." He shrugged, "Gypsy and me though, she's always been there for me, made sure I didn't do anything stupid..." His brow furrowed, trailing his fingers over a stack of swatches, "Well... made sure I didn't do anything I'd regret in the long run anyway."
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The jingling continues above.
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Finally he blinked, "Do you hear that?"
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But this was Milliways, "D'Artagnan?"
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