prompt for October 13th - Rent
The bit I posted yesterday was originally going to be one of three, except I only figured out one and a half of the three. Now, though, I think I've finally got it. I have this bit in a notebook somewhere, but I'm going to do my best to reconstruct it and see how I like the result.
Prompt for October 13:
Stranded.
Roger doesn't have anywhere else to be, really, but the 24-hour diner; the car's not very comfortable for sleeping in, not that the sticky booth is all that much better. He'd love more than anything to not be in this hellhole of a restaurant, in this hellhole of a city - well, Omaha's more of a glorified suburb than anything, but the point stands - in this hellhole of a flatter-than-a-pancake state. No wonder nobody wants to live in Nebraska. There's nothing here.
It'd help if he could stop seeing pieces of Mimi in the locals. One with her hair, another with her skin tone and cheeks, even some pasty chick looking completely ridiculous in those blue rubber pants. It's fucking stupid, especially when he came all this way to forget about her.
"You're a real dumbass, you know that?"
Roger blinks. He must be asleep, because Angel's sitting on the other side of the booth like nothing happened, waiting for an answer.
"How do you mean?"
"...You don't really have to ask me that question, do you?"
"Oh, come on. Can you blame me for leaving?"
Angel sighs. "Actually, yes, I can. Since you basically started a huge fight on my account, in the middle of the goddamn cemetery, when you had no excuse to blow her off and run away from what's left of your friends."
"And what would you have me do if I was there? I can't drag her away from her drugs or her rich married boy."
"Maybe you could, if you gave yourself the chance. Besides, there's Mark. You going to leave it at taking away both his best friends at once?"
Roger starts to protest - Mark's the rock, Mark never breaks, or if he does he buries it under about a dozen reels of film - but thinks better of it. Angel's got a point, damn her... but still.
"Thought he had his work to distract him. For a profit, this time."
Angel just gives him a look. "It's not enough, and you know that as well as I do. Now, you get your ass back to New York, or I'll find a way to come back there and knock some sense into your skull, so help me God."
"How, genius? The car's dead."
"Get it fixed. Junk it and buy a bus ticket. I don't care. You're a smart boy, you figure it out."
"Some help you are--"
And then there's a hand on his shoulder; a concerned waitress, it turns out, shaking him awake. "Hey, you all right?"
Her name tag says 'Mimi'; it's all Roger can do not to scream.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I'm fine, thanks. I... have to go."
And he does. He sells the car at a junkyard, and gets himself a Greyhound ticket back to New York; he thinks there's enough left after that, and taking food expenses into account, that he can get his guitar back once he's there.
Which is good, because all these chance encounters have finally chipped their way through his writer's block.
Prompt for October 13:
Stranded.
Roger doesn't have anywhere else to be, really, but the 24-hour diner; the car's not very comfortable for sleeping in, not that the sticky booth is all that much better. He'd love more than anything to not be in this hellhole of a restaurant, in this hellhole of a city - well, Omaha's more of a glorified suburb than anything, but the point stands - in this hellhole of a flatter-than-a-pancake state. No wonder nobody wants to live in Nebraska. There's nothing here.
It'd help if he could stop seeing pieces of Mimi in the locals. One with her hair, another with her skin tone and cheeks, even some pasty chick looking completely ridiculous in those blue rubber pants. It's fucking stupid, especially when he came all this way to forget about her.
"You're a real dumbass, you know that?"
Roger blinks. He must be asleep, because Angel's sitting on the other side of the booth like nothing happened, waiting for an answer.
"How do you mean?"
"...You don't really have to ask me that question, do you?"
"Oh, come on. Can you blame me for leaving?"
Angel sighs. "Actually, yes, I can. Since you basically started a huge fight on my account, in the middle of the goddamn cemetery, when you had no excuse to blow her off and run away from what's left of your friends."
"And what would you have me do if I was there? I can't drag her away from her drugs or her rich married boy."
"Maybe you could, if you gave yourself the chance. Besides, there's Mark. You going to leave it at taking away both his best friends at once?"
Roger starts to protest - Mark's the rock, Mark never breaks, or if he does he buries it under about a dozen reels of film - but thinks better of it. Angel's got a point, damn her... but still.
"Thought he had his work to distract him. For a profit, this time."
Angel just gives him a look. "It's not enough, and you know that as well as I do. Now, you get your ass back to New York, or I'll find a way to come back there and knock some sense into your skull, so help me God."
"How, genius? The car's dead."
"Get it fixed. Junk it and buy a bus ticket. I don't care. You're a smart boy, you figure it out."
"Some help you are--"
And then there's a hand on his shoulder; a concerned waitress, it turns out, shaking him awake. "Hey, you all right?"
Her name tag says 'Mimi'; it's all Roger can do not to scream.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I'm fine, thanks. I... have to go."
And he does. He sells the car at a junkyard, and gets himself a Greyhound ticket back to New York; he thinks there's enough left after that, and taking food expenses into account, that he can get his guitar back once he's there.
Which is good, because all these chance encounters have finally chipped their way through his writer's block.