brigits_flame Week 4: Beat
The Theme is Apparent in the Text
Songs referenced are "Wednesday's Child" by Vermillion Lies and "The Beat Goes On" by Sonny & Cher.
The beat goes on.
The beat goes on.
Drums keep pounding a rhythm to the brain.
La de da de de.
La de da de da.
Asbury Park.
Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk…
Jamie LeBeau is in the middle of preparing sweetened scrambled eggs when Vincent Orsino strolls down the hall, half-asleep and tugging his boxers out of inappropriate places. (Others know him by another name, but on vacation here in his hometown, he is merely Vincent. No more no less.) He climbs onto one of the stools at the counter, rubbing his eyes. Jamie smiles at him, putting down the fork and bowl.
“Mornin’, Pinky.”
Vincent yawns. “Morning, Baby Blue.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“Maybe.” The kiss they exchange make Vincent more alert. “What’re you making?”
Jamie shrugs. “Nothin’ special. Scrambled eggs… I’m thinking I might make some beignets later…”
“Ooh. I like the sound of that.”
“I thought you would.” The blonde man laughs a little. He picks up the coffeepot. “Coffee?”
“Orange juice, if we have it, Baby Blue. Milk if we don’t.” Yawning again, Vincent runs a hand through his messy black hair. “Shit. I’m getting old. It’s finally catching up with me.”
“Silly Pinky…” Jamie sets a glass of milk in front of the younger man. “You’re not wearing your gloves.”
The younger man looks up. “Huh? No… It’s too early for that. It’s too early to get into job mode.”
“But it’s ain’t too early to eat, is it?”
“Baby, it’s never too early to eat.”
The two men laugh. Vincent drinks his milk and pulls the Comics section from yesterday’s edition of the newspaper. Jamie goes to the spice rack he bought three days ago. He pulls out cinnamon and vanilla extract; adds a sprinkling of the former and a spoonful of the latter. Putting the spices away, he gets the milk out again, chiding himself for not pouring some into the eggs earlier. Milk makes the eggs a bit lighter, or so the maid always told him as a little boy…
“Are you really gonna make beignets?”
“Hm? Sure…” Jamie crosses his arms. “If you’ll go check the mail for us and pick up today’s paper.”
Silence. The dark-haired man ponders his options before rising off the stool, stretching and scratching at his scarred stomach.
“I’ll go put on some pants.” Vincent drops his arms, one hand slapping against the counter.
“Thank you, Pinky.” Jamie smiles a little, taking up the fork and bowl again.
Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk…
London.
Robert Amherst wakes up early to relative silence, thankful (as he is every morning and evening) that his brother purchased a flat in the quietest part of urban London. He likes to pretend sometimes that Wyatt purchased in this location out of foresight for Robert’s special need for privacy and quiet. In reality, Wyatt probably purchased in this area because it would allow him to do his never-ceasing work in peace, but that doesn’t keep Robert from occasionally pretending…
After showering and dressing, Robert sets water to boil for tea. As he waits, he washes up the items wallowing dirty in the sink for the last week. As he is the only one in the flat, and as he has had no guests, Robert likes to wait until the sink is near to full before washing. He doesn’t trust the electric dishwasher; the flood of suds and water that erupted from it the first time make him unusually suspicious of the thing.
The teakettle begins whistling just as the Englishman finishes drying off a lone green teacup rimmed with chipping white. Dropping a packet of Twinings Pure Peppermint tea into the bottom of the cup, Robert pours carefully, carefully, carefully… He and the old metal teakettle have a history of being bullied and bullying, the interactions almost always leaving light burns on the skin of his hands. This morning, however, it cooperates with him. The smell of peppermint tea seems to fill the kitchen.
“I need nothing else in this world--no other vice nor virtue--so long as I have a warm cup of tea, a warm bed, and a warm girl.” Robert laughs to himself as he carries his tea into the flat’s lounge, where the piano is kept. “Well, I suppose two out of three is never bad.”
The piano is a Steinway--specifically, an Essex Upright and even more specifically, the “Formal French” model in brown cherry. It seems a lifetime since Robert convinced Wyatt to miraculously part with the large sum of money for it, and he succeeded only because Wyatt knew the piano was something Robert would actually use on a regular basis. It keeps him out of trouble. It keeps him sane.
He finishes his tea before even thinking of sitting down on the bench. Robert is exceedingly protective of the Steinway, a trait no doubt passed to him by the tutor he had as a boy. Another trait passed onto him was that of following the metronome--a device he grew to loathe and love at once. The old man who tutored him had one that remained fixed to the top of the old piano. As he reaches for the one perched atop the Steinway, Robert remembers how much he hated being reprimanded for going faster or slower than the rhythmic clicks.
“The metronome, boy! Follow the bloody metronome! She is your guide through this forest of a melody; the foundation to your house of music. Without her, you are lost! Your house crumbles!”
Come to think of it, the old man had a Steinway, too, didn’t he? Not one like this, but one all the same. And now, despite the absence of his old tutor, Robert still keeps a metronome perched on top of his piano and still occasionally uses it. Like now. Now his slender fingers slide the pendulum’s weight up to the “Adagio” setting before returning it to its perch.
With the lifting of the piano lid, the keys shine like pearls in the gray light coming from outside. Robert runs his fingers over them gently, careful not to play any notes.
“Hello, my lovelies.” He smiles. “Time now to fill the world with music…”
Robert’s motions are fluid, fast. He barely seems to touch the metronome, but its sudden movement provides evidence of disturbance from the resting position.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick--
In this way, and now with pressure on the keys, Robert begins:
“Monday’s Child is fair of face.
Tuesday’s Child is full of grace.
Wednesday’s Child is full of woe.
Thursday’s Child has far to go-oh!
Friday’s Child is kind and giving.
Saturday’s Child works hard for a living.
But the child that was born on the Sabbath Day
Is blithe and bonny, gold…and…gay…”
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick…
Robert Amherst was born on a Friday.
Seattle.
Ean Amherst sits outside of a Starbucks looking at old pictures that he swiped from his house while his family was out. Being two years dead (and thus invisible to most of the Living), he could have easily gone while his mom and stepfather were there, but the sight of them makes Ean uncomfortable. He only went for the large green photo album hidden away in the attic, the one with pictures of his childhood--pictures his mother put away, Ean figures, after he left for art school.
A lot of these pictures feature Ean’s father--his real father, the one who died when Ean was five. His mother had said it was an accident; the reality was that his father had purposefully driven his car into the Puget Sound. It was a reality that, like a lot of other things surrounding his father’s family, Ean didn’t learn about until after his own death from cancer at twenty-three.
But that doesn’t concern him now. What concerns him are the pictures--especially the older ones of him with his father. There are so many of them… Who took these? His mother? It seems almost impossible. Irene never seemed the photographer type. But still…there are so many…
Within the album, Ean finds one that gives him reason for pause. Carefully, he removes it from its protective plastic sleeve and holds it in his thin fingers. The date scrawled on the back (in his mother’s handwriting) reads September, 1985. And on the front of the photo, an adorable blond toddler naps peacefully and safely within his napping father’s arms on the family couch. The man’s glasses are slightly askew, his white dress shirt and brown slacks suggesting a tired arrival from work. The toddler is in a blue t-shirt and diapers, with half a tiny thumb in his little pout of a mouth.
Ean smiles a little. He is the toddler; the man, his real father. Next to that one, he finds another photo nearby of himself as a toddler with a stethoscope on, its diaphragm pressed against his own chest. There is still a third photo where he is listening to his father’s heartbeat instead.
Something about the photos resonate within the young man. They feel important, as though they point to some revelation still hidden in a fog, but why?
A sudden breeze blows the three pictures out of his hands, forcing Ean to forget the question as he chases them down the street, large green photo album in tow.
New York City.
Claudio Marcello is pulling on clothes and rushing out of a penthouse suite. The upstairs neighbor is beating his wife again, and despite being the highest of the high-end apartment buildings in the city, the commotion is loud enough to bleed through the ceiling. It forces involvement out of him while other tenants feign ignorance.
The elevator isn’t fast enough. He pounds his feet into the stairs hard enough that the echoes are like cannon blasts.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM--!
Round the landing.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
SLAM!
The door leading out onto the ninth floor shakes on its hinges. Here, the commotion is louder. Claudio can make out screaming in two vocal ranges--high and low, female and male. There is the sound of glass breaking. So far, no one else has come out in concern or interest. Claudio is alone in the carpeted hallway. No one is around to see the intense look on his handsome face, his dark eyes burning with purpose--and that, for the moment, is a good thing.
He makes his way down the hall carefully but quickly. At the door where the screaming is the loudest, Claudio stops. He tries the doorknob; it doesn’t budge. In that moment, he decides not to bother with knocking. Claudio isn’t that type of man in situations like these. Claudio is more the type to slam his foot against the door until something happens.
In this case, the door survives two hard kicks before swinging open.
The next few minutes happen in rapid succession. All will agree later that a shot was fired, but nobody (save for those in the room) will agree over why it was fired. All that’s certain is that, by the time an uneasy silence begins pervading the ninth-floor suite, the abusive husband lies bleeding on the white carpet while half his skull decorates the white couches his wife probably picked out.
The newly-widowed woman is frantic; she is young, pretty despite the cut bottom lip and shiner on her left eye. Claudio does his best to calm her, taking control of the situation as he holsters his pistol. He picks up a nearby cordless phone and, after wiping the traces of blood off with his sleeve, holds it out to her.
“What--?”
“Call the cops. Tell them what happened here. Tell them everything.”
“Bu--but--” The widow’s eyes widen. “But they’ll arrest you--”
“Just…call them.” Claudio puts on his best charming smile. He sits down on the less-stained loveseat and collects the television remote from the coffee table. “Everything’s going to be okay. You’re safe now.”
Half an hour later, two uniformed officers of the NYPD find the young man calmly making tea for the shaken new widow. They take him down to the nearest station for questioning with no struggle. Claudio is conversational with them on the drive and freely answers their questions in the interview room.
The passing of an hour finds Claudio Marcello strolling out of the station with no charges against him and a slightly lighter wallet in his pocket.
And the beat goes on,
The beat goes on.
Drums keep pounding a rhythm to the brain.
La de da de de,
La de da de da.
Songs referenced are "Wednesday's Child" by Vermillion Lies and "The Beat Goes On" by Sonny & Cher.
The beat goes on.
The beat goes on.
Drums keep pounding a rhythm to the brain.
La de da de de.
La de da de da.
Asbury Park.
Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk…
Jamie LeBeau is in the middle of preparing sweetened scrambled eggs when Vincent Orsino strolls down the hall, half-asleep and tugging his boxers out of inappropriate places. (Others know him by another name, but on vacation here in his hometown, he is merely Vincent. No more no less.) He climbs onto one of the stools at the counter, rubbing his eyes. Jamie smiles at him, putting down the fork and bowl.
“Mornin’, Pinky.”
Vincent yawns. “Morning, Baby Blue.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“Maybe.” The kiss they exchange make Vincent more alert. “What’re you making?”
Jamie shrugs. “Nothin’ special. Scrambled eggs… I’m thinking I might make some beignets later…”
“Ooh. I like the sound of that.”
“I thought you would.” The blonde man laughs a little. He picks up the coffeepot. “Coffee?”
“Orange juice, if we have it, Baby Blue. Milk if we don’t.” Yawning again, Vincent runs a hand through his messy black hair. “Shit. I’m getting old. It’s finally catching up with me.”
“Silly Pinky…” Jamie sets a glass of milk in front of the younger man. “You’re not wearing your gloves.”
The younger man looks up. “Huh? No… It’s too early for that. It’s too early to get into job mode.”
“But it’s ain’t too early to eat, is it?”
“Baby, it’s never too early to eat.”
The two men laugh. Vincent drinks his milk and pulls the Comics section from yesterday’s edition of the newspaper. Jamie goes to the spice rack he bought three days ago. He pulls out cinnamon and vanilla extract; adds a sprinkling of the former and a spoonful of the latter. Putting the spices away, he gets the milk out again, chiding himself for not pouring some into the eggs earlier. Milk makes the eggs a bit lighter, or so the maid always told him as a little boy…
“Are you really gonna make beignets?”
“Hm? Sure…” Jamie crosses his arms. “If you’ll go check the mail for us and pick up today’s paper.”
Silence. The dark-haired man ponders his options before rising off the stool, stretching and scratching at his scarred stomach.
“I’ll go put on some pants.” Vincent drops his arms, one hand slapping against the counter.
“Thank you, Pinky.” Jamie smiles a little, taking up the fork and bowl again.
Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk…
London.
Robert Amherst wakes up early to relative silence, thankful (as he is every morning and evening) that his brother purchased a flat in the quietest part of urban London. He likes to pretend sometimes that Wyatt purchased in this location out of foresight for Robert’s special need for privacy and quiet. In reality, Wyatt probably purchased in this area because it would allow him to do his never-ceasing work in peace, but that doesn’t keep Robert from occasionally pretending…
After showering and dressing, Robert sets water to boil for tea. As he waits, he washes up the items wallowing dirty in the sink for the last week. As he is the only one in the flat, and as he has had no guests, Robert likes to wait until the sink is near to full before washing. He doesn’t trust the electric dishwasher; the flood of suds and water that erupted from it the first time make him unusually suspicious of the thing.
The teakettle begins whistling just as the Englishman finishes drying off a lone green teacup rimmed with chipping white. Dropping a packet of Twinings Pure Peppermint tea into the bottom of the cup, Robert pours carefully, carefully, carefully… He and the old metal teakettle have a history of being bullied and bullying, the interactions almost always leaving light burns on the skin of his hands. This morning, however, it cooperates with him. The smell of peppermint tea seems to fill the kitchen.
“I need nothing else in this world--no other vice nor virtue--so long as I have a warm cup of tea, a warm bed, and a warm girl.” Robert laughs to himself as he carries his tea into the flat’s lounge, where the piano is kept. “Well, I suppose two out of three is never bad.”
The piano is a Steinway--specifically, an Essex Upright and even more specifically, the “Formal French” model in brown cherry. It seems a lifetime since Robert convinced Wyatt to miraculously part with the large sum of money for it, and he succeeded only because Wyatt knew the piano was something Robert would actually use on a regular basis. It keeps him out of trouble. It keeps him sane.
He finishes his tea before even thinking of sitting down on the bench. Robert is exceedingly protective of the Steinway, a trait no doubt passed to him by the tutor he had as a boy. Another trait passed onto him was that of following the metronome--a device he grew to loathe and love at once. The old man who tutored him had one that remained fixed to the top of the old piano. As he reaches for the one perched atop the Steinway, Robert remembers how much he hated being reprimanded for going faster or slower than the rhythmic clicks.
“The metronome, boy! Follow the bloody metronome! She is your guide through this forest of a melody; the foundation to your house of music. Without her, you are lost! Your house crumbles!”
Come to think of it, the old man had a Steinway, too, didn’t he? Not one like this, but one all the same. And now, despite the absence of his old tutor, Robert still keeps a metronome perched on top of his piano and still occasionally uses it. Like now. Now his slender fingers slide the pendulum’s weight up to the “Adagio” setting before returning it to its perch.
With the lifting of the piano lid, the keys shine like pearls in the gray light coming from outside. Robert runs his fingers over them gently, careful not to play any notes.
“Hello, my lovelies.” He smiles. “Time now to fill the world with music…”
Robert’s motions are fluid, fast. He barely seems to touch the metronome, but its sudden movement provides evidence of disturbance from the resting position.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick--
In this way, and now with pressure on the keys, Robert begins:
“Monday’s Child is fair of face.
Tuesday’s Child is full of grace.
Wednesday’s Child is full of woe.
Thursday’s Child has far to go-oh!
Friday’s Child is kind and giving.
Saturday’s Child works hard for a living.
But the child that was born on the Sabbath Day
Is blithe and bonny, gold…and…gay…”
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick…
Robert Amherst was born on a Friday.
Seattle.
Ean Amherst sits outside of a Starbucks looking at old pictures that he swiped from his house while his family was out. Being two years dead (and thus invisible to most of the Living), he could have easily gone while his mom and stepfather were there, but the sight of them makes Ean uncomfortable. He only went for the large green photo album hidden away in the attic, the one with pictures of his childhood--pictures his mother put away, Ean figures, after he left for art school.
A lot of these pictures feature Ean’s father--his real father, the one who died when Ean was five. His mother had said it was an accident; the reality was that his father had purposefully driven his car into the Puget Sound. It was a reality that, like a lot of other things surrounding his father’s family, Ean didn’t learn about until after his own death from cancer at twenty-three.
But that doesn’t concern him now. What concerns him are the pictures--especially the older ones of him with his father. There are so many of them… Who took these? His mother? It seems almost impossible. Irene never seemed the photographer type. But still…there are so many…
Within the album, Ean finds one that gives him reason for pause. Carefully, he removes it from its protective plastic sleeve and holds it in his thin fingers. The date scrawled on the back (in his mother’s handwriting) reads September, 1985. And on the front of the photo, an adorable blond toddler naps peacefully and safely within his napping father’s arms on the family couch. The man’s glasses are slightly askew, his white dress shirt and brown slacks suggesting a tired arrival from work. The toddler is in a blue t-shirt and diapers, with half a tiny thumb in his little pout of a mouth.
Ean smiles a little. He is the toddler; the man, his real father. Next to that one, he finds another photo nearby of himself as a toddler with a stethoscope on, its diaphragm pressed against his own chest. There is still a third photo where he is listening to his father’s heartbeat instead.
Something about the photos resonate within the young man. They feel important, as though they point to some revelation still hidden in a fog, but why?
A sudden breeze blows the three pictures out of his hands, forcing Ean to forget the question as he chases them down the street, large green photo album in tow.
New York City.
Claudio Marcello is pulling on clothes and rushing out of a penthouse suite. The upstairs neighbor is beating his wife again, and despite being the highest of the high-end apartment buildings in the city, the commotion is loud enough to bleed through the ceiling. It forces involvement out of him while other tenants feign ignorance.
The elevator isn’t fast enough. He pounds his feet into the stairs hard enough that the echoes are like cannon blasts.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM--!
Round the landing.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
SLAM!
The door leading out onto the ninth floor shakes on its hinges. Here, the commotion is louder. Claudio can make out screaming in two vocal ranges--high and low, female and male. There is the sound of glass breaking. So far, no one else has come out in concern or interest. Claudio is alone in the carpeted hallway. No one is around to see the intense look on his handsome face, his dark eyes burning with purpose--and that, for the moment, is a good thing.
He makes his way down the hall carefully but quickly. At the door where the screaming is the loudest, Claudio stops. He tries the doorknob; it doesn’t budge. In that moment, he decides not to bother with knocking. Claudio isn’t that type of man in situations like these. Claudio is more the type to slam his foot against the door until something happens.
In this case, the door survives two hard kicks before swinging open.
The next few minutes happen in rapid succession. All will agree later that a shot was fired, but nobody (save for those in the room) will agree over why it was fired. All that’s certain is that, by the time an uneasy silence begins pervading the ninth-floor suite, the abusive husband lies bleeding on the white carpet while half his skull decorates the white couches his wife probably picked out.
The newly-widowed woman is frantic; she is young, pretty despite the cut bottom lip and shiner on her left eye. Claudio does his best to calm her, taking control of the situation as he holsters his pistol. He picks up a nearby cordless phone and, after wiping the traces of blood off with his sleeve, holds it out to her.
“What--?”
“Call the cops. Tell them what happened here. Tell them everything.”
“Bu--but--” The widow’s eyes widen. “But they’ll arrest you--”
“Just…call them.” Claudio puts on his best charming smile. He sits down on the less-stained loveseat and collects the television remote from the coffee table. “Everything’s going to be okay. You’re safe now.”
Half an hour later, two uniformed officers of the NYPD find the young man calmly making tea for the shaken new widow. They take him down to the nearest station for questioning with no struggle. Claudio is conversational with them on the drive and freely answers their questions in the interview room.
The passing of an hour finds Claudio Marcello strolling out of the station with no charges against him and a slightly lighter wallet in his pocket.
And the beat goes on,
The beat goes on.
Drums keep pounding a rhythm to the brain.
La de da de de,
La de da de da.