Decay, it peered through the window glass eyes of its own spectral devices and did not deign to stray from its oxygen companion. Tattered shells of smoke lined the creased pools of glass ashtrays, a curious ownership tied each to its collection of paper husks and smoldering scents, the quirk understated and only acknowledged by the mahogany warscape that hid just beneath the napkins. Littered counter tops paved themselves with dessicated peanut cadavers retaining too much definition to their hallows...but were not unpleasant.
Softly, they grieved, and sighed...and remained amongst the plethora of activity begotten. The whispers of decomposition were not forgot, but removed, and with them the pangs of wonderment. Gentle, the languishing light breathed upon them, inoculating into them the flurry of restoration. In this...they were ideal.
Unprecedented, the masses drew parallel fates...yet they did not see the disturbed chords between themselves...and the used things which spiced the air. Coleman did not find himself among these silhouettes, enamored with their disconcerting messes and technical deficiencies, but he found himself intrigued by them. Their crimes, and their glorifications. Delusions, bemusements, the undefinable terms which they so carelessly, yet meticulously, pinned to themselves and others with tacks both delectable and cruel.
They functioned without synchronized means, and found themselves unknowing specimens for a man with only scotch and a pack of lites for company. He found himself shadowed by the lighting, advantageously, and surrounded by a choice few patrons...the bar was dull at this time, inviting in comparison to the autumn weather. With a alcohol laced sigh he wrung another drag from the sooty cigarette resting between middle and index finger.
His leather jacket was well lined, coupled with more than a few layerings of clothing beneath. A dark olive sweater found its place over a thinner gray one, which in turn found its place over a stripped oxford. and despite this...he found himself frigid. Annoyed. Mellow. The usual verboseness replaced with simply structured phrases and gestures. Another.
Somehow a piano had managed to find itself into the bar...neglected thing, isolated from the precious few who would sit tonight. His thoughts were turned inward and away...away from the gore drenched school, and objects of genius which so usually occupied...but not distanced from the instrument. Lovely. Do you mind [?] . No one ever did. It was usual. The man was usual. The rest was ignored, beyond movements towards the black, disenchanted creature and the caricature of remiss. The smoke lingered between his lips as he sat upon the antique bench and brushed his fingers over the bleached keys. An oddity...yet turn by turn he grew more attached to the thing...familiarized it...and began to play something...something. Gnossienne No. 1 . It began to repaint the images about him in more pleasant hues...and drew contrast to the other unoccupied and illegitimate objects, instrumentals, and a microphone.
Yet no one cared to play in concert or duet. Another lonely night with the rapture of thought, alcohol, and decay drew on...it attracted attention, however, and soon he found himself filtering through the small crowds who had ventured in for a drink, a smirk coloring his features. He very much doubted however that any would join him, his tastes for people were not at their best...there had been a date earlier with a girl in a white dress...and before that talk of torture...and now only the remains of an evening. In pieces.
The world softened with the music and in that came the whispered words of another language.
If it were not for the betterment of his health, the Irishman would have remained at home. But the cramped apartment that he shared with his brothers was too bothersome to find comfort in. With the pleasant ring of clocking out, Patrick T. Davis had tossed his apron into the bin and left the restaurant he gave eight hours a day to. The Dinner crowd through, his replacement arriving, he'd literally flown from the place. Because typical jobs never suited his wild spirit. He did not find satisfaction in the remedial, even though cooking had pros of its own. He preferred the family business.
But the lack of a place to go had him lurking streets. His gate was long and evenly paced, his head held high, though tipped so that the shadow of his hat might hide his eyes. Patrick had stolen a shower before leaving, and was actually dressed in a manner that could suggest he wasn't just above the poverty line. A blue collared shirt, clean, newer jeans, and brown shoes that gleamed from oil. He wore a simple coat and matching fedora, and his bright eyes scanned the city, its lights, its life. Granted it was no Cork, but New York City had its own appeal.
Walking also offered its distractions. Left in the back of a restaurant to cook, it allowed space for the mind to wander. A man of deep thoughts but few words, this spelled disaster for the likes of Patrick. His mind tended to drift and zero in on a vast array of family-oriented things. He thought of his mother, then of his father. Which led him to think of the Russians, and then the Clans. That had him back to his siblings, and then his sister. She had such an unhealthy obsession and amount of woe. He knew he'd added to it, but he could not stop himself. You needed to be strong through, and you learned this strength through trials.
Before he could really register where he was going, he was standing outside of the black diamond. Looking up at its banner, the newer style of its structure, he debated going in. Should he? Patrick was not one for this kind of place, the upper crust, as he laughably called it. He preferred hole in the wall establishments with watered down beer, stale peanuts, and a good go 'round of people. But where was the harm in something new?
Remobing his hat upon entry, Patrick's cool eyes looked around. There were not that many patrons, which was good for him, he preferred it like that when it came to strange places. Few people, fewer things to watch out for. There was a man playing a tune on a piano which seemed previously abandoned. How it managed to find itself in the bar, Partrick did not know, but did not readily care. He made his way to the bar, and sat down on the stool. He allowed his shoulders to slacken somewhat, and ran a hand through his red hair.
"Paddeh Cocktail," Patrick said to the barmaid, and she went about making him his drink.
Patrick watched the amber whiskey being poured in, watched the woman's manicured hands shaking his drink, then allow it to spill over ice. He closed his eyes and rubbed them gingerly, before his hand swept over his face, drawing back at the scruff adorning his chin and jaw. He needed a shave. He thanked the barmaid with a smile, and allowed the piano music to fill his thoughts. It really did take some edge off of the atmosphere, and his unsettled thoughts...