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imaginewarehouse · 4 years

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Various Males x Fem!ExModel!Reader || Oneshot

Plot: You, a retired model get hired at Cloud 9 and, not-at-all-surprisingly, you get harassed by every allegeable (According to them) bachelor in the place- but god fucking damnit! You’re just here to get a paycheck??!

“You can’t knock ‘em out, you cant walk away,

Try desperately to think about the politest way to say,

“Just get out of my face,”, “Just leave me alone,”

“And no you cant have my number,”,

“Why?”

“Cuz I lost my phone.”

(Inspired by Lily Allen’s Knock ‘Em Out)

Includes (In order of appearance after the introduction bit): Sal Kazlauskas, Garret McNeil, Tate Staskiewicz, Isaac (And I think my favouritism here definitely bleeds through*Cough*), Elias Greene, Cory, Jonah Simms, and Marcus White.

Warnings: Sal, harassment (They leave after you say no though. Just to be sure)

🔆 🔆 🔆

“And uh, yeah one last thing before we all hop off to work! We have a new Cloud 9 family member. Y/N! Would you like to stand up?” Glenn, the lovely man who took your interview a week ago and then went out of his way today to look for you out front in the morning to show you around quickly and guide you through clocking in, finds you in the crowd of workers and gestures for you to stand.

Oh, uh- uhh, okay! Up we get, then, you think as you stand up like he said and take a look around at all the judging eyes, which normally wouldn’t phase you but here is a lot scarier than what you’re used to. This an entirely different environment to getting up at a modelling gig- you know nothing about working this kind of job! You’ve never done it, so, you’re afraid they’ll judge you right off the bat and make it difficult for you to ask questions. And you can’t keep bothering Glenn- he has more important things to do.

Oh god, you hear whispering. You peer around. Where is that coming from?-

“This is Y/N L/N! She’ll be working with Go back’s today,” Right, Go Back’s Easy enough; Glenn explained them earlier before the meeting started. “So if you see her in your area- be sure to say hello and see if she needs some help, K? Good. We’re jazzed to have you with us Y/N.”

“Thank you!” You quip quickly, then sit down and focus on Glenn again, hoping dearly at the same time that attention disperses from you immediately.

Glenn smiles, glancing down at his clipboard for any last-minute messages. “Okay! I think that’s it, so- “

The whispering from before suddenly cuts off. “Uh yeah, question?” Glenn stops short when a man in the back kind of rudely cuts him off, but sighs out a ‘Yes, Marcus?’ as the woman beside him - Dina, - rolls her eyes severely. Oh, you let a tiny ghost of a smirk slip over your lips. That’s kind of a reaction, isn’t it? “Yo- new girl.” What- me- w h y- You immediately get awkward again and twist around in your chair, but don’t really know who to look at. Luckily the tall brunette in the warehouse uniform is pointing, so you figure it out pretty quick that that’s who you’re looking for, and calm down. Mostly.

Yeah? You raise one eyebrow. “Hi?”

He grins back to the right and the left of him, to his equally pleased buddies and pals, before raising a Vogue magazine- and it’s the issue on which you scored the front page. Jeez, that was months ago! “Is this you?”

A chorus of ‘Ohhhhh’ and general excitement travels around the room and for the first time ever, you’re half ashamed to admit that yes that is you. In your usual circle this is something to be proud of… but you get that it isn’t really like that, in non-modelling circles. In fact, it could be something to be embarrassed about.

Especially seeing that oh dude and his gang of Michael Myers fashion wannabes look like a hungry, dim-witted, wolves rather than plainly interested about your modelling career.

But, still, you smile politely and nod. Hopefully it’ll be forgotten before the afternoon, at least. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Nice.”

Hmm… you really, really hope that it’s forgotten soon, at least, as you turn back around to face the front again as Glenn sends everyone off to work. Because if not, then these boys are going to learn the hard way that models take self-defence classes religiously.

Or at least you are going to have a very uncomfortable day, which is just great. You groan inwardly at the thought, as you gather up your coffee from the table beside you and drop it in the trash can on the way out.

You’re just doing your own thing and someone

Comes out of the blue,

They’re like,

“Alright”

But he’s saying

“Yeah can I take your digits?”

And you’re like, “No, not in a million years, you’re nasty.

Please leave me alone.”

There’s already so many Go Back’s! You think excitedly, as you get to work looking for where things should be. You’re glad to have something to do- at your first job with Chuck E Cheese, before you got into the modelling thing, you were basically useless the first day because you weren’t allowed to grill yet, you didn’t know how to assemble, and they didn’t want you out on the floor for the birthday party that was happening, in fear that you would mess up royally. So you just sat around trying not bother anyone, and that felt terrible. So, wandering the aisles of Cloud 9 with a full shopping trolley searching for products and neatening things up? Sounds like a good deal to you. Yes please.

“Uhh, hi.”

You practically jump entirely out of your skin, hearing the voice right beside you and whip your head around to see a balding guy in a blue Cloud 9 jacket. Is this man licking his fingers!?

“Uh,” You step back with your brightest, most polite smile, picking something up from the Go Back’s cart and rounding it to put it between you and the man, before acting like you’re stupid enough to be putting barbecue sauce in the Barbie section, and then… “Oh, oops! Silly me!” You flash the guy a nervous look. “I’m still working things out… “

Well? Better to look like an absolute idiot, then be standing within grabbing radius of the creepy man licking his fingers that you’re all alone in the middle of an empty aisle with. “Um… so, what’s up? Did someone send you to find me, or… am I doing something wrong? You know better than me, after all!”

“No… “His gaze licks up your form and if it weren’t for all your ‘training’ in staying still and not feeling this kind of thing- you absolutely would have wigged out. “You’re doing fine… Just wanted to see you.”

Boy- if anyone else could see your face right at this moment, full of disgust and mild horror, you’re sure you would be YouTubes next hit. Or a meme. “Oh… “You nervously chuckle. “Um, well, I’m gonna… go… “You pull the trolley around so that you can back up out the back of the aisle and escape through stuffed toys, into the open but his hand comes down on the other end of the trolley- stopping it. Before you can stop yourself, verbal diarrhoea spews from your lips. “Glenn has my resume- there’s a photo on there you can have.”

“That’s okay I prefer them to be breathing.” Both his hands are on the end of your trolley now, tight so his knuckles turn white, and he’s breathing unnecessarily heavy. He’s even leaning over the trolley some like his body really can’t handle whatever terrible heat is plaguing it right now. Oh god, oh god oh god oh god… this is so gross.

“Well, that’s… u-understandable...”

He looks up into your eyes, now, and doesn’t blink. Who the hell is this guy?! “Say… “ Oh no, oh no- he’s coming around the trolley-he’s coming around-he’s close-too close-too close-mayday-MAYDAY- Slowly, in your face, he licks up his thumb, makes an ‘Mm,’ sound, and you deeply wince; So much so in fact that one of your eyes completely closes. “Could I take your phone number?”

You absolutely couldn’t have helped what happened next if you had wanted to.

“Eeeeuuuwwwwwwww no not in a million years, your nasty, please leave me alone!!” You exclaim in a high voice before abandoning the trolley and rushing off to customer service.

“No you cant have my number,”

“Why?”

“Cuz I lost my phone.”

By the time you got to the front desk, you had basically calmed down and were mostly just stressed that you left the Go Back’s behind- but still must look troubled as the guy manning the front desk makes a confused, half-concerned but mostly intrigued kind of face at you as you stop there. You’re about to explain your appearance - that or just shrug, not too bothered about reporting whatever mess that was. Not on your first day, at least. No way. - when his face relaxes, and he nods. “Ohhh. Damn, Sal got to you?”

Sal? Was that the guy’s name? You didn’t check. “Oh, was that his name? I was a bit too preoccupied by his eyeballs sucking out my soul, to notice his name tag.” Now that you’re thinking about it, though, you glance at this man’s name tag. Garret.

“Yep, that’s Sal. That’s just one of the wonderful things involved in working here that you’ll just have to get used to.” Garret grins, offering you a chill perspective with a side of cynicism. You sigh, truly feeling relieved that you’ve found a normal person and relax your back against the taller part of the desk.

“Brilliant.” The sarcasm drips off the tip of your tongue.

“You’ll have to deal with a lotta that here, though, looking like you do.” You turn your head to the side to look already exhausted just by the idea, at him. He shrugs. “Hey, I don’t make the rules. I just speak the truth.”

“God- I feel sorry for the other women working here.”

“Oh, no. They’re in a completely different wheelhouse to you. Sorry.” Garret leans on his forearms on the desk, and you roll over to lean on your shoulder and pay attention. “See, you’re a model- “

“I was a model,”

“You were a model- which through primitive male thought process makes you prime real estate. Whoever manages to ‘bag’ you, for lack of a better word I apologise, gets some serious bragging rights.” He shrugs, and looks vaguely apologetic but still some how shameless as this utter bullshit slips out of his mouth. “We can’t help it- some of us don’t even know we’re doing that, but we are. Actually, I’m probably the only one who’ll admit it… which… kinda makes me your best option. Self-awareness, and all that.”

Oh. A dry laugh comes out of you as you feel a text come through in your back pocket and pull out your phone. As you see that its not an urgent message, you immediately put the phone back and glance around for any supervisors before returning to your conversation with Garret. “Oh- of course it does.”

“Exactly!” He grins, and you can’t tell through his expression at all whether he’s genuinely this clueless or if he’s just shooting his shot. “So- “

“No, you can’t have my number.”

“Why?”

Deadass, in a very monotone voice, you say: “I lost my phone.”

Then the two of you just have a stare off for a minute. Garret because he just saw you use your phone, and you because you wont back down.

“Oh yeah, actually yeah I’m, I’m pregnant. I’m having a baby in like 6 months, so no. Yeah, yeah… “

“You know,” The chemist pipes up from behind the Pharmacy desk as you put back some pill boxes he said were fine to return to the shelves, and you glance over at him to show you’re listening, and check his name tag. “I myself considered a career in modelling, before this. People even say, now, that I could model.”

Oh boy. You think, fighting not roll your eyes. And how old are you? Early 30’s? I don’t think so buddy.

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t recommend it.” You flash him a nervous grin before returning to your shelving. “You’re good for, like, 3 years. But then you hit 22 and unless you look like Victoria Justice shared with you whatever youth fountain she got chucked into, then you have to find something else to do with your life- despite having nothing to fall back on.” Okay… so… I might be a bit bitter.

Tate chuckles - and oh boy, he sounds just like your old manager. Totally fake, -, hiding his hands in his lab coat pockets. “Yeah, you’re probably right… Besides, I got the better end of the deal, anyway. Doctor for the doctors, they call us.” They call Pharmacists that? Who? That’s news to you. “Ahhh, yeah… I’m doing pretty well for myself.”

“Yep.” Forcing a fake smile his way, you leave the shelf you were stocking and get closer to the desk to stock another, as Tate’s eyes follow you waiting for encouragement of some kind. Doesn’t he have a job to do?? “You chose well!”

“Yeah, thanks. I know.” Ffffff-f a r out. This guy! “You know, you and me, we’d make a good couple.”

Oh? Dear god? You pause your shelving in surprise at the bomb this man has just dropped so casually, fish oil tablets paused on their journey to the shelf mid-air. Could Garret’s crazy-pants theory have been right?

“Ohh,” You giggle nervously, returning to work a bit faster now. “I don’t know. I think for a pharmacist like you, I would envision, like… “An actual doctor? No, I can’t say that. “A personal trainer, or something. Keep you both healthy all-round, you know? Now that’s a power team.” As long as that personal trainer has humility enough for the both of them, at least.

“Mergh,” He makes a face, like ‘What the heck are you talking about??’, before shaking his head of the things you just said and leaning over the desk towards you. You keep packing, even faster now. Like the Flash. Go! Go! Go! Death Con 5!! “So, whadaya say? I could pick you up Friday after work, and we could head up to one of my timeshares?” He says that like it’s such a selling point! You think, fighting off the powerful urge to laugh but still feeling the panic deep in the pits of your soul. “Stake it out together for the weekend? Get to know each other?”

“Uhh… “Excuses! What are they? You slowly stop stocking, turning around to face him and crossing your arms. The man deserves to at least be faced as he’s rejected; You’re kind enough to give him that, at least. “I’d love to! But, the thing is… “Chewing your bottom lip, you think hard.

Ding Ding Ding!!

“The thing is, Tate… “You fake some nerves, now. “I’m actually, uh… “You look up, face relaxing. “Pregnant.”

Oh boy, the way that man recoils at that word, like a terrified, disgruntled, blonde hedgehog. You’re going to laugh so hard about it, later!! “Oh.”

“Yeah! Oh, I mean, yeah… I’m gonna be having a baby, in like, 6 months so… yeah… Yep.“ You shrug to him, as if its just so unfortunate. “Shame.”

She looks in her bag, takes out a fag, tries to get away from the guy on a blag,

Can’t find a light.

‘’Here, use mine.’’

‘’See the thing is I just don’t have the time.’’

Ahh, lunch. Now you can check your texts! Hmm, you look through your notifications and gradually lose excitement. Mum… mum… mum… phone bill company… friend… mum again…

Ah, the glamorous life of the famous.

You roll your eyes, and get to responding to your mothers texts about dinner and when you’ll be home and how your first day is going, not noticing the not-so-jolly, not-so-green-(unless-you-meant-pot) giant approaching you. When you finally finish responding to both your mum and your friend, you put your phone away and start unwrapping your lunch- a typical ham sandwich that you’re actually pretty excited about. That’s one good thing about your sudden drop in financial status; You can put in your damn sandwich as many pieces of ham and cheese as you like. Grinning excitedly, you pick it up and have it halfway to your mouth before another person - a very heavy, large person, - drops down beside you on the bench you’ve commandeered behind the store. You close your mouth without any delicious lunch inside it and look up, politely to the person who’s joined you.

And all you can think, is wow.

He could put you in a suitcase and walk off with you right now and have no problems.

That’s wow.

“Hi! I’m Y/N,” You introduce yourself, offering a hand for him to shake.

“I know.” Oh, well yeah okay that’s understandable. Glenn did introduce you to everyone this morning. Despite the man’s less-then-excited response, he takes your hand in his and shakes. It makes you all giddy inside, honestly. So b i g. “Names Isaac.”

Do you remember Isaac in the breakroom this morning? You wrack your brain for him, because surely if he was there you noticed him-

Oh. Yep, you remember him. He was one of that Marcus-Dude’s pals chuckling and whispering behind him. He was one of the men that had the magazine with you on the front, and if there’s one thing you know about men who carry Vogue in their locker’s it’s that they fit into only 2 groups- interested in fashion, obviously… and interested in the women. And this man clearly is not interested in fashion. Immediately, on this realisation, you feel disappointed- you really could have liked this man right off the bat…

But it looks like he’s just going to be another of the men at this store you have to get to know, before becoming friendly with.

“So,” He starts, and you fight off a wince. Hopefully, you don’t know what’s coming. But… the likeliness of that is not high. “You wanna go out, some time? I’m a big fan of your work.” He smirks.

“Oh, ha ha.” You laugh sarcastically, shaking your head and returning to your sandwich. You take a bite and- Ahhhhhh, so worth the wait. Oh my god. Food orgasm. “At least you’re honest!”

“Yeah, so is that a yes?” His face brightens a smidgeon, which is a lot seeing as he doesn’t seem to be totally all there, in the first place.

You look up at Isaac, and look apologetic. He was honest with you so its only fair that you’re genuine with him. “Sorry… “

“Ah- actually, I don’t know if this’ll change your mind, but I have 2 weeks to live, so… “

Never mind on that honesty thing, then.

Dull-eyed, you stare up at him. “… Uh-huh.”

“Its true! I have, uh, cancer.” He insists, nodding his head and forcing his eyebrows up his forehead all serious-like.

“Cancer.” Right.

“Yep.”

Right, time to look in the bag... You start to wrap up your lunch again - sadly, as now you’ll have to wait until the end of the day and the bus ride home to eat it, - and plop it back away in your bag, getting up and pulling out a cigarette instead- that should hold you over until the end of the day. “My lunch break is actually over, so I should go- Damn, where’s my light?“

Isaac rifles through his pockets until he pulls out an old looking neon orange lighter, and offers it to you. “Here, use mine.”

Oh, no. You stare at it like a deer in headlights. If you accept that, like you really want to right now because it’s been a month since your last smoke, then you have obligations to sit with him for another couple minutes, at least.

Aghh… You groan and whine on the inside, before making up your mind and flinging the cigarette into a puddle. “See the thing is, I don’t actually have the time-”

“Go away now, let me go.”

“Are you stupid? Or just a little slow?”

“Ughhh… “This one has been giving you looks all day, but had no courage until now to speak to you- but the thing is? He didn’t have the smarts, either, to take off his wedding ring at least before he decided to be a bastard and bother you. So you feel absolutely no regret about being exactly as dismissive or plain rude, as you feel. “Elias? Go away now.”

The nervous man, who’s been ringing his hands this whole time and stuttering through failed date requests that you pretended you didn’t understand because of his struggle, gets panicked. “Just let me ask!- Will, will you go out with me?”

“No.” You yawn, dropping a piglet toy into a basket.

“But!- “

Turning away, you start pushing your trolley along to get to the next aisle. “Let me go.”

“We can go wherever you like!”

Sighhhhhhhhh. You turn around and grant him an audience, putting your hands on your hips and raising you brows at the wedding band on his left hand.

“Are you stupid? Or just a little slow?”

“Please fuck off.”

Oh good god in heaven, they’re going bigger with their proposals.

“Y/N! Will you go out with me?”

This man, Corey, has grabbed the announcement phone now that you’re walking away, making you freeze like the dad possum in Over The hedge and seriously consider playing dead, too, as you slowly turn around to look at him again.

Oh, if only looks could kill- he would be so dead that even Vlad the Impaler’s victims would laugh.

This is your first day, and the fact that you’re being harassed by multiple stupid men is bad enough but now he’s calling attention to you like this? Glenn’s going to think you’re a troublemaker!! Jesus fucking Christ- you need this job! Corey continues to talk into the speaker phone, even as he looks into your eyes and sees his death. “And… now… you’re looking at me like that, so uh… I’m just gonna… say please?”

… “’Please’ fuck off.”

“Yes ma’am-“

“Go away now, I’ve made myself clear.

I don’t think so.

Nah its not gonna happen.

Not in a million years.”

Since the run-in with Corey and the following spike in your blood pressure, you’ve calmed down again. But now you’re looking into the two faces of a ‘Mateo’, who you apparently work with, and a ‘Castor’ who does not work here and is not shopping but is still in your face and is t h i s close to feeding that ugly tie to his cousin.

But, still, you’re going to stay graceful, because Castor constantly looks like he’s 3 seconds from pooing himself. “Now please go away, now… I think I’ve made myself clear.” By explaining, politely, that you aren’t looking for a man but thank you for the offer, Castor.

“Oh, but you haven’t heard what Castor does for a living! He’s in insurance,” Mateo explains to you, like this is some huge game changer. When you don’t react, he adds that there’s good money, insurance.

You almost laugh. Does this boy really think you’re such a gold digger? Boy- if I wanted riches then I could’ve easily become a C-Class actor who has no skills in the area, but is pretty so gets praised like she does- like a lotta my model friends.

Instead I’m here, at Cloud 9.

Come to your own conclusions.

But instead of saying that, though, you just shake your head nervously. “I don’t think so… “

“But!- “

“Nah… sorry, its… not gonna happen… “

“But Castor is- “

“Not in a million years… “

“Aw, no. I gotta go. My house is on fire.”

Now, at least this one is respectful, you think, listening to him talk about the products you’re shelving together. He had come over and offered to give you a hand when you looked confused, as a ‘Cheyanne’ had handed you a scanner earlier and then promptly ran off, despite your utter incompetence. You were so relieved that this guy turned up!!

“… so, you just punch in reduce .50, and scan! Its pretty easy, if you have it properly explained to you. I- I was actually in the same situation, as you! When I first started here, except I ended up, uh, reducing all the items in electronics to 15 cense rather than discounting it all 15 percent.” A grin spreads across your lips at the story, and thank god that Jonah had turned up before that happened to you and, with your luck, you got fired for it.

“Oh no!”

“Yeah- Amy, our uh, floor supervisor, was pretty cranky with me about that… “He laughs himself, resting his hands on his hips; Still looking nervous at the memory.

You look back down at the scanner you’re holding and shake your head. “Well at least you know, now! And thank you so much for coming to my aid, haha. I was so lost- you’ve been a huge help! A life saver, truly.”

“Yeah… “ He gives a cute little, reserved smile. “So, uh, its basically the end of the day! Hope you’re first day hasn’t been too strenuous. At the end of my first day, I know I was tired. But I got to go out with a couple of the other employees and have a drink, to destress. If-If you were free, we could… do something. Together.” Your eyebrows slowly raise up your forehead at that, and you turn to look up Jonah, sceptical. What was that? You sure have had a long day, and its about to get a lot longer if this boy is asking what you think he is. “Sorry! Sorry, that sounded weird. Um, I guess what I’m really asking, is… would you like to, I dunno, go out with me sometime? I know some great places.”

Oh, noooooo! You cry, on the inside. You thought you found a normal one!

Still, he is being so nice… The least you could do is let him down easily.

“Oh, Jonah, I actually… oh- sorry.” Your phone beeps in your pocket and you take it out quickly to have a glance - its just your mother… again, - … and suddenly get an idea. Feigning shock, you quickly put the phone away and put down the scanner. It’s time to clock out and go home, anyway, thank god. “I have to go! That was my mum, uh- I really have to go!”

“Wow, wow, wow, what’s wrong?? Can I help with anything?”

Oh… he looks so concerned. He’s sweet.

But before you can rethink your words, this living horror slips out. “My-my house is on fire.”

Oh god, you’re a horrible person.

“I’ve, I’ve got herpes. No- Syphilis!”

Oh thank god the day is over. Rolling your shoulders back, you kneel down at your bottom locker, open it up and take out your bag. Now you can go home and put on Gotham on Netflix, wear no pants and eat thin mints until you fall asleep.

When you get up, you aren’t watching out for a man to be standing barely half a foot away from you - Your mistake, obviously, - so you jolt right out of your skin when you see him and curse. What is wrong with these men? Does Cloud 9 offer complimentary staff ninja classes along with their lack of health insurance? Man, classy company. “Sorry!” You look up past the coveralls after stepping a safe distance back from him, and immediately feel dread deep in your chest. “Oh, hi. Marcus, was it?”

“That’s me! How was your first day?” He asks, seeming polite enough despite the fact that you’re cornered between tall boy and the lockers. And you’re too tired to try and slip away- this boy will get out of your way.

“It was good! Thanks for asking. I’m ready to go home and collapse, though.” You admit, shoulders dropping and a tired smile on your lips. Mmm… thin mints… bed… blankets… Cory Michael Smith… I can taste it… Marcus just needs to get out of my way.

“I hear that.” Evidently not quite as deeply, though, as he moves on pretty fast. “Listen- I was thinking if you’re into it we could… go out, some time.” He tilts his head forward to clarify, “On a date,”, in case that part hadn’t translated, and chuckles. “We could see a movie or get drinks, or something, I don’t know. How about tonight?”

T-tonight? The word nearly slips from your lips; All disbelief and tears and exhaustion, included. You’re so tired. “Um… you know, tempting offer, but um… “He looks so hopeful. It nearly changes your mind. “Not tonight.”

“OH! So like, tomorrow?” Oh christ- “Cuz I’m supposed to watch Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here with my mum, but… no, I can blow that off! So, tomorrow?”

You take a deep breath, not really knowing what you can say. “Marcus… “He raises his eyebrows, waiting for an answer. “… I have herpes.”

“Wait, what??” He steps back, nearly tripping over a table in his fear that just being near you will cause him to contract the disease, and you let your guard down in relief. Yep, for sure, definitely. If it makes him back off, then yes- you have herpes. You have a raging, festering case of herpes.

“Yeah! Or-“ Squinting, you pretend to sift through your brain. “Was it Syphilis?” This boys eyes basically bulge out of his head and you’re totally going to laugh about it later, but right now you have to get out of there. You waive your hand dismissively and walk on by him towards the door like you don’t have a care in the world. Before you leave though, you turn around a flash Marcus a big smile. “Either way, ew, right? Well, see you tomorrow buddy! Gotta go! Enjoy I’m A Celebrity with your mum.” Then you’re gone.

Tomorrow is going to be a much better day, once that rumour is properly spread.

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bananaofswifts · 4 years

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Taylor Swift’s music has always been the most interesting thing about Taylor Swift, and she’s rarely more interesting than when she’s talking about her music. You would think this would be obvious, considering she’s one of the defining singer-songwriters of her generation, but for large portions of her decade and a half career, the conversations around her have focused on just about everything else: her romances, her feuds, her aesthetics, her strategic alliances, her business calculations, her imagined politics, her actual politics, her role as a feminist icon, her role as an avatar of white fragility, her authenticity, her inauthenticity, her videography, her numerology, her cats. Last winter’s Sundance documentary “Miss Americana” allowed her to tackle most of these issues head-on, often with a frankness that we rarely saw out of the increasingly private star, but even there, Swift’s music sometimes risked getting lost in all the noise. Perhaps that’s why “Folklore,” the decidedly low-key album she recorded during quarantine and released with zero fanfare in July, felt like such a breath of fresh air. It also didn’t hurt that it was one of the best things she’s ever done. Working remotely with veteran collaborator Jack Antonoff and new producer/co-writer Aaron Dessner (best known as the guitarist for sad-dad-rock mainstays the National), Swift used “Folklore” to cast off the spectacle, the commercial calculations, and the meta-framing of her last few albums and focus instead on the fine-tuned intimacy and incisive turns of phrase that made her such a singular voice to begin with. The one thing that album was missing, however, was the immediacy of a studio setting, and so for this week’s Disney Plus release “Folklore: The Long Pond Studio Sessions,” she’s assembled Dessner and Antonoff in person to play through each song live. Aside from some brief home videos of Swift recording the album earlier this year, the entire film takes place at the titular studio in New York’s Hudson Valley: a cozy, exposed-wood cabin situated on a picturesque piece of waterfront real estate, surrounded by chairs, string lights and fire pits where the artists can retire to sip wine and tea while discussing the day’s progress. (Frankly, the most succinct way to describe the setting would be “extremely Taylor Swift-like,” even though the studio is actually Dessner’s.) It wouldn’t be a Swift project without a few strategically teased Easter eggs — in this case, some hints about the love-triangle narrative that pops up irregularly throughout the album, and a revelation about the identity of her mysterious collaborator “William Bowery” — but the remote getaway vibe of the location mostly allows the focus to stay on the music. Directed by Swift herself, the film is handsomely mounted though never flashy, and follows a simple repeated structure: We get a drone shot of the surroundings, then a brief interlude discussing the next song, and then a performance. The discussion sections are of highly variable quality, at times offering fascinating glimpses into Swift’s creative process, and at others sounding suspiciously like the sort of rehearsed banter she might have offered from the stage of an arena tour. As the newcomer to Swift’s circle, Dessner tends to draw the most out of her in conversation, offering his own interpretations of Swift’s lyrics and opening up about his personal struggles with depression during a chat about the song “Peace.” Longtime associate Antonoff is more likely to simply “yes, and” whatever Swift is saying, which can be slightly frustrating. When she mentions that “picking a track five is sort of a pressurized decision,” you want someone to ask her to elaborate, instead of knowingly nodding. Naturally, the film’s main attractions are the performances, as the three run through each of “Folklore’s” tracks — bonus ones included — in order. None of the live renditions here are radically different from what’s heard on the record, though one can easily imagine Swiftian scholars endlessly debating the merits of each, the way Dylanologists still fight over which take of “Idiot Wind” is the canonical one. But it’s obvious that these three are enjoying the chance to once again exchange ideas in person rather than over email and Skype, and it’s impressive to watch just how thoroughly Dessner and Antonoff manage to re-create the record’s sparse yet carefully textured soundscapes with just a few guitars, a piano, some light drum machine and a solitary snare. (“Folklore’s” lone guest star, Justin Vernon, does Skype in his performance for the duet “Exile” from his own home studio, and adds enough improvised touches to keep the song from feeling overly familiar.) Perhaps the most striking element of the film is its deep focus on Swift as a singer. Back in her “Fearless” days, Swift was subject to substantial criticism for her limited vocal prowess, which was always unfair. Swift was a lyrics-first singer-songwriter long before she was a pop star, and she deserved to be considered in the company of the former rather than contrasted with the Mariah Careys of the world. Nonetheless, the control she has developed over her instrument in the years since is remarkable to behold, and Swift’s vocals sound simply lovely here. She still never allows a flourish or a tricky run to compromise the clarity of a lyric, but she knows exactly how to work wonders within her register, and she’s perfectly comfortable exploring its further reaches. On “My Tears Ricochet,” Swift gives her voice a husky edge that almost calls Chan Marshall to mind — this is probably the oldest she’s ever sounded, and it becomes her nicely. Meanwhile, she can still summon the old wide-eyed “Teardrops on My Guitar” innocence when a song calls for it, and she’s practically bouncing off her seat when “Betty” hits its big key-change at the end. Once again, it seems as though Swift envisions every album release or career move as another chapter of an elaborate, neverending bildungsroman, and “Long Pond” doesn’t give much indication of what the next one might look like. (Although she does note that “Folklore” taught her the value of songwriting that looks outward, rather than plumbing exclusively from her own experiences — for those of us left somewhat cold by her more tabloid-baiting “Reputation” period, that’s certainly a welcome note.) With this film, she just does the two things she does best: making excellent music, and giving people a new reason to talk about Taylor Swift. But at least she’s made sure that this time we’re talking about her for all the right reasons.

#Taylor swift #folklore #review

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angryhausfrau-writes · 3 years

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I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 20 - In Which Jack is the Life of the Party and Charles is a Wallflower

Councilor Featherstone comes through with planning permission, his personal interest allowing Max's petition to jump to the front of a very, very long and very, very slowly moving list. Glacial is a good description of that list. Full of icy aristocracy impeding any sort of forward progress. Because they all make money when the price of real estate goes up and up and up via the dearth of available properties.

Should someone sell off a property – or, God forbid, build a new one, particularly one meant for the lower class rabble to actually live in – well, they'd lose out on potential astronomic profits. And losing out on potential profit is as good as being robbed.

Not to mention the cut they make if someone has enough name and capital to approach them about buying a potential property, hoping to bolster their own enormous bank accounts with a “risk free” investment. But there's no such thing as a free lunch, particularly to the sharks that swim in the ocean of Britain's current property market. Everyone gets a cut of the pie.

Finders fees, they're called. As if anyone is finding anything in the morass of red tape and stark type on expensive paper. Not if someone doesn't want it to be found.

Jack has actually been granted a sizable finders fee by Max. All part of the massive, technically-legal tax dodge that allows the wealthy elite to remain the wealthy elite. Max makes an obscene amount of money selling her property off to a developer – while retaining a seat on the board of trustees, of course, and majority interest in the company they've formed to oversee the spa. And then she pays Jack a handsome consulting fee for all of his assistance with the planning permission. Which is a business expense – and therefore, a tax write off. And then Jack uses the money to wine and dine the councilor. Which is also a business expense and so another tax write off. On and on and on. Each just a small step in the endless dance of Legitimate Business.

Incidentally, Max is also paying Jack rather handsomely to consult on the design and interior decorating for the spa.

There are, of course, actual interior designers and professional decorators and florists and lighting and sound specialists in Max's company's employ. But it just wouldn't be nepotism if she hadn't found a job for Jack to make a lot of money at whilst doing absolutely nothing of value. And it just wouldn't be a London planning project without nepotism.

Plus, it gives Jack's not quite fake career as a fashion designer a little boost. Soon every rich socialite in London – and elsewhere, hopefully – will be relaxing in a Jack Rackham original spa robe, lounging on Jack Rackham original cushions on a Jack Rackham original divan reminiscent of a swan's elegantly unfolding wing, but in palest peach to complement the spring pink scrubs worn by spa staff – another Jack Rackham original – and soothing seafoam walls.

And if all that weren't enough to keep him and Christine (mostly Christine, if he's being honest) busy, Jack's also got fashion week to contend with. Oh, his projects are all finished, and he hasn't even worked himself into that much of a tizzy over the whole ordeal. Not with as well prepared as he feels – and as buoyed as he is by the positive attention his press releases and Instagram posts have received. No, he's as prepared as he can be and there's little point in wearing himself ragged worrying over the what ifs and wheretofors.

No, what's wearing on Jack in the small hours of the night is something else entirely.

More than Jack's actual fashion show – where half the designers are showing essentially nude models with various decorous scraps of latex and/or lace as opposed to actual outfits, not that Jack's petty or anything – more than the actual fashion show, Jack is required to make an impression on all the “benefactors” of the event. The rich, vapid men and women who decide whose fashions are to die for – and who's dead in the water.

Jack's not a real fashion designer. Just someone posing as one for the cover it gives a (hopefully) international crime empire. But that only makes this gladhanding and wheeling and dealing all the more imperative.

It's not much of a cover if everyone questions how, exactly, Jack's made it into the international fashion world. Hell, even here at home he's required to make the sort of connections that get him into the posh parties and stately homes of the rich and famous so he can case the joint and report his findings back to Max.

All of which necessitates Jack throwing his own party. A night of debauchery so blatant, so tasteless it wraps right around to tastefulness again. A night where he can show the fashion world, business moguls, and investors that he has the money and connections that make him worth their money and connections. And he's been granted the dubious honor of hosting the night of the newcomers fashion show. His debut on the international stage. Followed swiftly by his debut as an international man of quasi-leisure.

Max is, of course, the one actually throwing the party. The one determining the guest list from the half-dozen file cabinets worth of dirt and gossip and just creepily intimate details about London's upper crust.

Max is the one to hire the DJ – the same poor sap she'd blackmailed into playing Jack's first fashion show slash after party. And she's got Eme lording over the caterers with an iron fist.

And Max is the one to insist that Jack put up her ridiculous painting in pride of place, over the main sitting room fireplace where it can be reflected a hundredfold in the mirrors she'd brought in to line the room – and in the disco ball the DJ brought for the occasion. A thousand tiny paintings cover the floor, the walls, the goddamn ceiling. And sure, it's a nice enough painting – although it makes something spark hot and hungry in Jack's breast when he looks at it too long.

Or maybe that's just because a shirtless, glistening, complaining Charles – who just spent the majority of the morning hauling furniture and sound equipment around and hanging mirrors - is the one who's been roped into hanging it. Standing there, arms straining as Max directs him to position it just so.

Jack lets his gaze trail down Charles's biceps, chest, abs and away. He's got too much to do to be caught lollygagging like this. And Anne's amused and too-knowing look from over her clipboard is rather ruining the mood.

Anne watches Jack flounce away through the crowd, the heaving throng of party guests parting around him like water.

Jack's fashion show had gone over well. All the rich fucks without an original fucking thought between the all of them had been impressed with the flash fucking jewels and dripping gold. Entranced by the swirl of velvet skirts and silken shirts baring just slightly too much cleavage Which Anne knows cuz she's the one telling all the makeup artists to put fucking glitter on all their tits, like Max told her to.

And all them rich fucker's'd been entranced by Jack, too. Drawn like moths to the dancing flame of his showmanship. Lured by the siren song of wealth and elegance he'd spun on the catwalk.

And here at the party too.

Though it ain't elegance they're after here. Decadence, just like the fucking fashion show. But this ain't some rich old fuck's sitting room. This is a bacchanal. They're the cult of Dionysus tonight and they've got loyal followers high on poppers and coke and half a dozen other designer party drugs, courtesy of some of Jack's now-infamous street contacts, dolled up nearly as much as the party guests. And the drugs are all set out in little gold-rimmed dishes on antique walnut sideboards. K itchy as all fuck. Like candy someone's Nan might set out. All free for the taking.

Well, the first taste is, anyway. You gotta pay for the next dozen.

And they're willing to pay, the rich fuckers. Money's no object to them. And they've sold their souls long ago. What's a little more blood squeezed outta stone? Why give a fuck about tomorrow when you can constantly live in the happy glimmering now? Consequences can't touch them – these golden fucking chosen people.

And Jack walks among them like a prince. Like a god, and all this worship is simply his due.

Even from her secluded, shadowed corner Anne can see how he draws them in. Snares them with pretty words and pretty clothes and the promise that if they just flock to him, follow him, they too can be as effortlessly beautiful and catty and elegant and perfect.

And then, when they're thoroughly caught in his silken web, he directs them towards Max.

She's standing on the second floor balcony overlooking the party, queen of all she surveys. And even though Jack's throwing this party, she's the real mastermind behind everything. Every sweating, glittering, drug soaked body heaving against each other on the dance floor is there because that's exactly where she wants them. And when she turns her gaze to one or another in particular, it's far, far too late for them to run. Cuz even if they wanted to. Even if they weren't snared so tight they couldn't get out of the trap not even if they chewed their own fucking leg off. Even if they escaped, Anne'd chase them down for her. Hunt them down for her, across oceans and continents until they'd been found and bound and delivered back to her feet. Where they fucking belong, the fucking scum.

Charles tucks himself further into the corner he's found on the second floor. It's not quiet – nowhere in the house is quiet, not even the fucking bathroom. And his spot overlooks the dancefloor, bass thrumming up though the floor to rumble against the bottoms of his boots. But at least it's private.

Jack's holding court in the middle of the crowd, shining and happy and basking in being noticed, being revered.

He's always been like that. Flash and brash and attention grabbing. So you don't see the knife Anne's slipping between your ribs from the shadow Jack casts.

But even then. Even when it had been half misdirect and half distraction. Jack'd wanted this. Burned for it so bright and hungry you almost couldn't stand looking at him. But at the same time, you can't stand looking away.

Charles isn't like that.

Not that he lurks in the shadows, like Anne – or Max, even. He's a blunt instrument, and not ashamed of that fact. His strength lies in direct confrontation.

Oh, he can be crafty. Strategic. He can turn everyone's expectations of him against them. Jack's not the only one with a head on his shoulders, oh no. And Charles ran a crew just fine without his wiles.

But Charles doesn't want to live in the spotlight either. Hasn't chased renown, it had just kind of happened to him, whether he wanted it or not. More trouble than it was worth, half the time.

And now, something else – a new kind of notoriety – is happening to him. And it's all Jack's fault.

See, people aren't only fawning over Jack. No, there's those who saw the promotional material with Charles's face on it and decided he was some sort minor celebrity. Some kinda object for them to project all their filthiest desires onto.

He'd been poked and prodded and fondled. Offered modeling contracts. Offered sex. Offered money for sex. Like he'd welcome it – feel honored by it. Like he's some kinda doll, dressed up pretty just for them.

Not real.

Not a person.

Just a fucking pretty picture in a glossy program, there for them to get off to and then throw away.

He's been down that road before, though not with Johns as posh as these. The swells so used to getting what they want the moment they want it there's no real way to say no. Especially not when they – Anne and Max and Mary and Jack and him – have got so much riding on this.

Charles isn't going to be the one to ruin this. This bright shining con. This dream world Jack and Max have spun out of gossamer. So fragile – so easily ruined.

Charles isn't going to be the one to let the crew down.

So he'd flirted. Glib and meaningless and pretty. Dumb and flighty and careless. Caressed everyone who'd fondled him. Stood close and whispered low in their ears. Made them feel special, feel noticed. And then when they'd tired of him, cuz they always fucking do, so bored of life nothing can hold their interest for long, especially when he's not trying to keep it, Charles'd escaped to the second floor balcony overlooking the party and he'd put his back to the wall and watched Jack's glittering, fragile, beautiful dream unfold below him.

“Hiding up here all by yourself, Charles?”

Charles grunts in response, but not in a way that makes Jack feel like he's unwelcome. So Jack leans against the banister next to Charles and waits to see if he'll say anything more illuminating.

After a few minutes of silence – or silence from Charles, at least, the music's loud enough to be heard from a block away, never mind just upstairs – it becomes apparent that he won't be any more forthcoming. And if he's to speak, someone will need to coax it out of him.

Fortunately, Jack is nothing if not persistent.

“Got sick of the party, I'd imagine. It's a bit over the top, even for me.”

Charles snorts at that, so they're making progress.

“I know you'd be happier with something a little less glam pop.” Because that's never really been Chaz's scene. He's more of the rocker type, really. Not that Jack's complaining about his penchant for black leather on top of black silk. “But you have to admit, it's a good turnout. Especially for our first real industry bash. And Featherstone certainly seems to be having fun.”

Jack looks down at where the councilor and Idelle are grinding together on the dance floor (eughh) with the mirrored reflection of Max's painting shimmering on Featherstone's sweaty skin and reflecting in Idelle's eyes. Drawing him in almost as much as Idelle having exchanged her ornate velvet gown for a sexy little cocktail number - although she's wearing hardly any less jewelry than she had at the fashion show – and that too reflects a hundred thousand tiny sparkling versions of the painting. Of the taste and class and wealth the painting promises.

She's bathed in it.

She's a goddess. She's regal. Elegant. Glamorous. The kind of woman the kind of man the councilor is could have for more than a fun night in the sack. The kind of woman he could have for forever, if he'd wanted.

If he was lucky enough to catch and keep her attention.

Men and women in the crowd, only some of them planted by Max, ooh and ah over Idelle's elegance and poise. Remark, just loudly enough to be heard by the councilor about how much they wish she would deign to look at them like she looks at him. Ask to cut in, only to be cut down by Idelle, who has danced only with the councilor, attended only to the councilor, all evening.

Made him feel special. Feel desired. Feel like perhaps he could have this every night of his life, if he'd only put a ring on it. Something suitably flash, of course. Idelle deserves only the best.

But he's not thinking about any of that right now, not with the way he's got his gaze fixed firmly on her bosom, which is being shown off to great effect by an enormous diamond pendant that only she and Max know is actually cubic zirconium. Marriage is probably the furthest thought from his mind right now. But in the morning – in the morning, he'll remember this night. This wild bacchanal. The way the painting had whispered promises of finally belonging to the elegant, tasteful, obscenely rich world that Idelle navigates so effortlessly. How maybe she could guide him through troubled waters when he finds himself out of his depth. Idelle and only Idelle.

“Wish there weren't so many fucking people,” Charles grits out, shaking Jack out of his dreams of what ifs and might could bes. Back to the man standing beside him, one of the reason's they've had so much success in this venture. “All pawing at you. Like you owe them something.”

“Oh, darling. I've never minded a little manhandling, you know that.” Jack keeps deliberately glib, because Charles looks like he's liable to rip someone's throat out if Jack even hints at discomfort.

And it's true that he'd been somewhat leery of the attention at one point, after so long hiding in shadows out of necessity, even as he'd yearned to step into the spotlight.

It turns out that actually being in the spotlight isn't quite what Jack had imagined. That sometimes people shine it on you for reasons other than simple recognition.

That night at the strip club comes to mind.

That had felt like being used. Like being back in his childhood, father a subject of ridicule too drunk to understand that the whole village was laughing at him.

But Jack had understood. He'd understood the power of perception. The power other's had over you when they were the ones controlling the narrative. The ones making you an outsider.

But today, Jack's the one controlling how people see him. The one directing – and misdirecting – perceptions.

Because there's power there. Because people only see what they want to see. And you can get a hell of a lot done when people are too stupid to believe you capable of anything.

This being in the spotlight, being loved and adored by a fickle crowd, keeping the eyes of the world on him so that they stay off Max and Anne and Mary as they pick their marks. This is just another kind of power. Just another shield to hide behind while the dirty work gets done.

Jack elbows Charles in a way he hopes is reassuring. “And anyway, Anne's been keeping an eye out for trouble. You know she's been itching to stab someone for weeks now. I'm safe as houses.”

Charles grunts and turns away, back to the shadows he'd been hiding in when Jack came up here to talk to Max briefly, introducing a new mark – one who's in international real estate and interested in investing in Max's little property endeavors. And the glint of Charles's eyes in the gloom, the occasional sparkle of the silver charms in his hair and the earrings in his ears, the rings on his hands and necklaces draped against his bared chest, it had felt like a predator looking at him. Some big jungle cat watching him from the tall grass.

But Jack hadn't felt frightened. Because he's stupid and hopelessly in love. And he knows Charles, better than he knows himself, sometimes.

So he'd gone over to where Charles was standing. And he had stepped out of the shadow and into the glaring light of the party to stand at the balcony railing with Jack. To listen to Jack prattle on about inconsequential things with only fond mock annoyance, the way he'd always done. Even when Jack had been considerably more annoying – and Charles considerably more inclined to gut people who annoyed him.

But if he's hiding again, returning to the shadows, clearly that wasn't the right tack.

Jack comes at it from another angle. “Would it make you feel better if you came and danced with me? Just to remind everyone my big tough boyfriend is looking out for me?”

Because Charles trusts Anne. They all do – and with their very lives. But sometimes Charles is a protective, possessive sonofabitch. And if he's in a mood, Jack wants to make sure they deal with it in a way that doesn't end in homicide.

Charles turns back, eyes gleaming. “Stake a claim, you mean. In front of everyone.”

Prove Jack's his. And fuck. Maybe that is a step too far for their pretend relationship.

He's about to apologize. Walk everything back, make a joke, disassemble.

But then Charles says, “Yeah, all right. You're too much trouble for only one person to keep an eye on.”

Charles has Jack in his arms. And Jack'd said it was about Charles staking a claim. Making sure all the rich fucks kept their greedy hands off Jack. Make sure he was being looked after.

But it goes the other way, too.

Charles is out here in the middle of the dancefloor, covered in shiny that Jack'd bought – or stolen – just for him. Jack's arms around him, just like he's got his arms around Jack. Like they're one person, bound together, with no beginning or end.

There for everyone to see. To see that he and Jack are one.

That Jack has a claim on Charles. That all their pawing and fawning and come-ons don't mean shit. Just like all the heaving, sweaty bodies surrounding them don't mean shit. Not when him and Jack are like this. Together.

Everything – everyone – inconsequential compared to the feeling of Jack pressing against Charles's front, grinding against his dick, Charles's hands on his ass. Jack's his, if just for this moment. And he ain't gonna waste it.

Charles cups the back of Jack's head, fingers tangling in that stupid mullet he still insists on wearing. “Mine,” he growls into the breath of space between the two of them.

And Jack must be a great lip-reader. Or he's on the same wavelength as Charles, feels the same way as Charles does about all this. Because he grips Charles at the nape of his neck. Pulls his hair until his head tilts back and Jack's teeth are at his jugular.

And Charles feels the threat and the promise pressed so tenderly against his skin when Jack says “Yours.”

#black sails #charles vane/jack rackham #anne bonny/max #i travel troubled oceans #chapter 20

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dustedmagazine · 3 years

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Dust Volume 7, Number 4

Axel Ruley x Verbo Flow

A little bit of optimism is creeping into the air as Dusted writers start to get their shots. We’re all starting to think about live music, maybe outside, maybe this summer. But as the spate of freak snow storms demonstrates, summer’s not here yet, and in the meantime, piles of records and gigs of MP3s beckon. This early spring version of Dust covers the map, literally, with artists representing Pakistan, Australia, Canada, Sweden, the UK and the USA, and stylistically with jazz, rock, punk, rap, improv and many other genres in play. Contributors include Jennifer Kelly, Justin Cober-Lake, Bill Meyer, Ray Garraty, Patrick Masterson, Tim Clarke and Bryon Hayes.

Arooj Aftab — Vulture Prince (New Amsterdam)

Vulture Prince by Arooj Aftab

Arooj Aftab is a classical composer originally from Pakistan but now living in Brooklyn. Vulture Prince, her third full-length album, blends the bright clarity of new age music with the fluid, non-Western vocal tones of her Central Asian roots. “Last Night,” from an old Rumi poem but sung mostly in English, lilts in dub-scented syncopation, the thump and pop of stand-up bass underlining its bittersweet melody. An interlude in some other language shifts the song entirely, pitting vintage reggae reverberation against an exotic melisma. “Mohabbat” (which is apparently Urdu for sex) soothes in the pristine instrumentals, lucid guitars, a horn, scattered drumbeats, but smolders and beckons in the vocals. None of these tracks feel wholly traditional or wholly Western and modern day, but sit somewhere in a well-lit, idealized space. Timeless and placeless, Vulture Prince is nonetheless very beautiful.

Jennifer Kelly

Assertion — Intermission (Spartan)

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Intermission comes from an alternate timeline. Founding drummer William Goldsmith started his musical career in Sunny Day Real Estate and had a notable stint with Foo Fighters. To cut the biography short, Goldsmith took a decade off from the music industry. He's returned now with Assertion, joined by guitarist/vocalist Justin Tamminga and bassist Bryan Gorder (both of Blind Guides, among other acts). This band picks up in the late 1990s, imagining a new path for post-hardcore/post-grunge music. The trio's name suits, as the songs' energy and the lyrical assertiveness develops the intensity of the release. The group works carefully with dynamics, neither parroting the loud-quiet tradition nor simply pushing their emo leanings toward 11.

“The Lamb to the Slaughter Pulls a Knife” epitomizes the album. The track sounds like Foo Fighters decided to get dirtier rather than more arena-friendly, while the lyrics mix violence with emotional persistence. First single “Supervised Suffering” finds triumph in endurance, turning the aggressive chorus into something of a victory. “Set Fire” closes the album with something more delicate, but it's just the gauze over a seething anger. Goldsmith's time off seems to have served him well, as does collaborating with some new partners. Assertion makes its case clearly and effectively, and if the intermission's over for Goldsmith, the second half sounds promising.

Justin Cober-Lake

Michael Beach — Dream Violence (Goner/Poison City)

Dream Violence by Michael Beach

“De Facto Blues,” from Michael Beach’s fourth solo album, is a barn-burner of a song, rough and messy and passionate, the kind of song that makes you want to take a stand on something, who cares what as long as it matters to you. It snarls like Radio Birdman, slashes like the Wipers and follows its muse through chaos to righteousness like an off-cut from Crazy Horse, just back from rockin’ the free world. It’s got Matt Ford and Inez Tulloch from Thigh Master on guitar and bass, respectively, Utrillo Kushner from Colossal Yes (and Comets on Fire) on drums, and Kelley Stoltz at the boards, and it’s a killer. The rest of the album is varied and, honestly, not uniformly astounding, but there’s a nice Summer of Love-style psych dream in “Metaphysical Dice,” a slow-burning post-rocker in the title track and a driving, pounding punk anthem in the opener “Irregardless.” Beach has been splitting his time between San Francisco and Melbourne, Australia, and lately settled on Melbourne, where he will fit like a native into their thriving punk-garage scene.

Jennifer Kelly

Bloop — Proof (Lumo)

Proof by BLOOP (Lina Allemano / Mike Smith)

The trumpet is already a catalog of sound effects waiting to happen, and Lina Allemano knows the table of contents by heart. So, to shake things up, she has paired up with electronic musician Mike Smith, who contributes live processing and effects to Allemano’s improvisations. A blind listen to Proof might leave you with the impression that you’re hearing a horn player jamming with some outer space cats, and we’re not talking about hip, lingo-slinging jazz dudes. In fact, everything on these eight tracks happened in real time. Smith’s a strategic intervener, aware that too much sauce can spoil the stew, so he mixes up precise layering and pitch-shifting with more disorienting transformations. It’s hard to say how much Allemano responds to the simulacra that surround her brass voice, but there’s no denying the persuasiveness of her melodic and timbral ideas.

Bill Meyer

Bris — Tricky Dance Moves (TrueStory Entertainment)

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Bris left some music behind when he died in 2020, but it took almost a year to shape these recordings into a proper CD. The label CEO Mac J (a fine artist himself) could easily capitalize on his friend’s death, stacking Tricky Dance Moves with features from the artists Bris never would have worked with. Yet the album was prepared with the utmost care, not giving an ugly Frankenstein monster feel. Bris’s references to his possible early death are scattered throughout the whole tape: “Heard they wanna pop Bris cause they mad I’m poppin.” Almost every song could be easily turned into a prophetic tale (a cheap move one wants to avoid at all costs). Nonetheless, something is missing here. Or maybe it is just an image of death that disturbs the whole picture, making us realize that this is the last we’d hear from Bris.

Ray Garraty

Dreamwell — Modern Grotesque (self-released)

Modern Grotesque by Dreamwell

I recently read an interview with Providence’s Dreamwell breaking down in almost excruciating detail the influences that led to the quintet’s sophomore full-length Modern Grotesque. I kept scrolling past Daughters and Deftones and Deafheaven and increasingly disconnected influences like The Mountain Goats and Nina Simone. I went back to the top and looked again. I typed Ctrl+F and put in “Thursday.” Nothing. This is preposterous. I may not be in the post-hardcore trenches the way I once was, but even I’d know a good Full Collapse homage if it swung a mic right into my face the way this one did; hell, just listen to “The Lost Ballad of Dominic Anneghi” and tell me singer Keziah Staska doesn’t know every single word of “Paris in Flames.” That may not look like flattery on a first read, but too often, bands striding the emo/pop divide have chased the latter into sub-Taking Back Sunday oblivion; what Thursday did was much harder, and Dreamwell has ably taken up the torch here. That they did it unintentionally is a curious, bewildering footnote.

Patrick Masterson

Paul Dunmall / Matthew Shipp / Joe Morris / Gerald Cleaver — The Bright Awakening (Rogue Art)

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It’s a bit perplexing that reeds player Paul Dunmall hasn’t spent more time playing with American musicians. He’s firmly situated within the English improvisation community, where he’s perhaps best known for his longer tenure with the quartet Mujician, and his ability to double on bagpipes has allowed him to establish links between improvised and folk music. But

his jazz-rooted approach makes him a natural to work in settings such as this one. When Dunmall toted his tenor to the Vision Festival in 2012 (even then, it could be costly to lug multiple horns on a plane), he found three sympatico partners in Fest regulars pianist Matthew Shipp, double bassist Joe Morris and drummer Gerald Cleaver. They all hit the ground running, generating a barrage of pulsing, roiling sound for over 20 minutes before the piano and drums peel off, leaving Morris to sustain momentum alone. Dunmall’s gruff, spiraling lines find common cause with each of his fellows, and the gradual addition and subtraction of players from that point makes it easier to hear the exchange of ideas, which often seem to take place between dyads operating within the larger flow.

Bill Meyer

Editrix — Tell Me I’m Bad (Exploding in Sound)

Tell Me I'm Bad by Editrix

Wendy Eisenberg’s rock band is like her solo output in that it snarls delicate, self-aware, mini-short stories in complex tangles of guitar, hemming in high, sing-song-y verses with riffs and licks of daunting difficulty. The main differences are speed, volume and aggression (i.e. it rocks.) and a certain communal energy. That’s down to two collaborators who can more than keep up, Josh Daniel on surging, rattling, break-it-all-down percussion and Steve Cameron, equally anarchic and fast on bass. The title track is an all-out rager, thrusting jagged arena riffs of guitar and bass forward, then clearing space for off-kilter verses and time-shifting, irregular instrumental interplay. “Chelsea” follows a similar chaotic pattern, setting up a teeth-shaking cadence of rock instruments, with Eisenberg keening over the top of it. “I know, perfectly well, that we’re not safe, safe from the men in power,” she croons, engaged in the knotting difficulties of the world as we know it, but winning.

Jennifer Kelly

Elephant Micah — Vague Tidings (Western Vinyl)

Vague Tidings by Elephant Micah

The new Elephant Micah album, the follow-up to 2018’s excellent Genericana, has an apposite title. Vague Tidings conveys an atmosphere of feeling conscious of something carried on the wind, a story passed on that may have shifted through various iterations, leaving only a sense of its original meaning. All that can be sure is that this is sad, sober music, unafraid to brace against the chill of mortality and speak of all that is felt. The instruments — guitar, piano, percussion, violin and woodwinds — move around Joseph O’Connell’s voice in stiff yet graceful arcs, distanced by an unspoken etiquette. Repetitive melodic figures, stark yet steady, gradually accumulate weight as they roll along like tumbleweeds. It’s a crisp, forlorn country-blues, in no hurry to get nowhere, carrying ancient wisdom that seems to acknowledge the empty resonance of its own import.

Tim Clarke

Fraufraulein — Solum (Notice Recordings)

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Fraufraulein’s music is immersive. Anne Guthrie and Billy Gomberg beam themselves, and us along with them, Quantum Leap-style directly into multiple environments in medias res. Through the clever employment of field recordings, they transport us to a hurricane-addled beach, performing a voice/piano duet as driftwood missiles careen through the air. In another “episode,” the manipulation of small objects conjures up the intimacy of a water garden filled with windchimes. Partners in both life and art, Guthrie and Gomberg are also consummate solo artists. He is a master of spike-textured drones, while she explores the intimate properties of physical entities. Like a child tends to resemble one parent while borrowing subtle traits from the other, Solum identifies more with Guthrie’s electroacoustic tendencies than it does with Gomberg’s electronics. This is in stark contrast to 2015’s Extinguishment, which felt a little more balanced between those two modes. Both approaches work, yet Solum feels more meticulously crafted and nuanced. Careful listening unveils multiple subtle tones and textures, and each piece is an adventure for the ears.

Bryon Hayes

Gerrit Hatcher / Rob Magill / Patrick Shiroishi — Triplet Fawns (Kettle Hole)

Triplet Fawns by Gerrit Hatcher / Rob Magill / Patrick Shiroishi

The album’s title implies a crew you wouldn’t want on your yard; while those adolescent ungulate appetites do a number on your bushes, the hooves are hacking up your grass. But if they knocked on your door, saxophone cases in their respective hands, you could do worse than invite them around the back for some blowing. Hatcher, Magill and Shiroishi present with sufficient lung power to be heard fine without the reflective assistance of walls, even when they aren’t making like Sonore (that was Gustafsson, Vandermark, and Brötzmann, about a dozen years back). This album, which was released in a micro-edition of 100 CD-Rs on Hatcher’s Kettle Hole imprint, builds gradually from restrained melancholy to pointillistic jousting to a climactic blow-out, and the assured development of each piece suggests that each player was listening not only to what each of the others was doing, but where the music was headed.

Bill Meyer

A.Karperyd — GND (Novoton)

GND by A.Karperyd

On his second solo release, GND, Swedish artist Andreas Karperyd broodingly ruminates on snatches of musical ideas that have been percolating in his consciousness over extended periods. Anyone familiar with his 2015 debut, Woodwork, will find these 55 minutes similarly immersive, as Karperyd manipulates live instruments such as piano and strings into shimmering, alien tapestries. Opener “The Well-Defined Rules of Certainty” appears to take Fennesz’s Venice as its blueprint, issuing forth cascading, percolating tones that tickle the ears. “The Desire to Invoke Balance with Our Eyes Closed” and “Failures and Small Observations” have a Satie-esque elegance to their piano lines, albeit refracted via a hall of mirrors. The 12-minute “Reminiscence of Tar” sounds like a slow-motion pan across the hulking mass of a shadowy space station. And closing track “Mummification of an Empire” slowly fries its piano in static, then unfurls wistful melodica and throbbing synth across the wreckage.

Tim Clarke

Kiwi Jr. — Cooler Returns (Subpop)

Cooler Returns by Kiwi jr

Kiwi Jr.’s brash, brainy indie pop punk vibrates with nervy energy, like the first Feelies album or Violent Femmes’ 1983 debut or that one great S-T from the Soft Pack. Those are all opening salvos for their respective bands, but this one is a second outing, suffering not a bit from sophomore slackening. Instead, Cooler Returns tightens up everything that was already stinging on the Toronto band’s debut and adds a giddy careening glee. An oddball thread of Robin Hood-ness runs through the disc, with Sherwood forest getting a nod in the title track and “Maid Marian’s Toast” tipping the love interest, but these songs are anything but archaic. “Undecided Voters,” the single jangles harder than anything I’ve heard since Woolen Men, slyly upending creative pretensions in a verse that goes: “You take a photo of the CN tower/you take another of the Honest Ed sign/Well, I take photos of your photos/and they really move people.” Has it been done before? Maybe. Does it move us. Yes indeed.

Jennifer Kelly

Kool John — Get Rich, Die $moppin ($moplife Entertainment)

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A year ago, Kool John was shot six times. Yet you wouldn’t know about it from the general mood of Get Rich, Die $moppin, his first tape since then. He does name one song “6 Shots” and explicitly mentions the shooting accident a few times on other songs, but his bouncy music says he wasn’t hurt bad after all. The beats perfectly match the rhymes, playfully ignorant and ignorantly playful. Kool John still doesn’t mix with broke people, doesn’t return calls if it’s not about money and “doesn’t get stressed out.” Instead, he gets high. His new tape is nothing groundbreaking, even though he’s pretending that is: “If I had no legs I’d still be outstanding.”

Ray Garraty

Nick Mazzarella / Quin Kirchner — See or Seem: Live at the Hyde Park Jazz Festival (Out Of Your Head)

See or Seem: Live at the Hyde Park Jazz Festival by Nick Mazzarella / Quin Kirchner

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about this recording is that the titular festival happened at all. While most festivals either canceled or went on line, Chicago’s Hyde Park Jazz Festival dealt with COVID by spreading out. Instead of big stages and indoor shows, last September it staged little pop-up events on sidewalks and in parks. So, if the sound of See or Seem feels a bit diffuse, it’s because it was recorded with a device propped in front of two guys playing on a grassy median. There are moments when the buzz of bugs rises up for a second behind Nick Mazzarella’s darting alto sax and Quin Kirchner’s brisk, mercurial beats. But the thrill of actually playing in front of some people (or actually being surrounded by them; when there’s no stage and social distancing is in effect, it makes sense to walk slow circles around the performers) infuses this music, extracting an extra ounce of joyousness from Mazzarella’s free, boppish lines, and adding a restlessness charge to the drumming, as though Kirchner really wanted to squeeze as much music as possible into this 31-minute set. This release is part of Out Of Your Head Records’ Untamed series of download-only albums recorded under less than pristine conditions. A portion of each title’s income is directed to a charity of the artists’ choice; the duo selected St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital.

Bill Meyer

Dean McPhee — Witch’s Ladder (Hood Faire)

Witch's Ladder by Dean McPhee

Finger-picked melodies cut through haunted landscapes of echo and hum on this fourth LP from the British guitarist Dean McPhee. Track titles like “The Alchemist” and “Witch’s Ladder” evoke the supernatural, as does the spectral ambient tone, reminiscent of Chuck Johnson’s recent Cinder Grove or Mark Nelson’s last Pan•American album. Yet while an e-bow traces ghostly chills through “The Alder Tree,” there’s also a grounding in lovely, well-rooted folk forms; it’s like seeing a familiar landscape in moonlight, well-known landmarks suddenly turned unearthly and strange. The long closing title track has an introspective air. Pensive, jazz-infused runs flower into bright bursts of notes, not quite blues, not quite folk, not quite jazz, not quite anything but gorgeous.

Jennifer Kelly

Moontype — Bodies of Water (Born Yesterday)

Bodies of Water by Moontype

Margaret McCarthy’s voice swims across your headphones like being on an innertube drifting languidly downstream. Typically, saying someone’s vocals are like water indicates a degree of timidity or laziness, obscured in reverb or simply buried by the mix, but on Moontype’s debut LP, it’s a compliment: McCarthy floats across the different styles of music she makes with guitarist Ben Cruz and drummer Emerson Hunton. You notice it not just because she often sings of water or because it’s right there in the title, but also because the Chicago trio hasn’t settled on any particular style yet — just listen to the three-song stretch at the heart of the record where achingly beautiful alt-country ballad “3 Weeks” leads into “When You Say Yes,” a sub-three-minute power-pop number Weezer ought to be jealous of, followed immediately by crunching alt-rock swoon and first single “Ferry.” All the while, McCarthy lets her melodies drift to the will of the songs. I’m reminded of recent efforts from Great Grandpa, Squirrel Flower and Lucy Dacus, but the brief, jazzy curveball of “Alpha” is a peek into whole other possibilities. Bodies of Water is a fine record, but perhaps its most exciting aspect is how much ground you can see Moontype has already conquered. One can’t help but wonder what sonic worlds awash in water await.

Patrick Masterson

Rob Noyes / Joseph Allred — Avoidance Language (Feeding Tube)

Avoidance Language by Rob Noyes and Joseph Allred

The 12-string guitar can emit such a prodigious amount of sound, and there are two of them on Avoidance Language. If Joseph Allred and Rob Noyes had planned things out in order to avoid canceling each other out, they might never have picked their instruments up, so they just started playing and listening. The result is not so much a summing of two broad spectrums of sound, but an instinctual blending of similar textures that ends up sounding significantly different from what either musician does on their own. Even when Allred switches to harmonium or banjo, as he does on the album’s two shorter tracks, the music rushes in torrential fashion. Their collaboration is so compatible that it often seems more like a recital for one big stringed thing played by one four-handed musician than a doubled instrumental duet.

Bill Meyer

NRCSSSST — S-T (Slimstyle)

NRCSSST by NRCSSST

There’s no “I” in NRCSSSST but there’s plenty of swagger. The Atlanta-based synth pop band, formed around Coathangers drummer and singer Stephanie Luke and Dropsonic’s Dan Dixon, taunts and teases in its opening salvo “All I Ever Wanted.” Luke rasps appealingly atop Spoon-style piano banging, and big shout along choruses erupt from sudden flares of synths. It’s all hedonism, but done with conviction. You haven’t heard a big rock song kick up this much fun in ages. “Love Suicide” bangs just as hard, its bass line muttering like a crazy person, unstable and ready to explode (and yet it doesn’t, it maintains its restraint even when the rest of the cut goes deliriously off the rails). Dixon can really sing, too, holding the long vibrating notes that lift these prickly jams into anthemry. It’s been a while since a band reminded me of INXS and U2 without sucking, but here we are. Sometimes guilty pleasures are just pleasures.

Jennifer Kelly

Zeena Parkins / Mette Rasmussen /Ryan Sawyer — Glass Triangle (Relative Pitch)

Glass Triangle by Zeena Parkins, Mette Rasmussen, Ryan Sawyer

Harpist Zeena Parkins and Ryan Sawyer have a long-standing partnership in the trio substitutes Moss Garden, a chamber improv ensemble with pianist Ryan Ross. But swapping in Danish alto saxophonist Mette Rasmussen brings about a change, not just in instrumentation, but attitude. She plays free jazz like a punk, impatient and aggressive, and Parkins and Sawyer are up for the challenge. This music often plays out like a battle between two titans, one blowing and the other pummeling, while Parkins seeks to liquify the ground upon which they stand. She sticks exclusively to an electric harp whose effects-laden tone is disorientingly alien, blinking beacon-like one moment, low as a backhoe engage in earth removal the next. The combination of new and old relationships promotes a combination of instability and trust that yields splendid results.

Bill Meyer

claire rousay — A Softer Focus (American Dreams)

a softer focus by claire rousay

In film, soft focus is a technique of contrast reduction that lends a scene a dreamlike quality. With A Softer Focus, claire rousay imbues her already intimate compositions with a noctilucent aura. She has created a dreamworld with sound. One glimpse at the glowing flowers that grace the cover art created by visual artist Dani Toral, with whom rousay closely collaborated on this release, and the illusory nature of the record is revealed. The reds, oranges, blues and purples of deep twilight are reflected in both the textures rousay weaves into her soundscapes and the visual themes that Toral conjures. Violin, cello, piano and synth are the musical origins of this warmth, which rousay wraps around environments crafted from the sounds of everyday life. She recorded herself moving about her apartment, visiting a farmer’s market, observing kids playing and just existing. These field recordings of the mundane, when coupled with the radiance of the musical elements, are magical. Snatches of conversation become incantations; auto-tuned vocals are the whisperings of spirits; fireworks explode into brilliant shards of crystal. With A Softer Focus, rousay takes a glimpse into the beauty of the everyday, showing us just how precious our most humdrum moments can be.

Bryon Hayes

Axel Rulay x Verbo Flow — Si Es Trucho Es Trucho / Axel Rulay (La Granja)

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Axel Rulay must be kicking himself right now. With more than three million plays on the original version and more than five million on the remix that adds verses from Farruko and El Alfa into the fray, the Dominican is cruising into our second pandemic summer with an unbeatable poolside anthem — and to think, after years of clawing his way up through the industry dregs, working to get his name out there, all he had to do was make himself the chorus over Venezuelan producer Manybeat’s 2019 tropical house trip “El Tiempo.” Presto: Massive visibility in the Spanish-speaking world and a song that ought to transcend any linguistic barriers unlocked even if the best I can manage is a title that translates as “If It’s Trout It’s Trout.” Expect that long-desired Daddy Yankee collabo to follow any day now.

Patrick Masterson

Rx Nephew — Listen Here Are You Here to Hear Me (NewBreedTrapper)

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Rochester rapper Rx Nephew trailed brother-turned-archrival-turned-back Rx Papi’s coming out party 100 Miles and Walk’in by just a few weeks with the 53-minute all-in proposition Listen Here Are You Here to Hear Me. Unlike Papi’s Max B-ish smoothness, Nephew is all rough n’ tumble through these 17 tracks, provocative pump action with narrative bursts of violence and street hustling delivered with a verve most akin to DaBaby or, in some of his more elastic enunciations, peak Ludacris. A recent Creative Hustle interview provides some insight: The first time he went into the booth, “I didn’t write anything. I just started talking about selling crack and robbing people.” The stories haven’t stopped since. If he can keep putting out music as engaging as Listen Here…, Rx Nephew is destined for more than just the margins; until then, we have one of the year’s densest rap records to hold the line.

Patrick Masterson

Nick Schofield — Glass Gallery (Backward Music)

Glass Gallery by Nick Schofield

Nick Schoefield, out of Montreal, composed these 13 tracks entirely on a vintage Prophet 600, the first synthesizer to designed to employ the then-new MIDI standard established by the instrument’s inventor Dave Smith and Roland’s Ikutaru Kakahashi. The instrument has a lovely, crystalline quality, floating effortless arpeggios through vaulting sonic spaces. Though clearly synthesized, these pieces of music resonate in serene and peaceful ways, evoking light, water, air and contemplation with a simplicity that evokes Japan. “Water Court” drips notes of startling purity into deep pools of tone-washed whoosh and hum. “Snow Blue Square” flutters an oboe-like melody over eddying gusts of keyboard motifs. The pieces fit together with calm precision, leading from one beautiful space to the next like a stroll through a museum.

Jennifer Kelly

Archie Shepp — Blasé And Yasmina Revisited (Ezz-thetics)

The Ezz-thetics campaign to keep the best of mid-20th century free jazz on CD shelves (yes, CD, not streaming or LP) breaches the walls of the BYG catalog with a disc that issues one and a half albums from Archie Shepp’s busy week in August 1969. Blasé is a stand-out for the participation of singer Jeanne Lee, whose indomitable and flexible delivery as equal to the demands of material that’s be turns pungently earthy and steeped in antiquity. But the rest of the band, which includes Philly Joe Jones, Dave Burrell, some harmonica players, and a couple members of the Art Ensemble, is also more than equal to the task of filtering the blues and Ellingtonia through the gestures of the then-contemporary avant-garde. “Yasmina,” which originally occupied one side of another LP, makes sense here as an extension of the raw, rippling “Touareg,” the last tune on Blasé, into exultantly African territory.

Bill Meyer

Juanita Stein — Snapshot (Handwritten)

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Juanita Stein was the cool, serene, Mazzy Star-evoking vocal presence in the Aussie dream-gaze outfit Howling Bells, and she plays more or less the same role on her third solo album. Yet she is also the source of mayhem here, kicking up an angst of guitar-freaked turmoil on “1,2,3,4,5,6” then soothing it away with singing, hanging long threads of feedback from the thump-thump-thumping blues-rock architecture of “L.O.T.F.” and crooning dulcetly, but with a little yip, in the trance-y title track. This latter cut reflects on the death of her father, a kindred soul who wrote a couple of Howling Bells songs for her and passed away recently. It distills a palpable ache into pure, distanced poetry, finding a cool, dispassionate way to consider the mysteries of human loss.

Jennifer Kelly

The Tiptons Sax Quartet & Drums — Wabi Sabi (Sowiesound)

Wabi Sabi by Tiptons Sax Quartet & Drums

Over its 30 years together, the Tiptons Sax Quartet has done less to hone its sound and more to figure out how many styles to embrace. The group (typically a soprano, alto, tenor, and baritone sax joined by percussion and even including some vocals) can dig into trad jazz but sounds more at home in exploration, adapting world music or other traditional American styles. The title of their latest album, Wabi Sabi refers to the Japanese concept of finding beauty in and accepting imperfection. The Tiptons, despite that sentiment, don't approach their play with a sloppy sound; in fact, they're as tight as ever. The understanding of impermanence and imperfection does help contextualize their risk-taking. When they turn to odd yodeling on “Moadl Joadl,” they find joy in an odd vocal moment that highlights expression and discovery over formal rigor. When they tap in New Orleans energy for “Jouissance,” we can connect the dots between parades and funerals, celebrating all the while. The whole album serves as a tour of styles and moods, always with an energetic potency. If it's more of the same from the Tiptons, that just means continuance of difference.

Justin Cober-Lake

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chiseler · 4 years

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Stolen Faces

Cinema is an art of faces, almost a religion of faces: on screen they loom above us, vast as a mother’s face must appear to an infant. We can get lost in them. The deepest thrill the movies offer may be the opportunity to gaze at human faces longer and with more unabashed, lover-like intimacy than real life regularly allows. Most often, of course, we gaze at beautiful faces, though cinema has its share of beloved gargoyles, mugs with “character” rather than symmetry. But the uncanny power of faces onscreen also anchors films about disfigurement and facial transformations, about masks and scars and plastic surgery. These stories summon all the fears and taboos, desires and unresolved questions swirling around the human face. Do faces reveal or conceal a person’s true nature? Can changing someone’s face change their soul?

Deformity is a staple of horror films, of course, from classics such as Phantom of the Opera and The Raven (in which the hideously afflicted man played by Boris Karloff muses, “Maybe if a man looks ugly, he does ugly things”) to surgical shockers such as Eyes Without a Face. But plot twists involving faces that are damaged or corrected, masked or changed, turn up with surprising frequency in film noir as well, where they are related to themes of identity theft, amnesia, desperate attempts to shed the past or recover the past. One of the grim proverbs of noir is that you can’t escape yourself. There are no fresh starts, no second chances. But noir also demonstrates the instability of identity, the way character can be corrupted, and stories about facial transformations harbor a nebulous fear that there is in the end no fixed self. If noir is pessimistic about the possibility of change, it is at the same time haunted by fear of change—fear of looking in the mirror and seeing a stranger.

The Truth of Masks

Two films about men who literally lose their faces take the full measure of the resulting ostracism and crushing isolation—and what men will do to escape it. Hiroshi Teshigahara’s The Face of Another (Tanin no Kao, 1966) is based on a Kobo Abe novel about a scientist named Okuyama who has been literally defaced by a chemical accident. We never see what he used to look like; he spends half the film swaddled in bandages like Claude Rains in The Invisible Man, ferocious black eyes glinting through slits. Obsessed with people’s reactions to his appearance, he lashes out bitterly, insisting that all his social ties have been severed, including his conjugal ties with his wife. She tries to convince him that it’s all in his head and that her feelings haven’t changed, but her revulsion when he makes an abrupt sexual advance convinces him that she’s lying.

Okuyama believes that a life-like mask will restore his relationship with his wife and his connection to society. He has evidently not seen The Face Behind the Mask (1941), a terrific B noir in which Peter Lorre stars as Johnny Szabo, who is hideously scarred in a fire. This tragedy and the ensuing cruelty of strangers transform him from a sweet, Chaplin-esque immigrant to a bitter criminal mastermind, even after he dons a powder-white mask that gives him a sad, creepy ghost of his former face—more Lorre than Lorre. The mask is merely a flimsy patch on the horrible visage that spiritually scars Johnny, and though it enables him to marry a sweet and loving (and perhaps near-sighted) woman, it can’t reverse the corrosion of his character.

The doctor who makes a far more sophisticated mask for Okuyama does so because the project fascinates him as a psychological and philosophical experiment. He speculates about what the world would be like if everyone wore a mask: morality would not exist, he argues, since people would feel no responsibility for the actions of their alternate identities. (His theory seems to be borne out by the consequences of internet anonymity.) Unlike the one Johnny Szabo wears, here the mask bears no resemblance to Okuyama’s original looks, and the doctor believes the new face will change his patient’s personality, turning him into someone else.

When the mask is fitted, it turns out to be the face of Tatsuya Nakadai, one of the most striking and plastic pans in cinema history. With only a little help from a fake mole, dark glasses, and a bizarre fringe of beard, Nakadai succeeds in making his own features look eerily synthetic, as though they don’t belong to him. Sitting in a crowded beer hall on his first masked outing in public, he creates a palpable sense of unease, keeping his features unnaturally still as though unsure of their mobility, touching his skin gingerly to explore its alien surface. As he gradually grows more comfortable and revels in the freedom of his new face, the doctor tells him, “It’s not the beer that’s made you drunk, it’s the mask.”

Abe’s novel contains a scene in which the protagonist goes to an exhibit of Noh masks, highly stylized crystallizations of stock characters and emotions. In Noh, as in other traditional forms of theater that use masks, the actor is present on stage but vanishes into another physical being—men play women, young men play old men, gods, and ghosts. In cinema, actors impersonate other characters using their own faces—usually without even the heavy layer of makeup worn on western stages. Movie actors are pretending to be people they’re not, yet if we judge their performances good it means we believe what we see in their faces. When an actor’s real face plays the part of a mask, like Lorre’s or Nakadai’s, this strange inversion—the real impersonating the artificial—has a uniquely disconcerting effect.

At the heart of this disturbing film lurks a horror that changing the skin can indeed change the soul. Okuyama tries to hold onto his identity, insisting, “I am who I am, I can’t change,” but the doctor insists he is “a new man,” with “no records, no past.” In covering his scar tissue with a smooth, artificial skin he eradicates his own experience, and with it his humanity. The doctor turns out to be right when he predicts that the mask will have a mind of its own. Suddenly endowed with sleek good looks, Okuyama buys flashy suits and sets out to seduce his own wife. When he succeeds easily, he is outraged, only to have her reveal that she knew who he was all along. After she leaves him in disgust he descends into madness and random violence. He has become the opposite of the Invisible Man: a visible shell with nothing inside

Okuyama’s story is interwoven with a subplot about a radiation-scarred girl from Nagasaki, whose social isolation drives her to incest and suicide. Lovely from one side, repellent from the other, she looks very much like the protagonist of A Woman’s Face. Ingrid Bergman starred in the Swedish original, but Joan Crawford is ideally cast in the 1941 Hollywood remake directed by George Cukor. Half beautiful and half grotesque, half hard-boiled and half vulnerable, Anna Holm spells out what was usually inchoate in Crawford’s paradoxical presence. A childhood fire has left her with a gnarled scar on one side of her face, like a black diseased root growing across her cheek and distorting her eye and mouth. Crawford makes us feel Anna’s agonizing humiliation when people look at her, which spurs her compulsive mannerisms of turning her head aside, lifting her hand to her cheek, or pulling her hair down.

Also perfectly cast is Conrad Veidt as the elegant, sinister Torsten Baring. Veidt went from German Expressionist horror—playing the goth heartthrob Cesar in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and the grotesquely disfigured yet weirdly alluring hero of The Man Who Laughs—to an unexpected late-career run as a sexy leading man in cloak-and-dagger films such as The Spy in Black and Contraband. When Anna turns her head defiantly to reveal her scar, Torsten gazes at her with a gleam of excitement, even of perverse attraction. She is confused and touched by his kindness and gallantry, helplessly trying to hide her sensitivity beneath a tough façade. Her broken-up, uncertain expressions when he gives her flowers or kisses her hand count as some of the most delicate acting Crawford ever did. Anna assumes that Torsten, the penniless scion of a rich family, must want her to do some dirty work, and she turns out to be right, but he also genuinely appreciates the proud, bitter, lonely woman who faces down her miserable lot through sheer strength of will.

People are horrible to Anna, nastily mocking her wounded vanity and her attempts to look nice. “The world was against me,” she says, “All right, I’d be against it.” She has found the perfect outlet, blackmailing pretty women who commit adultery. In one of the film’s best scenes, the spoiled and kittenish wife she is threatening retaliates by shining a lamp in Anna’s face and laughing at her. Anna leaps at the woman and starts hitting her over and over, forehand and backhand, in an ecstasy of hatred. This savagely satisfying moment is derailed by the film’s first grossly contrived plot twist, as the encounter is interrupted by the woman’s husband, who happens to be a plastic surgeon specializing in correcting facial scars. He offers to operate on Anna, and once the bandages are removed, in a scene orchestrated for maximum suspense, an absurdly flawless face is revealed.

The doctor (Melvyn Douglas) calls her both his Galatea and his Frankenstein: he views her as his creation, but isn’t sure if she’s an ideal woman or an unholy monster, “a beautiful face with no heart.” Her dilemma is ultimately which man to please, whose approval to seek: the doctor who believes her character should be corrected now that her face is, or Torsten, who wants her to kill the young nephew who stands between him and the family estate. This overwrought turn is never plausible; it is always obvious that Anna is no child murderer. What is believable is her erotic thrall to Torsten, the first man who has ever shown an interest in her. Crawford is at her most unguarded in these moments of trembling desire; Cukor remarked on how “the nearer the camera, the more tender and yielding she became.” He speculated that the camera was her true lover.

Anna undergoes months of pain and uncertainty for the chance of being beautiful for Torsten, and there is a marvelous shot of her gazing at herself in a mirror as she prepares to surprise him with her new face, brimming with hard proud joy. But he winds up lamenting the surgery that has turned her into “a mere woman, soft and warm and full of love,” he sneers. “I thought you were something different—strong, exciting, not dull, mediocre, safe.” In this same speech, Torsten reveals himself as a cartoonish fascist megalomaniac, which fits in with the film’s slide into silly, flimsily scripted melodrama, but sadly obscures the radical spark of what he’s saying. Anna’s character is shaped by the way she looks, or rather by the way she is looked at by men; the disappointingly conventional ending sides with the man who equates flawless beauty with moral goodness, and against the one man who was able to see something fine—a “hard, shining brightness,” in a woman’s damaged and imperfect face.

A Stolen Face (1952) follows a similar premise, much less effectively, and reaches the opposite conclusion. Paul Henreid plays a plastic surgeon who operates on female criminals with disfiguring scars, convinced that once they look normal they will become contented law-abiding citizens. He gets carried away, however, sculpting one patient into a dead ringer for his lost love (Lizabeth Scott plays both the original and the copy) and marrying her. His attempt to play Pygmalion backfires, since the vulgar, mean-spirited and untrustworthy ex-con is unchanged by her new appearance: she is indeed “a beautiful face without a heart.” That is a succinct definition of the femme fatale, a type Lizabeth Scott often played and one that embodies a fascination with the deceptiveness of feminine beauty. In The Big Heat (1953), it is only when Debbie (Glora Grahame) has her pretty face rearranged by a pot of scalding coffee that she abandons her cynical self-interest to become an avenging angel, fearlessly punishing the corrupt who hide their greed behind a genteel façade. She has nothing left to lose; pulling a gun from her mink coat and plugging the woman she recognizes as her evil “sister,” the disfigured Debbie asserts her freedom: “I never felt better in my life.”

Blessings in Disguise

Sometimes, people are only too happy to lose their faces. Dr. Richard Talbot (Kent Smith), the protagonist of the superb, underappreciated drama Nora Prentiss (1947), sees the bright side when his face is horribly burned in a car crash. He has already faked his own death, sending another man’s corpse over a cliff in a burning car. In a neat bit of poetic irony, by crashing his own car he has completed the process of destroying his identity, and no longer needs to fear he’ll be recognized. Losing his face is a blessing in disguise—or rather, a blessing of disguise. But the disfigurement is also a visual representation of the corruption of his character: his face changes to reflect his downward metamorphosis with almost Dorian Gray-like precision.

Car crashes are a kind of refrain in the film. The doctor’s routine existence veers off course when a taxi knocks down a nightclub singer, Nora Prentiss (Anne Sheridan), across the street from his San Francisco office. Talk about a happy accident: the nice guy trapped in an ice-cold marriage to a rigid, nagging martinet suddenly has a gorgeous, good-humored young woman stretched out on his examining table. Nora may sing for a living, but her real vocation is dishing out wisecracks (her first words on coming to are, “There must be an easier way to get a taxi.”) When the doctor mentions a paper he’s writing on “ailments of the heart,” the canary, her eyelids dropping under the weight of knowingness, quips, “A paper? I could write a book.”

It’s hard to imagine a more sympathetic pair of adulterers, but the doctor is so daunted by the prospect of asking his wife for a divorce that it seems simpler to use the convenient death of a patient in his office to stage his own demise and flee to New York with Nora. It’s soon clear, though, that some part of him did die in San Francisco. Cooped up in a New York hotel room, terrified of going out lest someone spot him, the formerly gentle man becomes an irascible, rude, nervous wreck. When the faithful and incredibly patient Nora goes back to singing for Phil Dinardo (Robert Alda), the handsome nightclub owner who loves her, Talbot becomes hysterically jealous. Unshaven and hollow-eyed, he slaps Nora and almost kills Dinardo before fleeing the police and heading into that fiery crash. He becomes, as the film’s evocative French title has it, L’Amant sans Visage, “the lover without a face.”

When his bandages are removed, he is unrecognizable, wizened and scarred, his face a creased and calloused mask. His own wife doesn’t know him, and when Nora visits him in prison his damaged face, shot through a tight wire mesh, looks like something decaying, dissolving. He’s in prison because, in an even neater bit of irony, he has been charged with his own murder. He decides to take the rap, recognizing the justice of the mistake: he did kill Richard Talbot.

This same ironic plot twist appears in Strange Impersonation (1946), albeit less convincingly. This deliriously far-fetched tale, directed at a breakneck pace by Anthony Mann, stars Brenda Marshall as Nora Goodrich, a pretty scientist whose glasses signal that she is both brainy and emotionally myopic. She is harshly punished for caring more about work than marriage: her female lab assistant, who wants to steal Nora’s fiancé, tampers with an experiment so that it explodes, burning Nora’s face to a crisp. Embittered, she retreats from the world, and when another woman, who is trying to blackmail her over a car accident, falls from the window and is mistakenly identified as Nora, she seizes the opportunity to disappear, have plastic surgery that miraculously eliminates her scars, and return posing as the blackmailer, to seek revenge. She goes to work for her former fiancé, who strangely fails to recognize her voice or her striking resemblance to his lost love.

The plot plays out as, and turns out to be, a fever dream, but this last credibility stretcher is too common to dismiss as merely the flaw of one potboiler. Plots involving impersonation and identity theft rely not only on unrealistic visions of what plastic surgery can achieve, but on the assumption that people are deeply unobservant and tone-deaf in recognizing loved ones. A film that underlines this blindness with droll irony is The Scar (a.k.a. Hollow Triumph and The Man Who Murdered Himself, 1948), a convoluted but hugely entertaining little B noir in which Paul Henreid plays dual roles as a crook on the run and a psychologist who happens to look just like him. John Muller, pursued by hit men sent by a casino owner he robbed, stumbles across his doppelganger and decides to kill him and take his place. All he needs to do is give himself a facial scar to match the doctor’s. Only as he is dumping the body does he notice that he has put the scar on the wrong cheek—the consequence of an accidentally reversed photograph. But the irony quickly doubles back: Muller decides to brazen it out, and in fact no one notices that the doctor’s scar has apparently moved from one side of his face to the other—not even his lover. (Joan Bennett glides through this awkward part in a world-weary trance, giving a dry-martini reading to the script’s most famous lines: “It’s a bitter little world, full of sad surprises.”) The assumption that people pay little attention to the way others look or sound seems directly at odds with the power that faces and voices wield on film, and the intimate specificity with which we experience them. But noir stories often turn on how easily people are deceived, and how poorly they really know one another—or even themselves.

In The Long Wait (1954), perhaps the most extreme case of confused identity, a man with amnesia searches for a woman who has had plastic surgery. Not only does he not know what she looks like now, he can’t even remember what she used to look like. Since the movie is based on a Mickey Spillane story, he proceeds methodically by grabbing every woman he sees, in hopes that something will jog his memory. The film is fun in its pulpy, trashy way, provided you enjoy watching Anthony Quinn kiss women as though his aim were to throttle the life out of them. Quinn plays a man badly injured in a car wreck that erases both his memory and his fingerprints. This is lucky when he wanders into his old town and discovers he is wanted for a bank robbery—without fingerprints, they can’t arrest him. Figuring he must be innocent, he goes in search of the girlfriend who may or may not have grabbed the money and gone under the knife. It’s an intriguing premise, but the ultimate revelation of the right woman feels arbitrary, and the implications of all this confusion of identities are left resolutely unexamined. Nonetheless, there is something in the film’s searing, inarticulate desperation that glints like a shattered mirror.

Under the Knife

The promise of plastic surgery is a new and better self, the erasure of years and the traces of life. Taken to extremes, it is the opportunity to become a different person. Probably the best known plastic surgery noir is Dark Passage (1947), in which Humphrey Bogart plays Vincent Parry, who visits a back alley doctor after escaping from San Quentin. Parry was framed for killing his wife, so the face plastered across newspapers with the label of murderer has become a false face that betrays him. A friendly cabby who spots him recommends a surgeon who is he promises is “no quack.” Houseley Stevenson’s gleeful turn as the back-alley doctor is unforgettable, as he sharpens a straight razor while philosophizing about how all human life is rooted in fear of pain and death. He can’t resist scaring Parry, chortling over what he could do to a patient he didn’t like: make him look like a bulldog, or a monkey. But he reassures Parry that he’ll make him look good: “I’ll make you look as if you’ve lived.”

During the operation, Parry’s drugged consciousness becomes a kaleidoscope of faces, all the people who have threatened or helped him swirling around. His face is being re-shaped, as his life has already been shaped by others: the bad woman who framed him and the good woman who rescues and protects him, the small-time crook who menaces him and the kind cabby who helps him. Faceless for much of the movie, mute for part of it (he spends a long time in constraining bandages), Vincent Parry is among the most passive and cipher-like of noir protagonists. When the bandages finally come off after surgery, he looks like Humphrey Bogart, and the idea that this famously beat-up, lived-in face could be the creation of plastic surgery is perhaps the film’s biggest joke. But Vincent Parry remains an oddly blank, undefined character, and he seems unchanged by his new face and name. In a sense the doctor is right: he only looks as though he’s lived.

The fullest cinematic exploration of the problems inherent in trying to make a new life through plastic surgery is Seconds (1966), John Frankenheimer’s flesh-creeping sci-fi drama about a mysterious company that offers clients second lives. For a substantial fee, they will fake your death, make you over completely—including new fingerprints, teeth, and vocal cords—and create an entirely new identity for you. There is never a moment in the movie when this seems like a good idea. The Saul Bass credits, in which human features are stretched and distorted in extreme close-up, instills a horror of plasticity, and disorienting camera-work creates an immediate feeling of unease and dislocation, a physical discomfort at being in the wrong place.

Arthur, a businessman from Scarsdale, is the personification of disappointed middle age, afflicted by profound anomie that goes beyond a dull routine and a tired marriage. When the Company finishes its work—the process is shown in gruesome detail, to the extent that Frankenheimer’s cameraman fainted while shooting a real rhinoplasty—the formerly nondescript and greying Arthur looks like Rock Hudson, and has a new life as a playboy painter in Malibu. He’s told that he is free, “alone in the world, absolved of all responsibility.” He has “what every middle-aged man in America wants: freedom.”

At first, however, his life proves as empty and meaningless in this new setting as it was in the old; even when the Frankenstein scars have healed, he remains nervous and joyless as before. After he meets and falls for a beautiful blonde neighbor, who introduces him to a very 1960s California lifestyle, he begins to revel in youth and sensual freedom. Yet something is still not right; at a cocktail party he gets drunk and starts talking about his former existence—a taboo. He discovers that his lover, indeed almost everyone he knows, is an employee of the company or a fellow “reborn,” hired to create a fake life for him, and to keep him under surveillance. His “freedom” is a construct, tightly controlled.

Arthur rebels, making a forbidden trip to visit his wife, who of course does not recognize him. Talking to her about her supposedly deceased husband, for the first time he begins to understand himself: the depth of his alienation and confusion, the fact that he never really knew what he wanted, and so wanted the things he had been told he should want. Seconds is a scathing attack on the American ideal of a successful life, a portrait of how corporations sell fantasies of youth, beauty, happiness, love; buying into these commercial dreams, no one is really free to know what they want, or even who they are. Will Geer, as the folksy, sinister founder of the Company, talks wistfully about how he simply wanted to make people happy.

There is a deep sadness in the scenes where Arthur revisits his old home and confronts the failure of his attempt at rebirth—beautifully embodied by Rock Hudson in a performance suffused with the melancholy of a man who has spent his life hiding his real identity behind a mask. Yet Arthur still imagines that if he can have another new start, a third face and identity, he will get it right. Instead, he learns the macabre secret of how the Company goes about swapping out people’s identities. Seconds contrasts the surgical precision with which faces, bodies, and the trappings of life can be remade, and the impossibility of determining or predicting how or if the inner self will be changed. For that there are no charts or diagrams, and no knife that can cut deep enough.

by Imogen Sara Smith

#Imogen Sara Smith #The Chiseler #stolen faces #joan crawford #noir #secondrock hudson #lauren bacall

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shcwclf-archive · 4 years

Photo

[ MILA MINKOVA. 36. CIS FEMALE. SHE/HER] is here! They’ve lived in Silver Lake for [ 3 MONTHS ] and are originally from [ SOFIA, BULGARIA]. They are a [ PROPERTY DEVELOPER ] and in their downtime love [ COLLECTING CARS ] and [ FLIPPING HOUSES ]. They look a lot like [ CRYSTAL REED ] and live [ ON SILVERWOOD TERRACE ].

hi new friends, i’m ay and this is mila. she’s a bit of a revamp so I’m still figuring her out. below is her bio, but also a little bit of other info.

TRIGGERS PRESENT: organised crime, pregnancy, childbirth, divorce, death, military mention, alcohol, drugs, firearms.

general information.

full name ludmila kseniya konstantinova pavlova mikova

known as mila minkova

age thirty-six

date of birth june, 14, 1984

place of birth sofia, bulgaria

zodiac gemini

gender cisfemale

nationality american

religion atheist

orientation pansexual

relationship status widowed

physical attributes.

face claim crystal reed

height 5′7 ¾

weight 126 lbs

hair color brunette

eye color hazel

tattoos quite a few

outfit/clothing style high fashion / biker chic dependant on mood!

background information.

hometown sofia, bulgaria / trousdale LA

current residence silverwood terrace

spoken languages english, bulgarian, spanish, italian, russian, turkish, romani (balkan & vlax)

education level college graduate

occupation property developer & mother

familial information.

mother nadedzdha pavlova nee minkova

father dragomir pavlov

siblings nadya pavlova, aleksandr pavlov

children freya ksenya minkova-fallon (8) colt aleksandr mcgregor (19)

spouse jack patrick fallon (deceased) damien john mcgregor (divorced)

personality.

positive traits resourceful, artistic, perfectionist, resilient

negative traits hot-headed, manipulative, vengeful

likes tattoos, cars, her children

dislikes butterflies, assholes, pumpkin

biography:

ludmila kseniya konstantinova pavlova mikova is daughter of late Bulgarian Mob Boss Dragomir Pavlov who passed away in 2003.

Her family currently own and run the Kingdom hotel chain and in the past, this chain ran as a front for any and all illegal activity. Their hotels are worldwide and their money flows like nothing else. Mila’s father was once considered the richest person in Europe.

Mila spent most of her life growing up in Trousdale, california however, travelling whenever and wherever, living a lavish life in trousdale until she fell pregnant at 16 and was shipped off to boarding school after the first few months of her son’s life.

Having always been a party girl, it was hard for Mila to accept that she was a mother, so she was a pretty fucking bad one for the first few months of her son’s life.

If it hadn’t been for the expensive Nannies and the hired help, Mila’s son wouldn’t have had the greatest start to life at all. How could he when his mother was so consumed with herself that she’d rather go out than stay at home and care for him?

The school changed that though, pushing her to her limits while getting her sober and allowing her the time she needed to straighten herself out.

Mila graduated with her GED, her mother then allowing her son to live with mila, but only if mila stayed at the family home, back in LA.

LA proved to be a little difficult and while Mila was so used to the life she had before, she’d rather throw herself into work.

Mila hired a nanny and decided to apply for college, gaining qualifications in property & real estate, business management, and accounting.

While she was single for most of her son’s young life, Mila found herself reconnecting with her son’s father, and the pair ended up getting married when Mila was still fairly young and starting out her career, but while it was nice to be a family, mila soon discovered that he wasn’t the man for her, in fact he seemed to be everyone elses man, and not hers.

her divorce was finalised around the time Mila got into working for the family business, developing five star hotels and luxury resorts around the world.

She can’t exactly remember how she met jack, it was possibly through a friend, but all she remembers was how utterly smitten she was with him from the very beginning. jack was a navy seal, a man who quite literally put his life on the line for his country time after time and continued down that road. mila was well and truly in love and the moment he asked her to marry him was quite honestly, one of the happiest days of her life.

eighteen months later and freya was born, without her father in the country and sadly, without ever meeting her father. while mila doesn’t know exactly what happened to jack on tour, she knew the man, while only shortly in her life, was there for a reason, and freya was that.

With her youngest now eight, Mila has spent the time buying property, indulging in the finer things in life, and living a rather frivolous life, while not dealing with grief.

She’s been in town for three months now, her family with her, though her son now does his own thing. she’s scouting a new area for a resort or hotel to expand the family chain and she’s hoping one pops up soon, while she is flipping a few houses around town.

She’ll take her time though, looking over other businesses in town, seeing which she can sink her fingers into.

extras:

mila decided to move away from the pavlov/pavlova name when she left school, opting to use her mothers maiden name of minkova.

mila can come off harsh and cold, but she was raised by mobsters, so she takes a while to warm up to, but once you get on her good side, she’s fiercely devoted.

She has two Dobermans and a dachshund (which is technically freya’s) but no cats as she is allergic. She also has horses at a country property.

She has always had a fascination with firearms and weaponry (mostly due to her upbringing) and has been shooting since she was 7 attending competitions for her school back in middle school.

She was captain of her school Equestrian team.

her love of cars started in her fathers garage as a young child, also tinkering about with her brother and cousins helping them in any way she could. her brother became quite into the street racing world, and mila followed for a short time in her late teens when she wasn’t busy elsewhere. her son’s father was also heavily into this scene.

connections:

i’m legit open to any sort of connections, but I may submit some into the main.

she’s only been here two months, but I’d be suppppper keen for some awesome platonic relationships

maybe a flirtation at a bar, possible one night stand that got awkward as mila isn’t one to hang around after and generally sneaks out in the early hours of the morning, or... right after if she isn’t trying to be subtle.

someone she works with

someone who worked with or has dealt with her family in the past (possible law enforcement etc)

someone who knew her husband/ worked with her husband (he was a navy seal)

please IM me if you want to plot, and I can always throw you my discord :)

#slintro #mila:intro #organised crime tw #pregnancy tw #death tw #childbirth tw #divorce tw #military mention tw #drugs tw #alcohol tw #firearms tw #akjdsfhakj i'm being safe

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imagitory · 5 years

Text

HPHM Profile: Carewyn Cromwell

<<<updated: 12/6/2020 // original template by @hogwarts-misery >>>

“I can’t just live my life however I want! Maybe I want to — sometimes I want to — sometimes I want to so much that I think of just saying ‘forget the Cursed Vaults! Forget about R and their death threats and the fear and the not-knowing-what’s-coming!’ But...I can’t. As long as Jacob is out there — as long as I don’t know whether he’s alive or dead — whether he needs my help or not — how can I put myself first?! How can I justify chasing the Quidditch Cup, or joining the Dueling Club, or singing in the Frog Choir, when anything great I might do won’t mean a thing, without my brother there cheering me on whether I win or lose!? How can I fight for my dreams...while not knowing if Jacob will be able to share them with me? What sort of person would I be? What sort of disgusting — selfish — cowardly — terrible person would I be, if I abandoned him!? How could I face my mum again — face myself again — if I just threw my brother away?!”

[PROFILE]

NAME | Carewyn Lane Cromwell

NICKNAMES | Carey (by her friends, especially Bill, Charlie, and Tonks); Winnie (by her mother); Pip, Pippa (by Jacob); Cursebreaker (by Andre) [Note: In AUs, Jacob calls Carewyn “Wyn” instead of Pip, as “Pippa” is a reference to the Robert Browning poem “Pippa Passes,” which often doesn’t exist in other universes. XD]

GENDER | Female (cisgender)

SEXUAL / ROMANTIC ORIENTATION | Asexual / Panromantic

[PERSONALITY]

In some ways, Carewyn is an ideal heroine. A bright, compassionate girl, she often finds herself drawn to those less confident than her and feels the urge to protect and take care of them. Even when she was very little, she ended up “mothering” her older brother Jacob by encouraging him to eat and sleep more and offering advice, just as much as he often “fathered” her by inspiring her and shielding her from any perceived threats. But don’t mistake this young Cursebreaker for a saint -- Carewyn actually is an incredibly proud person who protects her fragile, sensitive heart with a hard shell of seemingly unbreakable confidence and cool insight. There is nothing she hates more than showing her insecurities and fears, and so she does her best to always look her best and put her best face forward no matter what, even around the people she cares about. This means that almost none of her many friends have any idea about the demons Carewyn is secretly fighting in her pursuit of the Cursed Vaults and her brother. Carewyn dresses the part for whatever situation she’s in, and she always feels most comfortable when she feels in control and believes she has the moral high ground -- admittedly her moral compass is pretty strong on its own, but she also buries any more selfish and meaner feelings she has as deep as she can, pushing herself to be the best, most moral person she can be, even if it’s difficult for her. She wants to be everything that everyone needs, and unfortunately that can result in Carewyn setting standards that are way too high for herself and secretly resenting and berating herself whenever she falls short, or worse not even participating in something she thinks she can’t put all of herself into or wouldn’t do well in. Her self-loathing is so strong that when something traumatic happens to her (such as Jacob’s disappearance or the death of Redacted), she can suffer from severe spells of depression where she neglects her own well-being and as a consequence forcibly removes herself from the people around her so as not to let others see her in such a terrible state. Because of her own high standards for herself, as well, Carewyn also can be judgmental of others, not being prone to change her mind about a person easily. When backed into a corner, Carewyn can freeze up, but when her own self-preservation or her loved ones are threatened, she can bite back really hard, though she’ll almost always regret losing control after the fact. Carewyn has a very organized mind and works best when she has a plan and knows where she’s going at any given time -- ambiguity and mystery are not this girl’s friends. This sadly can result in her being a real stick in the mud, which makes her an easy target for pranks and mischief. Fortunately, despite her overly serious attitude, Carewyn has a nice dry sense of humor and is a very passionate, driven person. In her fifth year, she was even made a Prefect largely due to her protective, nurturing instincts, though it’s good to note that that doesn’t make her a rule follower. Carewyn only respects rules and the people enforcing them if they have earned her respect and she sees the reasoning behind them. If there’s one thing Carewyn can’t stand, it’s condescension. Carewyn’s core interests are singing (her favorite wizard band is the Weird Sisters and her favorite Muggle band is the Eurythmics), Charms, magical history, and magical creatures.

[BIOGRAPHY]

DATE OF BIRTH | August 29, 1973 (Virgo)

BLOOD STATUS | Half-Blood

FAMILY INFO | Carewyn is the second child and only daughter of Evan Bach and Lane Cromwell. Carewyn’s mother Lane alienated her parents, younger brother, and older sisters -- a well-respected, but very overbearing magical family called the Cromwells -- upon moving to Wales and marrying Evan, who was a Muggle. Unfortunately Evan and Lane’s marriage took a turn for the worse after Jacob was born. Jacob’s magical abilities peeked through at an early age and were interpreted by Evan as deliberate misbehavior despite Lane’s best attempts to diffuse any tension. Nine years into their marriage, Evan and Lane were surprised by a late addition to the family -- their daughter, Carewyn. Rather than bringing Evan and Lane closer together, however, Carewyn’s arrival only seemed to drive Evan further away, as he already had had no instincts about how to be a father to Jacob and felt even less sure about how to raise a daughter. Deciding it was better to give up and just let Lane do what was best rather than mess up, Evan withdrew from Carewyn almost completely, leaving Lane and even his son Jacob to look after her. Fortunately Jacob, an nine-year-old boy at the time of Carewyn’s birth, adored his little sister immediately and went out of his way to coddle and protect her however he could. When Jacob turned 11 and received his Hogwarts letter, Lane was finally allowed by law to tell Evan about her magical heritage and the Wizarding World, but by that point, Evan and Lane’s marriage was so rocky that the revelation finally made it buckle and fall apart. Evan left his family that very night, leaving Lane heartbroken. Knowing her family would insist upon her returning to their estate in Yorkshire if she went to them for financial help, Lane instead charted out alone and raised her two children completely on her own while working as a magical historian and Runes expert. Although Lane, Jacob, and Carewyn lived in poverty for almost all of Jacob’s school career and Carewyn’s childhood, the Cromwells managed to dig their way out of debt a year before Jacob disappeared, now sitting on the perimeter of “lower-middle class.”

MYERS-BRIGGS TYPE | INFJ “The Advocate”

[MAGICAL ABILITIES]

WAND | Hornbeam and dragon heartstring, 11 inches, inflexible (broken by Rakepick) // Laurel and phoenix feather, 12 inches, unyielding (nicknamed her “Excalibur wand”)

BOGGART | Voldemort [Carewyn’s greatest fear is a threat she has no hope of overcoming, fighting, escaping, or controlling...which, yeah, is Voldemort in a nutshell!]

ANIMAGUS FORM (IF ANY) | Robin

PATRONUS | Abraxan Winged Horse

[AFFILIATION]

HOUSE | Slytherin

QUIDDITCH POSITION (IF ANY) | She prefers playing Chaser in Quidditch friendlies, but she’s been reluctant to commit to the Slytherin team due to her extreme focus on finding her brother and fear of letting Orion and the others down.

PREFECT? | Yup!

[ACADEMICS]

BEST CLASS(ES) | Charms, Care of Magical Creatures, History of Magic (thanks to her mum!)

WORST CLASS(ES) | Transfiguration, Divination

OWL SCORES |

Charms - O

Transfiguration - O

Potions - O

Herbology - O

History of Magic - O

Care of Magical Creatures - O

Defense Against the Dark Arts - O

[RELATIONSHIPS]

PARTNERS |

Andre — In the beginning, Carewyn was completely and totally dedicated romantically to Andre, having attended the Celestial Ball and gone on two dates with him. In the darkest part of her heart, though she was a bit afraid that she wouldn’t be “exciting” enough for Andre in the long term, given that he’s always been quite popular and outgoing and she’s only really gotten any esteem at Hogwarts for being a Cursebreaker, which she didn’t really ever want to be. Add onto this some tension brought on by the All-Wizard Tournament where Andre got so obsessed with winning that he took help from his girlfriend and then flat-out didn’t even consider helping her in return and Carewyn’s severe trust issues, and soon the two had a lot of trouble communicating properly. When times were good, they had a lot of fun together, but if they ever weren’t, the two just couldn’t seem to connect and fix it as a team. Not long after the All-Wizard Tournament, Carewyn finally told Andre she needed a break, and after a talk, they decided it was better to end their romantic relationship and try just being friends again. Despite the break-up, they both remain incredibly fond of each other and respect each other deeply.

Chiara — In the beginning of my game-playing journey, I had considered matching Carewyn with Chiara in the long-term. Ever since they first met, Carewyn has both identified with and greatly admired Chiara. Even if Chiara has had such a rough life, she remains ever gentle, kind, and forgiving -- everything, in essence, that Carewyn wants and tries to be -- all without seemingly even trying. She’s never expected anything from Carewyn, no matter how big her reputation as a Cursebreaker has grown, and is always supportive of her choices. She even wants to Heal others, even if her werewolf form is so hell-bent on destruction and harm. Chiara, meanwhile, identifies with and admires Carewyn just as much for her nurturing, sensitive heart, and thinks she’s one of the bravest people she knows. She understands Carewyn’s self-loathing from a first-hand perspective since she struggles with it herself, but she can’t understand it in the sense that she sees Carewyn as a truly wonderful, strong person who should be able to love herself just as much as she loves others. Carewyn frequently spends time with Chiara in her Animagus form during the full moon to keep her company, singing sweet songs to brighten her darker nights. A Chiara/Carewyn ending would’ve been what I considered the “Peaceful” ending, AKA the “Soft uwu” ending -- but it also sort of struck me that the two’s personalities and demons were similar enough that there wouldn’t be as much chance for growth for both of them, and there wouldn’t be as much action or engaging contrast in their interactions, as they would both be pretty universally supportive of each other except when they’re blocking the other out “for their own good.” Even if Carewyn doesn’t end up with Chiara romantically, though, she cherishes her as a friend and would do anything to make her happy.

Diego — This option sort of came out of nowhere, but quickly developed from a crackship into a genuine ship for me, given that like Chiara, Diego would be able to bring some sunlight into Carewyn’s life and be a dependable partner who wouldn’t put high expectations on Carewyn’s shoulders. As for Carewyn, she finds Diego’s flirting absolutely hysterical. Part of this is because Carewyn herself is asexual, but she also just isn’t the sort to actively “flirt” with people. Funnily enough, however, Diego’s charm does end up endearing him to Carewyn anyway, though not for the reason it might charm others! Although she does find his behavior funny, she can still tell he’s sincerely trying to compliment the people he’s talking to, and he’s also amazingly modest despite his clear talent at wizard dueling. Add onto this that he likes dancing, and music-loving!Carewyn has found he’s an all-around pretty fun guy to spend time with. Diego also isn’t turned off in the slightest by Carewyn finding amusement in his flirting, either -- if anything, he finds it rather endearing, as Carewyn is usually so serious and he thinks she should laugh more often. A Diego/Carewyn ending would’ve been what I considered the “Fun” ending, AKA the “Romcom” ending -- but it also felt as though it was an ending that could only come to be and work well in peaceful times, with Diego not being as well-equipped in dealing with Carewyn’s darker spells or in dealing with more serious issues or deep heart-to-heart conversations.

Orion — This, after a lot of deliberation, is the final end-game ship I’ve decided for Carewyn post-Second-Wizarding-War. Orion really wasn’t what Carewyn expected out of a Quidditch captain when they first met in her third year and his fourth, but being related to two Ravenclaws, she actually finds his vague, philosophical bent kind of refreshing. It can still frustrate her sometimes due to her desire to plan ahead, but she sees how his off-kilter affect keeps others on their toes and, therefore, can shift control over a situation his way. (Rather appropriate display of cleverness, for a Slytherin.) Learning his backstory prompts a lot of empathy from Carewyn as well, given that she also didn’t have any real friends before attending Hogwarts, and she greatly admires how wise Orion has become both about himself and about life, even after going through what he’s gone through. After being on his team for that short time, Carewyn’s developed a lot of respect for Orion, and even after leaving, she’s remained very supportive of her house team and especially of Orion as their leader. Even if Carewyn’s not on the team, she keeps up with Quidditch not just out of love for the sport, but because of her desire to see Orion’s team do well. As for Orion, he got the sense they were kindred spirits ever since they first played side-by-side in the match against Hufflepuff and quietly laments that she’s never been a permanent member of his team. He frequently cites that Carewyn has “more fire than a Firecrab” -- although he can find it a bit overpowering at times, her passion was the thing that first sparked his interest in her, and over the years, Orion has come to see her as an equal, admiring her not just for that passion, but for her determination, courage, and selflessness. Orion and Carewyn are also both incredibly insightful, thoughtful, sensitive people who have the tendency to “create a family” out of their friends that they support and nurture in an almost parental manner. After Carewyn left the Slytherin team after the match against Hufflepuff, Orion attempted to persuade Carewyn to rejoin several times over the years due to his lingering fondness for her, even though he’s always respected her decision not to. It’s only after Carewyn returns to the team to help Slytherin win the Quidditch Cup for the first time in ten years and gets injured in the process that Orion learns that he and Carewyn have the same Patronus -- an Abraxan Winged Horse -- which, according to the old wives’ tale, suggests that they are soul mates. By then, however, Orion is set to graduate within weeks and he knows that Carewyn’s life is of course consumed with dealing with the Vaults. And so he decides not to pursue the chance of a relationship solely based on a superstition, however much he regrets his lack of action later. As adults, the two reconnect after the end of the Second Wizarding War and an unconventional romance starts between the two. This endgame ship gives Carewyn both things I wanted for her while shipping Chiara/Carewyn and Diego/Carewyn -- peace and fun -- while also matching her with someone who can bring some balance and positivity to her life and help her let go of her inner demons and yet who she can also defend, protect, and love with all of her fire. And because of their differences -- Orion being so chill, passive, and philosophical and Carewyn being so sensible, perfectionistic, and passionate -- they’ll constantly contrast and challenge each other too.

FRIENDS |

Bill — The Weasley family overall filled the void in Carewyn’s heart that Jacob left behind, none more so than Bill. Carewyn adores Bill like few others and supports him in his Cursebreaking 110%, to the extent that she probably would help him do it even if it didn’t involve the Cursed Vaults. Bill quasi-“adopts” Carewyn into his family pretty early on, but only grows closer to and fonder of her over time, as she’s the first person who he’s ever been able to lean on the way he always let his siblings lean on him. Bill’s accompanied Carewyn to every single Cursed Vault, and he is her right-hand man when it comes to who she’d pick to help her with something dangerous. By the time Bill’s graduated, the two stand on relatively equal footing despite their age gap, and after the death of Redacted, Bill and Carewyn solidly become each other’s best friend and confidante, leaning on and supporting each other more than anyone else. The rest of Carewyn’s friend group likes to jokingly refer to her and Bill as the “Mum” and “Dad” of the group, given their shared tendency to “parent” the others. Bill was the one who coined the nickname “Carey” for Carewyn, and the rest of her friend group has totally run with it since, none more so than Charlie and Tonks.

Charlie — If Bill is Carewyn’s surrogate big brother, Charlie is Carewyn’s twin brother from another mother. Carewyn loves talking about dragons with Charlie. (They’re just so cool!) Charlie and Carewyn also like playing in Quidditch friendlies together, even if they’re in different houses, and they can often be seen handling Prefect duties together. Ever since Charlie, Bill, and Carewyn went into the Portrait Vault with Ben and Merula, the two Weasley boys and Carewyn have been closer than ever. Charlie and Carewyn in particular have latched onto each other in Bill’s absence, given how close both of them were to him. As adults post-Hogwarts, Charlie frequently crashes on Carewyn’s couch whenever he flies in for a visit from Romania, if his mother doesn’t insist upon him staying at the Burrow. Charlie and Carewyn refer to themselves as a pair as “Fireballs,” because Chinese Fireballs are the only dragons known to live among their own kind -- and so the word represents how Charlie and Carewyn see each other as kindred spirits.

Rowan — Rowan was Carewyn’s first friend at Hogwarts, but recently they’ve sort of been growing apart, due to Rowan’s extreme focus on academics and Carewyn’s extreme focus on finding her brother. For Carewyn, it feels like she’s changed a lot in five years -- starting as the shunned younger sister of the delinquent Jacob Cromwell and growing into a renowned Cursebreaker who has learned so much and made so many different friends and now tries to protect Hogwarts and her fellow students however she can -- while Rowan has rigidly stayed put where she was, remaining as studious and socially awkward as ever. Carewyn doesn’t resent Rowan for this -- on the contrary, she’s always admired Rowan’s single-minded ambition to be the youngest professor in Hogwarts history, damn what anyone else says, and wishes she had the luxury of chasing her own dreams that doggedly. But at the same time, Carewyn wouldn’t have felt good about herself, if she’d stayed the way she’d been when she first arrived. She sees herself as having been weaker, less competent, and less capable back then, while Rowan was always so brilliant and both emotionally and intellectually ahead of everyone else. Rowan and Carewyn have grown into very different people over the last five years, but Carewyn still loves and treasures Rowan like few people in the world as her first real friend and the friend that in some ways she wishes she could be more like.

Talbott — The two at first didn’t see eye-to-eye at all, given that Talbott tends to hide most of his positive emotions at first and Carewyn hides her negative emotions constantly --- but once the ice broke between them, the two really connected and became good friends. Carewyn loves Talbott’s sense of humor and was also pleasantly surprised to find out what a great writer he is! She often volunteers to read whatever he’s working on, which kind of weirds Talbott out, but he secretly is happy she likes his stuff. When Carewyn wants some peace, she’ll take some time to fly around in her robin Animagus form, and she always loves it when Talbott joins her for a flight around the grounds. Carewyn often sings little tweeted songs the entire way, and even if Talbott teases her for it, he does actually really enjoy it. Post-Hogwarts they work together a lot, as Talbott is an Auror and Carewyn is a lawyer.

Ben — Ben was one of the very first people who Carewyn took under her wing, and even now, she remains a bit protective of him. She was always really proud whenever he expressed more courage and initiative in the past, but with the advent of sixth year, Ben has grown a lot more reckless and blunt, to the extent he could easily get himself into a dangerous situation and get hurt. Carewyn isn’t sure at all how to react to the development, but she doesn’t like it -- not one bit. Ben himself is struggling with how much Carewyn wants to look at him as someone to protect while never letting anyone else do the same for her. Because he’s known her longer than most, he’s seen Carewyn’s own dramatic transformation from a quiet, but overemotional little girl into a micromanaging, fussing, stoic, confident Mama Bear, and as much as he’s glad Carewyn’s gotten more confidence, he laments being on equal footing with his friend and feeling like he could help her as much as she helps him. Once they get their emotions and issues sorted, Ben and Carewyn become closer than ever, to the point that he, Merula, Charlie, and Bill are co-leader of the Circle of Khanna with Carewyn.

Barnaby — At first Carewyn couldn’t help but look down on Barnaby a bit given how dim he could be, but once he agreed to help her, she was surprised by how sincere and sweet he really was. Soon enough she felt her protective instincts kick in, and now she’s incredibly encouraging and supportive of him. These days you can usually see them chatting excitedly about magical creatures together in class -- Carewyn’s really happy to see Barnaby succeeding in Care of Magical Creatures as well as enjoying it, and Barnaby loves it whenever Carewyn sings to the creatures they’re working with in order to soothe them.

Jae — Although their personalities are pretty diametrically opposed, even down to house placement, Carewyn gets along pretty well with Jae. She doesn’t entirely see the appeal of him dealing with shadier merchandise, but he still agreed to help her when she needed to go to Knockturn Alley despite the risks and he’s a pretty sharp, resourceful person. Carewyn mostly just thinks he should push himself more, rather than just be content with where he’s at. After learning how much Jae likes cooking, Carewyn has enjoyed spending time with him in the kitchens whenever she wants to try out a new recipe.

Penny — Carewyn was actually a bit startled when popular Penny first took an interest in her in their first year. In their fifth year, Carewyn grew a bit more protective of Penny with the Portrait Curse capturing her younger sister, Beatrice -- now that Beatrice and Penny have started to grow apart, however, Carewyn now finds herself stuck between them, feeling sympathy for Beatrice’s position but still valuing her friendship with Penny.

Liz — Carewyn and Liz’s friendship is a bit more casual than others, but they’ve really connected well thanks to their shared interest in magical creatures. You can usually see Carewyn hanging out with her, Charlie, and Barnaby in Care of Magical Creatures.

Badeea — Art buddies! Carewyn is very encouraging of Badeea’s artistic talent, and the two love talking about music and Charms together.

Tonks — Carewyn greatly admires Tonks’s wish to be an Auror and loves how funny her imitations can be, but more often than not ends up being the butt of one of Tonks’s pranks.

Tulip — Like Tonks, Tulip loves pranking Carewyn. A LOT. Carewyn doesn’t find most of her jokes that funny, but can’t stay that mad at her.

Fred and George — Carewyn has only just met the twins, but she can already tell they’re going to be a handful. But they’re Bill and Charlie’s brothers, so in Carewyn’s mind, they are already family, so she feels a bit of protectiveness toward them.

Cedric — When Carewyn met Cedric, her first reaction was immense pity, given how much attention he’d managed to accrue in his first year alone when he clearly didn’t feel like he deserved it. Cedric reminds Carewyn of herself in first and second year, when she was still so shy and insecure whenever people would talk about her, so the Slytherin Prefect feels a lot of compassion for Cedric. She sort of hopes everyone will lay off him a bit so he can just have a normal school life without so much pressure.

Percy — Carewyn hadn’t thought she’d ever encounter someone that she would consider a stick-in-the-mud...until she met Percy Weasley. His rat Scabbers is kind of cute, though -- when he doesn’t bite!

Skye — Carewyn appreciates all of the help Skye gave her when she first started playing in Quidditch friendlies, but at present, she’s not talking to Skye, thanks to her going off and starting unfounded rumors about the Ravenclaw Beater, Erika Rath, the way that people spread rumors about Carewyn when she first started at Hogwarts. NOT COOL, SKYE. Orion deserves better than to deal with that sort of drama!!

Murphy — Both he and Carewyn are planners, and that’s great...but Murphy only plays Wizard Chess, a game he’s great at and Carewyn is terrible at, and that’s not so great.

Professor McGonagall — The Deputy Headmistress is by far the professor Carewyn respects above all others. Even if she finds her class very challenging, she gives every assignment her all because of how much she respects McGonagall and wants to impress her. McGonagall herself nurtures a soft spot for Carewyn, even despite her being in Slytherin, due to her strong moral streak and desire to protect others.

Professor Flitwick — Charms is Carewyn’s best and favorite class, and Flitwick is a large reason why. Carewyn also really admires Flitwick’s talent in wizard dueling and is always thrilled to learn new dueling spells from him. Flitwick had a soft spot for Carewyn’s brother Jacob back in the day, since Jacob was in his house, and he’s nurtured a similar soft spot for Carewyn because of her great talent in and enthusiasm for Charms.

Professor Kettleburn — Carewyn adores Care of Magical Creatures and, by extension, Professor Kettleburn. She just really doesn’t want to lose as many body parts or clothing pieces as he has. Kettleburn always enjoys when Carewyn sings to the creatures in his class -- he finds it incredibly creative and entertaining.

Hagrid — Carewyn loves Fang SO MUCH. And Hagrid too. Just not his rock cakes. And Hagrid...well, Carewyn’s just so tiny, but with such a big heart!

FOES |

Rakepick — Pre-Portrait Vault, Carewyn didn’t trust Rakepick as far as she can throw her, largely because she couldn’t get a good fix on her. Even Snape, who Carewyn clashes with at times, seems to have a wonky code of honor (META: largely because she is a Slytherin and -- more notably -- is at school before she could see how terribly he treats Harry and Neville!), but Carewyn wasn’t even sure if she could ascribe that to Rakepick. Her initial judgment seems to have been justified, given how Rakepick acted in the Portrait Vault -- but Rakepick’s betrayal, which was somehow even worse than Carewyn could’ve imagined, has only served to make the young Slytherin feel less sure on her feet, as she’s started to connect the dots and realize that her comrades may have trusted Rakepick for the some of the same reasons that they’ve trusted Carewyn herself. Rakepick and Carewyn have encouraged the others, but have also never trusted them with their true feelings or motives, and they both led them into danger all because of their desire to get to the Cursed Vaults. Although they pursued the Vaults for different reasons, they were both relentless, resourceful, stubborn and proud in their pursuit -- and in enlisting others to help them in that pursuit, they were both responsible for every terrible thing that ensued from it.

Ismelda — Carewyn really doesn’t like her intense interest in pain and suffering -- like...at all. Even if she might put on a strong, unflappable face, Carewyn is way too big of a bleeding heart to enjoy death or pain. Ismelda also considering using a Love Potion on Barnaby soured Carewyn to her quite a bit, though Carewyn is glad Ismelda changed her mind and they were able to come to some sort of a truce.

Merula — Their rivalry was much more intense when they were younger and Merula was actively bullying Ben and Rowan -- nowadays Carewyn just uses her help when it’s useful and ignores her when she’s being her usual awful self. After seeking counsel from her mother and Rowan, Carewyn was even nice enough to give Merula her spot on the Frog Choir, even if she’d really wanted it herself. Although Rowan staying constant and unchanging throughout the years is something Carewyn admires in her, however, she absolutely loathes the quality when it’s expressed in Merula. At the end of year 5, she and Merula came to something of a truce, but with the start of their sixth year, Merula’s taken a couple giant steps back in her evolution, which greatly frustrates and disappoints Carewyn. Carewyn wouldn’t ever call Merula her friend, but...well, she’d still been happy to see Merula had actually been able to prove her a little wrong and become a slightly better person. It’s awful to see her regress after going through that slight improvement.

Professor Dumbledore — Although Dumbledore is an amazingly powerful wizard with a very amiable attitude, over the years Carewyn has gotten very, very frustrated with how much she’s told to stop trying to deal with the Vaults. On top of that, the Headmaster of Hogwarts frequently obfuscates things a bit too much for Carewyn’s liking. She can sense that he is trying to be helpful, but that in a way makes things all the more frustrating, as she finds his methods so phenomenally misguided. Carewyn tries to conceal just how low her opinion of the man has fallen, but in truth she’s become rather resentful of him.

Emily — Oh gosh. Given how fond Carewyn is of Bill and how ridiculously condescending and prone to bullying Emily can be, Carewyn understandably despises her. She hates her more than she ever hated Merula.

PETS (IF ANY) | Mimi (orange tabby cat), Sir Robin the Brave (toad), Lune (bat), Balto (Cruppy)

ANIMAL PRESERVE (IF ANY) | Wicket the Niffler; Tumnus the Porlock; Arjuna the Abraxan; Belle the Fairy; Esmeralda the Welsh Green; Leila the Thestral, Peter Quill the Knarl; Apollo the Hippogriff; Barnaby Jr. the Bowtruckle

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bigskydreaming · 5 years

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What kind of house/apt do adult successful Scanny have?

I think it would be something smallish and unassuming on the outside, very approachable. Maybe even like, a townhome or a duplex or something like that, depending on what city Scott ultimately settles in with whatever pack he builds up around him there vs whomever stays in Beacon Hills.

I don’t have any specific headcanons for where Scott relocates to, its just very important to me that he does, because like. He deserves to get far, far away from Beacon Hills. There are too many bad memories there. Its where he died. Its where Allison died, Boyd, Erica. Like, all the bad things that linger with Scott came from Beacon Hills and that damn evil attention-seeking tree stump, and all the good things that linger with Scott are one hundred percent the product of his own actions and the relationships he fostered with the people that became important to him.

There’s nothing in Beacon Hills that gives Scott anything he doesn’t already have by this point, no reason for him to stay other than his mother, who can literally just move as well. But not with Chris Argent. On account of like, well he died too. It was very sad and tragic, I don’t want to talk about it. Tears were shed, its all still really fresh and raw, we should probably just move on. Its what he would want. Probably. Also who cares, ding dong he’s dead and Melissa’s married to some nice doctor who’s never pulled a gun on her son, as well as possessing other qualities that meet somewhat higher standards, I’m sure.

Anyway. We were talking about Scott saying hasta la vista baby to Beacon Hills followed then by a slow motion dramatic walkaway shot before he gets on his motorcycle, adjusts his mirrors, revs the throttle all action movie star-esque, and also sexily - look, they’re not always automatically the same thing - and then he drives away forever from that toxic cesspit of a homicidal zipcode where square footage is calculated in terms of dead bodies. Leaving behind all the like, million and one reasons for him to say Bye Beacon Hills, see you never, try not to become a central locus for evil, but also, I don’t care if you do, it is hashtag NotMyResponsibilityAnymore. But also, I mean. It never was. Just FYI.

And then he flips the town off and accelerates off into the sunset while the town eats his dust, and admittedly Scott isn’t really the type to throw around middle fingers even where deserved, but fuck it, I’m projecting onto him and its my headcanon and I say that pile of excrement in real estate form needs to be flipped off and also, like. Its just an aesthetic thing. For the visuals. Its the whole dramatic end scene, roll credits, “I came, I saw and I blew shit up and now I’m off to reunite with my love interest and have vigorous victory sex” vibe. You get it.

So they relocate somewhere, wherever that is. I honestly don’t care, so long as its nice and doesn’t murder them or inflict gratuitous bodily harm every week and the nearest Satanic foliage is at least two statelines away. Preferably with a thriving supernatural community where Scott and his pack can all feel welcome and like they belong, rather than outsiders eternally hiding in plain sight among potential enemies. Like, somewhere where their neighbors are all vampires and Fae and other supernaturals, but only so long as like, the only reason they ever come over is to borrow a cup of sugar. Never to betray them to randomly resurrected enemies or guilt trip them into solving someone else’s centuries old and completely pointless grudgematch of Unnecessary Drama and Also Doom.

And wherever it is, the pack have their own dwellings and much needed privacy. Far enough apart that even supernatural hearing and smell don’t have them all playing Peeping Tom whether they like it or not, every time a couple wants to get frisky, but close enough together that they’re all still together, and know that more pack, more community, is always just a short walk away.

Scott and Danny’s place is some sort of small but cozy townhome or duplex or something like that, as I said. Scott’s always very aware of his presence and reputation and the power he both commands and also is afforded by peoples’ embellished expectations regarding him. So it was really important to Scott, and thus important to Danny, that their home be unpretentious. Inviting and approachable and not ‘above’ anyone else, or trying to be. Somewhere that when you got to their street and checked the address if you’re new in town and looking for an audience with True Alpha Scott McCall, you stop and do a double take and almost have to revise whatever preconceptions you have, or at least put them on hold, because like…this is where the famous True Alpha lives? Its so…ordinary.

But that’s the point after all….because the more he was looked at as standing apart from all others, the more ‘ordinary’ became the only thing Scott’s really ever aspired to be.

So its not poor, by any means. They do well for themselves, the whole pack, like you said, Scott and Danny are successful in this future. They have jobs that afford them both a sense of purpose and fulfillment of longheld interests, as well as the potential for discovering more, rather than getting locked into things that grow stale overtime as they outgrow fantasy careers that seemed more validating when they were kids dreaming of the future.

Also their jobs, whatever they might be, make them at least successful enough that it allows them both a large degree of autonomy. They can pick their own schedules, more or less. They have finances, but none that will be massively disrupted or stress-inducing if Scott has to take time off for a couple weeks to help a neighboring pack relocate somewhere new after they flee from hunters. Something where Scott’s never forced to choose between his job and keeping him and his pack financially afloat, versus someone needing his help and it not immediately apparent how long that might take resolve. The dream is stability and comfort, and enough personal agency for Scott in how and where he gets both of those, that he never feels like he’s letting down either his pack or innocents asking for his help, because the demands of his job or finances make him feel like it has to be one or the other, he can’t possibly do both.

Ideally, that flexible schedule means that when Scott isn’t helping others, something he now does by choice and simply because he wants to and he can, not because he’s made to feel he has to, like its his responsibility and his alone, because certain boundary-blind best friends have decided they want to play Peter Parker but are gonna need Scott to step up and play the actual Spider-Man part and lend his power even when someone else gets to decide for him when its his responsibility. Oopsie, I tripped and fell and my Bitter Resentment and Still Not Over It slipped out. Oh no. How terrible. Much woe.

Ahem. Anyway. As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted by myself, Scott’s flexible schedule means that when he’s not using it to help others, he has enough left over that he can afford (and justify to himself) using it for himself and his own personal enjoyment and interests, actually prioritize and commit to his own self-care, because a healthy, happy Alpha is a healthy, happy Pack. Someone said that once, probably. Probably not Hobbes. Definitely heard that somewhere though. Trust me, I’m a doctor.

So with the aid of this newfangled invention produced by cutting edge technology, this quote unquote “Free Time…” Scott explores other interests. His own. Le gasp, le shocking, le about the fuck time. He explores the novelty of being able to even have hobbies, because depressingly (why am I like this, science side of tumblr), there was once a time when Scott stopped bothering trying to figure out what all he was interested in, because he kinda assumed he’d be long dead before it ever had a chance to matter.

But by the power invested in me by Fuck You, Jeff Davis, in this future, none of that comes to pass. So free time and personal passions for Scott. He has them, in abundance. So like. He gardens, for sure. That’s why I specified a duplex or townhouse instead of an apartment in a complex or building….they live somewhere where they at least have their own garden or yard. Scott designs and implements it personally, something like his own personal Zen garden on a scale commensurate with What He Deserves. He goes outside whenever he’s starting to feel stressed about some obligation or commitment or another, and just….plays.

That’s what it is to him. He just plants things. Prunes things. Adds fountains or bird feeders or statuary, little personalized touches here and there that make his own personal territory uniquely his and his alone. Gardening in his yard is His Time in His Space, and all the pack know better than to interrupt him when he’s out in his yard working away, unless its an absolute emergency.

Danny enforces this with an iron fist and an ability to tank your credit score and spread all your most embarrassing pictures internet-wide with just a single keystroke. And Danny is the enforcer Scott doesn’t have to be. People forget that everyone loves Danny….but in no small part due to his usual proximity to Jackson. Next to Jackson, everyone looks like an angel. But Danny, on his own? Can be mean. Will be mean, if you touch or hurt or threaten or even just inconvenience his man, because like, who the fuck do you think you are and also it doesn’t even matter because he just replaced your whole identity online and if you’re nice and apologize and kiss ass without Scott ever having to know What You Almost Did, maybe Danny will have mercy on you and actually let you know what your new identity is, so you can use it to like, make a new life with the details he made up to replace your old personal info that no longer gets you anywhere.

Danny - that’s Miss Nasty if you mess with his husband - is chaotic neutral with an exception for “this is my list of special people. Touch any of them and my alignment is Chaotic Evil for however long as until I have personally escorted you to your Doom and physically kicked you into a bottomless pit where you will suffer for eternity.”

But then he smiles and charms everyone into only remembering lol oh yeah, everybody likes Danny, so that once again, everyone forgets that’s at least partially self-preservation because if you don’t love Danny and everyone Danny loves, like, you’re dumb and also screwed. Why are you bad at making good choices.

Don’t feel bad though. Danny’s very good at making people forget this part, t least until the next time he reminds people of that little piece of trivia. Have you seen him smile? Its like that flashing bulb thing Will Smith uses in Men in Black to make people forget what they just saw or were doing. Except without any supervision and/or morality because fuck your ethics, its Danny’s bewitching smile, he’ll use it however he wants. Get your own.

(The thing is, any best friend of Jackson has to have at least a little capacity for Evil. Danny just hides it well, thanks to the cloaking camouflage of Actually Having a Soul in Addition, and like, being a people person who actually understands how people work and how not to alienate them by being a total uncaring jackass 24/7. Its a fine line, except its really not, and Danny is very talented at all things and possesses an abundance of charm. Plus he’s just hot, and like. Let’s face it. That always helps. I mean, definitely never hurts).

The end result of all this tangent-having, is that Scott has enough him time and enough of a barrier from people constantly distracting him, that the exterior of Scott and Danny’s place, for all its otherwise ordinary appearance, Scott has over time turned into his own personal slice of paradise, and is exactly what that looks like to him.

See, the thing about Scott is no matter how hard he tries to be ordinary and value being just like everyone else and get lost in the crowd…..he never will quite manage it, because Scott just isn’t like anyone else. He’s good, in a way that too few people even aspire to be, because so many people just think its not possible. Especially not after having lived through the kinds of traumas Scott has, been dealt an especially unlucky hand. But Scott manages it anyway, in spite of everything, spiting every thing that tries to make him be anything lesser….and because of that, he’ll always stand at least a little apart from the crowd, be a little distinct from the rest, impossible to ever fully be lost or muted by any crowd of any size.

And the little slice of the world Scott makes just his and Danny’s, no one else’s. He doesn’t even need to share it with his pack without it being any less inviting to his pack for all that. It reflects this understated aspect of Scott, this impossible to quantify essence of him that he himself is too unassuming to ever fully realize is there, and everyone else just accepts without questioning…because they’ve learned by now when you’re given a gift, just accept it and appreciate it.

So in structure and layout, their home is nothing special, but amidst a neighborhood of similar structures, it pops all the same. It draws the eye without dominating your vision. It makes you want to look at it, want to come closer, want to be around it, much like the man who designed it. Who made it, cares for it, and never neglects it or takes it for granted. Its always green, year round, and filled with a variety of flowers that come from all over the world but can all complement each other and coexist without endangering any of the neighboring plants. None of them overgrowing the garden or in any way being at any of the other plants’ expense.

They’re like Scott’s pack in that way….of all shapes and sizes, coming from all around the world, of all kinds of types, not even just limited to werewolves. All beautiful, all unique, all existing in harmony. Even though Scott’s never shared this with anyone else, in his mind, each flower or plant he adds to his garden represents one specific member of his pack. Its Theirs, its what he associates with them. In this way, they’re all represented, it reminds him whatever conflict arises internally, its nothing they can’t ultimately all work out without compromising any single individual. And with each plant needing its own special attention and time devoted to cultivating it and caring for it, they serve as proxies for the pack members they represent.

Due to this, Scott can tell himself with just a glance at his garden - reassure himself, whenever his self-doubts get the better of him and he starts to beat himself up for not being there enough for someone or neglecting someone or not doing better - but with his garden, just going outside and checking it over can remind Scott that he’s not neglecting anyone. Because every time he tends to the plant that represents a pack member, Scott reflects on that pack member as he does so. Just going over what they’ve been up to, mentally checking in on them, casting about to see if he’s noticed any sign something’s been bothering them, making sure to spend one on one time with them.

He can’t tend to a plant without associating it with their linked pack member….and in this way, as long as he can look around and take in with a glance the sight of his garden, all carefully tended to, no plant neglected, all watered and pruned and harmonious and appreciated….and it serves as a visual reminder with which to reassure himself….he’s not forgetting anyone, overlooking anyone. Nobody’s being neglected, he’s always thinking about his pack and keeping their best interests at heart and if any problems do pop to mind while he’s tending to one of his plants or flowers, of course that would be the first thing he’d make a plan to go check in on and address personally, once he’s making his rounds later and having a little face time and conversation with his various packmates.

Of all the flowers and various plant types in his garden, there’s only one fruit….a single eye catching and lovingly attended orange tree. That’s Danny. They’re his favorite, and orange is his favorite color. There’s just something unique about it. Especially in the midst of so much green.

The flowers nearest the front door and around the external structures of the building, a pillar underneath the small, roofed-in entrance way, perhaps, a gate at the front of the property, next to the driveway, maybe a trellis along the wall just next to the door…..the flowers adorning and framing the entrance to their home are a carefully arranged spray of seven different hues.

A literal rainbow, advertising this House and All Who Live Here Be Gaaaaaaay.

Scott’s always had a sly, understated sense of humor. Mischievous, but not usually at anyone’s expense, and subtle enough that most people don’t tend to credit him with having much of a sense of humor. He does though….he’s just never needed words to express it.

Advertising himself and his personal pride with a literal year round rainbow that’s still subtle enough that most people don’t clue into its layered meaning or implications without being told. Later in life, stable and safe and more centered, Scott gets a pretty big kick out of how often people fail to see what’s right in front of them. Him living his best life on his own terms and not even being shy about it….and if other people can’t connect the dots on their own….its a pity, Scott muses with a mostly internalized laugh, that most people are just in too big a hurry or too eager to take things at face value to truly see what their surroundings look like and are full of.

Danny gets the joke, and thinks its hilarious how few other people figure it out. But that’s mostly just because Danny can be kind of a dick. He’s sorry not sorry. Its not his fault people are dumb. RIP to 90% of humanity, but he has braincells.

He and Scott complement each other well.

Similarly, just as Scott’s personal space is outdoors, natural, and helps him feel part of the world, feel part of nature, connected to it and in harmony with the natural order of things and not something completely separate….Danny’s personal space is indoors, the extra room converted entirely into his personal office or Batcave. Filled with monitors and screens and hard drives, a Hacker’s Paradise that keeps Danny plugged into the grid, manmade tools and his own cultivated expertise giving him the world at his fingertips. Any needed information or a satellite view of something happening with allies on the other side of the world is just a few clicks of a mouse away.

He’s also got every video game console known to man, because Danny’s Me Time is kicking ass on whatever game the latest redditor or twitterbaiting bigot to catch his ire is high-ranking on.

And if he also happens to use his gameplay as an opportunity to backdoor into said Wankstain’s systems and do whatever needs doing to make his life and those of all his enabling social circle’s a living hell and a lesson in empathy that comes too late cuz nobody has any for them because they suck and are Satan….

Well. Sucks to be them, and also, what kind of moron makes enemies while online gaming without first erecting even a nominal defense against Superior Intellects who might feel like retaliating against his jokes, that aren’t really jokes so much as the synaptic misfiring of racist braincells and proof that sometimes, evolution shits out a turd?

“That sounds like victim blaming,” Scott notes in an absent kind of tone when watching over his husband’s shoulder one day. Not really judgmental so much as just something to say.

“You say victim blaming, I say pest control,” Danny hums unapologetically. “Sides, can’t be victim blamed if you’re not a victim, and you can’t be a victim if you’re really just a human-shaped mistake who has no redeeming qualities, an online presence that’s the virtual equivalent of bad BO with no medical cause for an excuse, and a social media history that makes a strong case for your best possible contribution to society being a qualifier for a Darwin Award. Would you blame a cockroach for getting itself stepped on by stepping out into the light? I mean, you could, I guess. Just doesn’t seem terribly productive if you ask me.”

“Why do you hate cockroaches? They’re living creatures who never did anything to you, why would hurt them by comparing one to this guy?” Scott asks, because that’s really the more important part of the conversation.

“Dunno,” Danny shrugs. “I’m sure I could find some way to blame it on childhood trauma if you really need an answer.”

“No, just wondering if you’re gonna be done in time for dinner. I’m making tortellini.”

“I’ll be done in ten minutes, I swear. And ready to eat like a metaphor that’s more appropriate to you. Righteous vengeance really works up an appetite.”

“Uh-huh. Just out of curiosity, who exactly are you righteously avenging at the moment?”

“Humanity? Good taste? God, who couldn’t possibly have foreseen this free will thing would go so very wrong? That poor defunct condom that tried its best but in the end, just wasn’t up to the task of keeping this shithead from being unleashed unto the Earth? I dunno. Do I have to pick just one?”

Not really. As stated, Scott’s not actually judging anymore than Danny’s trying to hide this from him. They’re both in total agreement about the kind of people Danny cyber-vigilantes. They just have different approaches about how they should be handled. Scott, while not violent by choice for the most part, does tend to favor the direct approach. He just feels its right that a person know why exactly he thinks they’re a terrible person who deserves what they get. So he tends more towards the approach of: punch a bigot in the face, wait for a second for a whiff of remorse or sign someone might be suddenly reevaluating life choices, because he’s Scott and hope springs eternal, but when no such revelation comes, just shrugging and walking away. Oh well. He tried. Sorta. Well, kinda.

Danny, in contrast, prefers to go for the jugular and leave no hint of who or what might have been behind the all-encompassing full frontal assault that hits every online trace of his target’s miserable and miserly existence. It keeps them paranoid and this keeps him sated. Plus, his stance is when they don’t know what exactly earned them an enemy of his caliber, it forces them to reflect or at least call to mind every thing they can think of doing wrong to someone that might result in that someone hating them this much.

The ironic thing of course is Danny doesn’t even really hate them, because that implies a level of giving a shit he can’t ever quite seem to muster. He mostly just thinks they suck and should suffer for that. And he gets bored a lot.

Look, his husband and fellow werewolves are off saving the world every other week and being all kinds of kick-ass and action adventure movie-star types in the process. A guy sitting behind at home all the time has to get his jollies somehow. Also, he’s compiled a very engaging soundtrack to accompany his personal heroic undertakings, and it does wonderful things for his self image. Danny’s all about that self-care.

Plus, the first time he and Scott had something of a disagreement on their approaches, Danny unapologetically stated that loving him meant loving his vindictive side, because he personally was quite fond of it and thought it was really something of a Look. Also, making that Look into a Thing might be something of a dealbreaker for him, because he really didn’t want to undersell his capacity to be petty, and how little shame he felt about having said capacity. His essential life philosophy boils down to sometimes people just suck and somebody needs to say so. Maybe by draining their bank account and redirecting the funds to an ironically relevant charity.

“Fine,” Scott had conceded with a sigh. “Just be careful about making enemies like this, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

(That was really his only real concern all along. He’s a Nurturing Nelly. Scott can’t help but be a worry wart when his husband roams the internet highways under a masked IP address, taking on bandits and bigots all willy nilly, with not a bit of concern for himself. Its their biggest common ground, and Danny doesn’t have claws or a killer bite to protect himself with. A bite fetish, maybe, but that’s not quite the same thing, and also neither here nor there, and also also, he would like to plead the fifth while reminding you he can access and pull up your full porn-browsing history if you’d like to press that line of conversation further. Pervert).

Anyway, alls well that ends well, and thus Danny couldn’t help but be charmed at the reminder that his hubby is a man with clear priorities and his biggest is always gonna be the safety of his loved ones. Aww, sweetums.

“Aww, sweetums,” he said, just to see Scott squirm, because the more unexpected the endearment, the more Scott doesn’t know how to take it. And a squirmy Scott is an adorable Scott, Danny has always felt, and he is a man who appreciates his eye candy, as well as a go-getter who knows what he likes and goes and gets it, even if that means playing dirty. Especially if that means playing dirty. Danny likes dirty.

After all, dirty men need to shower, and showering together conserves water, and having sex while showering together is just a solid application of having eyes, a hot husband, and a healthy libido. It just makes good sense. He’s goal-oriented and a linear thinker, what do you want, leave him alone. He’s valid and you’re just jealous.

Still, exotic endearment applied, he’d then followed up with:

“How dare you accuse me of being so bad at the thing that I am most skilled at that you imply I’m even capable of ever leaving digital tracks like a total N00b. What do I look like to you? A 4chan poster who just figured out how to spoof their GPS for the first time?”

Danny rolled his eyes, exaggerating his wounded pride. It was the principle of the matter, and he was very principled. Sometimes. Kinda. If principles mean whimsy and whimsy means shh, don’t interrupt me, I’m doing bad things to bad people and this is very important work that must be savored or you really don’t get the full oomph of the revenge-gasm. Yes, he said revenge-gasm and he meant it. No he will not elaborate. Imagination is free.

“Ten points from Gryffindor for your low opinion of me, your valued and valuable life partner. Also, no sex for you, until…..okay maybe that’s too far. You seem like you’ve learned your lesson.”

“You’re too merciful,” Scott had said drily.

“Nobody’s perfect,” Danny had said lackadaisically. “Also, not to disrespect your tortellini-making expertise, but any chance we can put a pin in dinner until after we go have wild, passionate sex? This pending revenge-gasm is making me horny and I really hate to waste a good head of moral crusading.”

“That was a terrible pun.”

“I have never made a pun in my life, how dare you, my sense of humor is sophisticated. I’m not a peasant, Scott. And where did we land on the sex.”

“Didn’t we just do it this morning?”

“I have needs, Scott.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“And water is wet. I don’t see the relevance. Also, if you don’t want me jumping you 24/7, you have no business being so hot. Its your own damn fault, deal with it.”

“There you go with the victim-blaming again.”

“I’ll do five Hail Marys after I finish doing sinful things to you and racking up another five. Its more efficient to tackle them all at once.”

“Not sure that’s how that works, babe.”

“Eh, guess I’ll just go to hell then. Still worth it. Still your fault. Oh look, I’m naked all of a sudden, how did that happen?”

Scott sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

“R is for Ravish me, if you’re really looking for suggestions. I can probably do the whole alphabet if you need. Or just do me. Whichever.”

Scott cut off further melodramatic peacocking with a kiss.

Things proceeded to a total media black out from there. Further voyeuristic attempts at seeing the Alpha and his mate get down, get down, would necessitate the invocation of the cautionary tale of the last pack member to not properly respect the sanctity of the inner sanctum of the Vindictive Master of Digital Identities and Other Important Details. His name is Chester, middle initial A., surname with a phonetic similarity to certain orifices. That wasn’t always his name, but it was once Danny got done with him, and that was only after Scott gave him the Pointed Stare of One Who Will Look More Benevolently On Those Who Demonstrate Both Mercy and Restraint.

Tis very much a tale of woe, as Chester is 6′5″, 260 lbs of visually intimidating werewolf muscle, and facial features that when accompanied by choice words and phrases, rather does call to mind certain similarities to certain orifices.

Like I said. Danny is very good at what he does. And everybody loves Danny.

….Aside from all other motivating reasons, its just a good idea in general.

Y’know.

Practically speaking.

#scanny #future fic not fic #idk #look call it whatever you want just dont quote me #like I ever know how to describe half the stuff that comes out of my head #lol as ifffff

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youswiminmywater · 5 years

Text

reflections on past jobs, for no particular reason

for the past few days, i’ve been trying to shake off a funk, a slump, one of those holes you can fall into if you’re the depressed type. where you spend entire days in bed, or crawl out at 2pm to eat a pile of leftover mashed potatoes between a mindless barrage of youtube videos or sudoku puzzles. just drowning yourself in distractions until you finally get fed up with it and start down that familiar path of Self-Care, which is probably a little different for everybody. for me, it involves leaving the house (which i’m convinced has some paranormal draining effect on my soul, or perhaps just dust, mold, cat pee, dandruff around the house intensifies my doldrums on a base physical level), going out to eat or sitting around in a coffee shop to read. reading is always my touchstone for “getting better,” like i’m flexing some intellectual muscles that i’d been neglecting for the past few weeks, or even months. i’ve said before that i’m a terrible english major, and have a lot of trouble starting books let alone finishing them, but i just think it’s a habit that needs developing, a habit that can replace the easier, mindless ones like scrolling through tumblr or playing through a game i’ve played through a thousand times.

a friend of mine suggested the other day that reading is equally a waste of time as playing a video game, though, a comment that really kind of fucked me up and made me feel embarrassed for trying to use it to cheer myself up. i think i’ve come to a point now where i can disagree, heartily, with that comment. no video game inspires this much thought in myself, or makes me want to write. maybe it has to do with the TV screen itself. i’ve read that the blue light TVs have sort of a trance effect on you, like how the fluorescents at the supermarket make you want to browse around and lose focus, or how phone screens trick your brain into staying awake because it’s the same kind of light that comes from the sun. it does feel like a trap sometimes, an addiction. and some video games really do manipulate you to play them as much as possible, some are just designed that way. i’m not ashamed to say i’d throw video games out of my life entirely if i could, they never have made me feel better about myself. they’ve never inspired me. maybe i’ve just had some poor experiences with them, skipping homework to play games, staying up too late, getting angry at certain levels, forgetting to eat or go to the bathroom. they just command too much attention and force me to forget about myself entirely, don’t allow me to think about anything other than the game itself. the only real positive influence they’ve had on my life is that it’s something to do with other people if i can’t physically be with them. like virtual worlds to hang out in with your friends. even then, though, it’s more about spending time with people i care about in a setting that’s comfortable for me, not about the games themselves. ANYWAY that’s my argument for THAT

like i was saying, shaking off a funk. i was at this coffee shop today, maybe been there three or four times. i don’t really drink coffee, and coffee shops have never really been my scene, but they’re great places to just sit for a couple of hours to read and write, and nobody even bats an eye at you. can’t really do that at a sit down restaurant, it’s too easy to feel self-conscious, especially if there’s a waitress depending on flipping your table as efficiently as possible.

but the point of this story is to talk about the doughnuts they were selling at this particular coffee shop. big, fat doughnuts, a few with outlandish glazes, strawberry glaze, for example. one was just entirely purple. and when i say fat doughnuts, i mean like, when you see it, it’s golden brown on both sides, and then it has that pale ring around the outside that the oil just never got to when they flipped ‘em in the fryer. that ring is the sexiest part of the doughnut, it’s like a stretch mark to show you how plump and decadent that particular doughnut is gonna be. not all doughnuts have those rings either; if you go to kroger or something, their old-fashioned doughnuts? just dry brown rings. probably a lot of factory doughnuts lack that pale ring, now that i’m thinking about it. it’s really a sign of some gourmet shit happening behind the scenes, somebody hand-cut that doughnut and fried it themselves. that’s how you know you’re eating something nice. probably worth the $3.50 i paid for it. well, maybe, that’s still kinda steep.

my imagination was going like this the entire time i was at the coffee shop. i had seen them when i came in, and resolved to get out only on my way out, maybe two hours later. should i ask the cashier where they got those doughnuts from? would he even know? maybe they even made them in house, i thought. now THAT would be exciting! they did have a few food options on their menu. i think one lady next to me had some fried plantains or something. that would suggest they had a fryer, right? but then i figured, there’s no way, a coffee shop this size just wants to deal with a few baristas and that’s it, any fancy gourmet stuff would be brought in. it would be such a hassle to hire a pastry chef just to make doughnuts and scones, i don’t think the sales at a place this size would justify a batch of anything. i did daydream a little, however. made me want to work there so that i could figure out the secrets behind the counter. maybe there’s a real master doughnut-maker back there, and i could pick up at least that juicy little talent from working there, if nothing else.

this is what sent me down into a spiral. flipping through all of my past jobs, half regretful, wondering what exactly i took with me when i left. the job i have right now is the only one i’ve ever formally considered to be a real skill builder, a real job that actually means something. yet that doesn’t mean i’ve just been wasting all my career-building opportunities up until this point, does it? i always imagined that jobs through high school college were just, in general, real time wasters, real whatevers. you could literally have whatever job you wanted and not feel a tinge of regret about it, as long as it paid something. internships were for rich kids, kids that had their parents plan out their careers for them and finance it all the way through. retail jobs, cashier jobs, delivery jobs, these were there for kids who were gonna figure it all out later. normal people. looking back on it now, though, i really would do it differently. i would at least like, have a theme to the kinds of jobs i was going for, you know? jobs that logically led from one to the other, building up tips and tricks that would make you way more impressive to your coworkers down the line. this is probably also a false regret too, because there are those people that change their career paths like, really late in their lives. like they were a nurse for 30 years and now they wanna learn how to be a real estate agent, just from scratch. it’s brave, and i’m sure they sometimes wish they could have gone back and done things differently too, just started with the thing they loved before they knew they loved it. or maybe not, maybe they needed to hate something before they learned what they love...who knows.

what did i learn from my jobs then? i just wanted to go down the list and put together little stories, or sketches, rather. i know this isn’t exactly the most readable thing, and i don’t really expect anybody to read it. it’s entirely biographical and probably entirely boring, but it’s a fun exercise for me, at any rate. if you’re the kind of person that enjoys this sort of thing, i’m beaming on the inside for the both of us. anyway, here we go!

1. Goodwill Associate. Cashier, stock guy, master of all trades. Or at least the shitty ones this was my first ever job, I guess when I was 18 the summer out of high school. I had a couple of school-sanctioned volunteer roles when I was younger, but I don’t really consider those as anything in a career sense. Just an extension of school. My first actual job was here in retail, and kind of like really on the bottom of the totem pole, retail-wise. It was minimum wage. There wasn’t any real structure to the product, no departments, no red tape, no security wires on the expensive stuff. It was just bare bones, donated stuff, a little bit of a Wild West vibe, if i’m being honest. prices were determined by managers in the back. they’d just write the prices on everything in marker. anything without a price tag like that, like most of the clothing, the cashiers would just guess at what products were being handed to them and ring them up like that. looks like a unisex shirt, 1.99. pants with women’s sizes on the back tag, 3.99. customers sometimes would try to haggle, and sometimes they’d succeed! you can’t do that at sears. people would just buy fake stuff knowing it was fake and not be bothered by it. the main purpose of the employees was just to clean up the mess, and make everything look somewhat organized, keep stuff off the floor.

there were a couple of roles you could take working at a place like this. first off, everybody was a cashier, but you weren’t supposed to linger at the cash register. the primary thing you’d do is run clothes, which meant, rolling out a rack from the back full of clothes that had been already “processed” and just transfer them onto the racks out on the store floor. basically until the racks on the floor were jam-packed and you couldn’t do anymore. this was my least favorite thing, and to be honest i don’t remember doing it much. the rolling racks in the back were called “z-racks,” because the bottoms of them were held together with metal shaped like z’s. probably my first brush with industry-specific terminology. they have z-racks in culinary too, but they’re something different, still with the same z-shape on the top and bottom holding them together.

then there was “housewares,” which meant basically that you wandered around the housewares department all day, making an attempt to organize everything within reason. put everything upright with the price clearly visible. this was a real nightmare job, but a relatively stress-free one. sometimes a haitian family would stroll through and ruin your entire day’s work. the kids really just did whatever they wanted and left every toy in the middle of the floor, the parents paying absolutely no attention. it was a real thankless job, akin to hanging out in tartarus rolling rocks up a hill over and over again just to see it roll back down the next day.

cashier was the most rewarding part, i think, just because it’s the only aspect that forced interaction with the customers. that’s still my favorite part of most jobs i’ve had, i think, the opportunity to meet people and interact with someone new. of course, at a place like goodwill, you weren’t really all that excited about most of the clientele, but you could definitely walk out of there with a few stories. i was pretty young back then too, so i was prone to developing crushes on a few regulars, even attempting to flirt now and then, which became mostly nonexistent in my later jobs because it’s just, i don’t know. inappropriate, i guess. crass. unprofessional. and, in this day and age, a little creepy. but cashiering was an easy way to pick up at least a few social skills, whether you’re arguing your way through a stubborn customer who’s trying to save a dollar on some kid shoes, or shooing away a 35 year old gay man who, for whatever reason, has the hots for you. it was a nice exposure, though certainly removed from most retail experiences, just given the nature of the place.

i never worked retail behind the counter again after that, especially after i started working in a couple of malls, because ACTUAL retail cashiers, the ones who make commission on their sales and have quotas for how many credit cards they get people to sign up for, they always seemed like real prisoners to the system. that notion always scared me, and kept me looking towards the background areas, the stock rooms and employee-only hallways. when you got into REAL retail, i didn’t want to be a part of it.

2. Von Maur, “Stock and Housekeeping,” stay in my department? this whole damn place is my department!

this job was a nice one, i stayed for a whole year before moving on. that doesn’t sound like much, but i’m pretty sure it’s my second or third longest running job out of all the ones i’ve had. von maur was a department store at one of the malls around here, a store they call an “anchor” because it’s on the edge of the mall complex. malls are usually designed to have multiple anchors, big stores for general shopping like macy’s and sears, with a bunch of little stores all scattered throughout, stores with more specialized targets. you often have to walk through the anchor stores to get in and out of the mall to one of the parking lots, so they’re usually stores with multiple departments, something for everybody.

von maur is considered kind of a high-end store, more expensive than macy’s, more upscale brands, but it’s not like walking straight into a coach store. it has a very old-fashioned customer service feel to it. the cashiers are all required to dress in formal wear, suits and dresses, clean-shaven. very strict dress code. the customer service section is a long desk in the back of the store with multiple ladies there to help, tables right behind them for gift-wrapping, especially during the holiday season. the clothing racks are all shoulder height or lower, you can see every department from any part of the store, and each department has gilded gold lettering above each register area, with different colors of carpets indicating when you were leaving one section from the other. and each department had a special name too, not just “men’s” or “women’s.” it was Juniors. Traditional. Contemporary. Gifts. very classy categorizations that made you feel a certain way just standing there, albeit sometimes they were kind of arbitrary.

it seems silly to even point out these kinds of things, but i’ve grown an immense fondness for this clean kind of layout now that i’ve spent some time in a few other department stores. most places make no fucking sense whatsoever, they’re designed like mazes to get lost in. pillars everywhere, obstructions going all the way up to the ceiling, no way to determine exactly how big the entire store is or where your next stop should be. pay attention next time you go to a jc penny. it’s a real shitshow. even the employees seem like they’re just stranded and forgotten about on little islands, and only the real savvy ones know their way back to the stock rooms without getting lost. at von maur, you could wave to your pal in the “Better Sportswear” department without having to step a foot outside of your designated carpet area (which you actually weren’t allowed to do, unless you were going to the bathroom).

i did not work in any of these departments. i was in charge of cleaning the place, bathrooms and dock areas, sweeping the vast floors, spot removal, light bulbs. you name it. all the custodial stuff. i worked nights, so i had minimal involvement with the trucks, but i did collect transfers to other stores at the end of the night, and pack up trucks with this product. it was the first job i had where you could really get in hurt, or in trouble, if you didn’t follow procedures properly. had to lock up the truck a certain way. had to fill out the paperwork just right. had to get the million pound brick of cardboard out of the bale machine without getting crushed. had to make sure the trash compactor didn’t get all fucked up, had to make sure you were using the right chemicals on the carpets, had to learn the most efficient ways to clean all four bathrooms before any customer even noticed you closed them down. it was a very self-reliant, self-sufficient job. managers stayed out of your face because they didn’t really know what all it was you were responsible for. you carried a radio because you could be anywhere in the store at any given time, even on the roof. you were completely unfettered, you could run errands for the feeble sales associates who couldn’t leave their sections, but only if you really liked them that day.

it was great, and the organization of the store itself helped shape your own daily routines. i worked with a few assholes, and the pay was still minimum wage, but i had a couple of pals that i looked forward to seeing every day. it was behind the scenes, but not too behind the scenes. you didn’t have to be responsible for any of the customers because your uniform said hey, i just clean the toilets lady, buzz off. the only areas of the store that really interested me were the areas i wasn’t allowed to access, which would irk anybody who has almost complete access to any room, see rooms that most managers wouldn’t even ever see. the “other” behind the scenes groups. the alterations department. the loss prevention room. there was one room called like “display” or something, which just had all of the various props and baubles they used to decorate the store with year round. they even had an entire staff dedicated to that job, but i’d see them around pretty rarely. it fascinated me seeing people who were even more hidden away than i was, and i was the guy doing shit people just took for granted. like polishing the water fountains, or cleaning the employee lunchroom microwaves.

in the end, though, it was basically a dead-end job, i mean there’s only so much you can learn about glass cleaner before you feel like it’s time to move on. some people stay at those jobs for years, whole lives, and that just doesn’t make sense to me.

3. Pizza Delivery Guy, the famous Two-Dayer

there isn’t a whole lot to say about this one. this was when i was “between colleges,” and the first time i ever tried to have a job on college campus, a school that i was not going to and had no familiarity with. it was also my only ever “spite job.” here’s the scenario leading up to it:

i was probably like twenty years old, or 19. i was involved with this high school girl i had met through??? facebook maybe, she was a quick friend of mine. her family was a real Business Starter type family, her dad and uncle had a string of restaurants that they had tried to start up here and there, with varying success. i met her around the same time i started first cooking for myself, and it was something that brought me enjoyment, so the prospect of going to business with these guys was something that began to grow on me. her uncle had just started up a new place on campus, i think it was called Fito’s, named after her grandpa. this peruvian joint with authentic peruvian street food. the first place i had ever eaten yuca fries, and i think they had an award winning salsa at some point. anyway, the plan was for me to work there as one of the cooks, which was exciting to me! because i would have a mentor and i’d be getting into a new field that i was at least partly interested in, and i’d be developing a skill that i could apply to everyday life. i was gonna be a cook. i would pop in here and there all the time, before they actually got the place up and running, having small meetings with her dad, her uncle. i wasn’t really as involved as all that, i mean, i was still just a kid.

long story short, they hired this other guy to be the cook. whatever. i didn’t have experience anyway. they wanted me to do delivery instead. i said fine, at least i get to be involved with a place i actually kind of care about. walked me through where the delivery area was going to begin and end. hadn’t quite worked out all the kinks. come back for another meeting. i’d show up for another meeting, they weren’t there, come back tomorrow. not there again, having work done. come back later. the restaurant opens. still working on setting up the whole delivery thing, just wait on it. at some point, i got really frustrated with getting yanked around by the dick all the time, so after one failed meeting, i walked two doors down the street and landed a job as a driver at this place called New York Pizza Department the very same day. job search done, you can always find an easy job in the city. i think i even started work that very same day.

the trick to the story? never trust a place that hires you the same day they meet you. if they’re that desperate to fill the role, the role probably sucks ass. and it did. my first day was on saint patrick’s day, and i did a 12 hour shift from 6pm to 6am. i was expected to learn register and some minimal oven work, but mostly do garbage work like sweeping the floors, folding boxes, yada yada. it was all kind of vague. nobody in particular trained me. i was told to just stand over somebody’s shoulder and learn how the ordering works, which didn’t do anything for me. nobody explained a damn thing. i spilled ice all over the floor trying to refill the machine, nobody had taught me the trick to it. it was a really frustrating experience because i expected to like, shadow someone, at least for like an hour or something, but there was no guidance whatsoever. i mostly sat out by the back door and pretended like i smoked. i was never introduced to the chefs, they were all mexicans that didn’t really speak english, as far as i could tell, yet i was expected to ask them for stuff. my car was parked in a mud pit in the back, and i would ruin my pants every time i climbed in. i got two parking tickets. i used my gps for everything (the days before i had a smartphone), which was unreliable, especially when some asshole student wanted a pizza in one of the address-less school buildings. it was a real mess.

i felt kinda ashamed, especially after my second day when i delivered a pizza like 2 hours late because i couldn’t find the damn place. my dad had been a delivery guy for years, and it felt really dumb that i couldn’t pick up the job for myself. it felt like i was really, really wasting my time, and the dumb place was not worth it to begin with. i only got the job to make the other guys jealous, i think. my third shift was supposed to be a 19-hour day, so i skedaddled with my sub 100 buck paycheck, where my name was misspelled. both the peruvian place and that pizza place are gone now, replaced by something else.

honorable mention: Graeter’s Ice Cream, stealing jobs from children

barely even remember this one, but i did do an ice cream kiosk at the mall for like two weeks. i quit because scooping ice cream was making my wrist hurt pretty severely, and i wasn’t aware at the time that eventually the pain stops if you just keep at it. all of my coworkers were high school kids, even the two or three people that outranked me, and it was half humiliating, half hilarious. a lot of people there were very specific with training me properly, i think teenagers love telling older people what to do, but they all said different things. i don’t think any of them actually knew the exact details of their job duties, they were all just kind of winging it. they gossiped a lot about boys at their school, which i’m pretty sure was some isolated suburb school outside of the city proper. i was 22 or 23 at the time and had very little to contribute. i don’t think i ever took the job that seriously, and pretty much quit on a whim. it was a little bittersweet, though; the day before i left, they were just about to get a real hardass old lady manager that was about to whip the place back into shape. i regret not being around for that so that i could actually figure out what i was meant to be doing, but you can’t pretend to be a kid forever, no matter how cute and young you look with your little hat and name tag.

4. Macy’s fulfillment center, dissociation at it’s finest

this job was during a kind of sad point in my life, and it was largely a desperation move on my part. i think i had just graduated college, sent out hundreds of applications for jobs “in my field,” and heard back from none of them. i had bills piling up, from somewhere, and i really needed to get back in the saddle. malls are always reliable places to get jobs, if you ever need one quick and easy, and i just wanted to get back out into the world again. i wasn’t meeting new people anymore, didn’t have any classes to look forward to, and my education was proving to be rather useless. getting back into the mall system was kind of an eye roll at this point, but i knew it was something i could do, back of the store stock work.

this time around, i was exclusively a morning man, which comes with its own requirements and adaptions. we unloaded trucks three days a week, processed damages and transfers and returns and whatnot all the other days. broke down cardboard. the entire job was basically opening up boxes, removing plastic from copies of the same coat in multiple sizes, tearing styrofoam off of handbags, clipping security rings on the expensive stuff, and calling it a day. separate everything by department and run it out onto the floor before the store opens. usually by the time the store opens, it’s time to go home. michael kors was a bad word to us stock guys, because all of his handbags had like seventeen separate pieces of plastic, tape, and styrofoam around all the various pieces of each purse, protecting every part of the bag’s anatomy from damage, dust, whatever. it was ridiculous. there were mummification jokes somewhere in there. in any case, it was a job any idiot could do. i think i was marked as a “seasonal” employee too, so i really wasn’t given a whole lot to do, or very many hours. i did eventually get a few more duties as time went on and the dock manager grew more trustworthy of me. he was this big bald guy that listened to a lot of rock music, and didn’t put up with bullshit. he had me go around the store changing the lightbulbs a few times, which is not something you just let a dummy do. at von maur, i had to maneuver this massive industrial ladder and bring a dozen different bulbs with me, know how to mark lights that had bulbs changed and needed new ballasts, knew how to remove things from various sockets, open up skylights and reach through ceiling tiles, all while not falling to my death or getting shocked. that’s how i knew this guy trusted me.

this coincided with what i would consider a mini “internship” with the duties on the second floor, where the fulfillment offices were located. fulfillment means dealing with online orders, pulling specific products and getting them processed for delivery. and by “office” i mean a room with two computers, scanners, printers a shit ton of different sized boxes and bags, bubble wrap, packing tape, and apparently a whole lot of stress. there was a single dude working up there, and during christmas time, he was overwhelmed like crazy. i think he was actually going kind of crazy, to be honest. he knew the system pretty well, but still struggled with a lot of stuff, complained like a motherfucker, sang along to the radio but made up his own lyrics because he thought it was funnier. he was annoying but i liked having him around because he knew all the secrets to this job. like a gatekeeper. i could go to any other manager in the store and they wouldn’t really know what the fuck was going on in that office, couldn’t make sense of how or why orders showed up on those computers, couldn’t navigate them without calling another store to guide them through it, which they never did. it was really weird seeing what i thought was a polished corporate system so damn shaky beneath the foundation.

anyway, the dude quit that job before things really ramped up for the season. i was the only one in the department for a long time after that, and i barely knew what i was doing. he was the gatekeeper, and he left go back to his job at the waffle house pretty much overnight. i struggled for a while. most things got sent out ok, but i had a few “express” and “two day priority” packages that sat around for a few weeks through christmas because they required some special wizardry to get those specific labels to print off the computers. basically at the beginning of each day, you’d have a list of items to collect, and would spend the rest of the time hunting for those pieces out on the store floor, bring them back to the office, bag and box them up, and process the correct labels and gift cards for each and every one. and it was a real ball ache sometimes because certain items were just impossible to find, especially if they were returns that we didn’t normally carry in the store, clearance items, fucking women’s shoes, comforters with specific thread counts, dresses with the wrong picture, or no picture at all...

i took charge, though. i stuck around, i made uncomfortable phone calls to post offices, i got down a technique for folding and packaging shirts and dresses and all kinds of random stuff, got better at finding items that would normally be lost to the void. i could find shit in departments that people who actually worked those departments could not find. i became the epitome of efficiency. i was the new gatekeeper. at the end of every day, i’d have a blank order list, because everything would be accounted for, or passed on to another store. no bullshit. definitely the most involved i had ever been at any job. nobody at that store knew how that system worked better than me.

long story short, i was still the “seasonal” guy, and i think my bosses expected i didn’t plan on working there very long. they kept replacing the fulfillment manager with other people who barely knew what they were doing, essentially requiring me, the gatekeeper, to train my bosses, which to me was just absurd. after a few months, outraged, i quit to work at a cafe, and told my manager why i was upset that i was being shafted, not given the responsibility, the hours, the sweet sweet full-time position. she was surprised, apparently, and told me she absolutely would have given it to me if she knew i was interested. a missed communication. it was too late.

i’m glad i didn’t get promoted there, anyway, or else i would probably still be stuck there. i think that position got phased out of the system (along with the entire store, eventually), replaced by having the department managers coming in like, an hour early to pick all the orders out of their separate departments. probably more efficient. and in the end, i was really only interested in the complete and total power, not in the job itself. it’s still only retail

5. The Cornerstone Cafe, welcome to the family

this was my first actual job in the food service industry, at a cafe that i frequented pretty regularly, and this was also the first place where i properly ascended “through the ranks,” as they say. my longest lasting job to date, spanned about two and a half years, i think. it was owned by this married couple from indonesia, and i was hired on to replace one of their drivers. obviously i had to fudge the details of my previous driving gig to get this one, and i still kind of lacked confidence that i was really up to the task, but at least it was in a neighborhood that i was vaguely familiar with. i was also finally working at a place where i really cared whether or not they were successful. at someplace like macy’s, graeter’s, you’re just a cog, and not a very special one. at this place, they had maybe 5 or 6 employees in total on any given day, including one or both of the owners, and each of you had to be versatile, knowledgeable, and basically on top of your shit at all times.

even as a delivery driver, i was informed and trained on at least 3 or 4 different roles. here’s how to be a cashier. here’s how to wash the dishes in a 3 compartment sink. here’s how i need you to sweep the floors, run food to the customers, here’s how to make this drink and that drink, here’s the size of the small salad, here’s the size of the regular salad, and when you fuck up, you can be sure as hell we’re gonna get on you for it until you do it the right way. no funny business. it was the kind of direction i enjoyed, something that makes you feel secure and stable when you get it down. i memorized the menu fully in maybe two weeks, which was no small feat. on the driving side, i picked up a lot of info about how streets are laid out, which ways were east and west, which side of the street certain numbers were on, which houses tipped and which houses didn’t, which addresses were businesses, which were apartments, etc etc. every customer has a different expectation and the job trains you to adapt. think quickly. work quickly. multitask and do a dozen jobs at once. this was not a slow restaurant, folks, and if you spent too long trying to learn something, you were dead weight. a lot of dead weight got fired. a lot of dumbasses got hired, snorted coke in the bathroom, and got fired because they weren’t paying attention. even people who had been there for a few years struggled sometimes, or at least got flustered. it was hard work and really shaped my work ethic, moreso than all the nothing jobs i had before.

also the most money i’d ever made up to that point, and i felt like i was almost making like, a living? of course, i wasn’t, i just happened to be in possession of a lot of cash, like some drug dealer. delivery drivers carry a lot of cash, tips mostly, or ways to break twenties and stuff like that, and that’s what makes delivery driving one of the most dangerous jobs out there! that’s what i read, anyway. i never got mugged or anything, but i’m pretty sure i was working in a pretty pussy neighborhood. driving was the easiest part, it was easy money compared to the madness of the dish room, the front counter, the kitchen line.

it was also an intensely intimate work relationship. it was a family business. i knew every single person that worked there. i was pals with all of them. i was out of school so i could work any shift, every shift, every position. i got trained to work in the kitchen, picked it up quick. learned a lot of prep work, picked up a few dozen different ways to cut an onion or a pepper. cooked batches of hard boiled eggs like they were nothing. made sandwiches like a madman, smacked people on the hands for trying to steal a french fry, threw cashiers out of the kitchen if they were getting in my way, and made my mark as a pillar of the establishment. they really grew to depend on me, which had its positives and negatives.

the relationships grew very personal too, which also had positives and negatives. sometimes people really grated on me, personality-wise, and i endured them the same way you would an annoying uncle. others trusted me with stuff they really shouldn’t have, became incredibly comfortable giving me their secrets. i gave rides to people. took people grocery shopping, to do their laundry, mailed packages for people, made phone calls for people who weren’t confident with their english. more than once, i’ve had to drive home the guy who makes the chinese food because he would come into work mad drunk, and he only spoke spanish, so i would have to drop him off at a kroger nearby where i thought he lived. i knew a few people pretty personally, even the owners who still cheer and recognize me to this day, still let me go in the back and make my own food if there are no objections. i’m permanently a part of that family, and i worked my way into it fair and square. they still ask me to come back and work a weekend every now and then, and i always refuse.

it was one of those jobs where eventually, you just learn how to do everything, because at some point, you gotta do everything. there were days when i would both be the sandwich chef and the driver, a really sketchy balance. days when i would be covering three people at once. there is such a thing as being too dependable, too good at your job, because then people start taking advantage of you. people calling off for nothing knowing you could probably cover for them. your boss asking you to work an extra 5 hours on any given day. the head cook quitting for a month, forcing you to do his job when you really had no interest in firing fifteen dozen bagels at six in the morning, seven days a week. and being in a position like that makes it a lot harder to leave, even when you know you have to move on to bigger and better things, when you’ve learned everything and don’t want to be stuck in one place. that was really the hard part about that place, leaving your family to figure it out for themselves. in the end, though, it’s not really your family, it’s only business. i was starting to get this idea in my head about becoming a pastry chef at the time, and i was getting antsy about being stuck there.

i quit the job on the excuse that i was going back to school to study culinary, came back a few months later anyway to work 20 hour weeks. eventually made a connection or two in college that landed me a job on the pastry team at the convention center downtown, where i work now. but i think those stories are best saved for a time when i’m not like, employed by them. i’m still looking ahead, though, and again growing anxious about moving on to develop more skills.

probably why i was thinking about those damn doughnuts at that coffee place. i feel like there’s still a lot of pastry-related stuff i need to learn, stuff that i could have picked up on along the way before getting into The Big Leagues. bakeries and cafes and grocery stores i could have worked in. tricks of the trade i missed out on. granted, i am getting a lot of that now, but the job i’m currently holding is much more suited for somebody who already had a wealth of knowledge to build off of. maybe that’s why i’m taking this weird sojourn into “well, what have i actually learned so far?” trying to work at a bakery at this point feels like i’m going backwards, settling for less money to pick up skills i should already know. the next logical would be, i don’t know, a country club i guess? people always ask about starting my own bakery, and i know i’m not ready for that. sometimes i feel like i still don’t know a damn thing about food creation, how flavors go together. the more difficult techniques, decorating cakes and sugar work. even with simple techniques i’m sure i could use some refinement. and i’m always worthless when my boss comes to me for help with writing a menu. i don’t have tricks in my back pocket beyond what i’ve learned there, and i’m not as studious as i should be with trying new recipes in my personal time. depression gets in the way of that pretty regularly.

anyway, that’s all i can think to write for now. i know it’s a pretty worthless read, but sometimes you just gotta write for writing’s sake.

#blog #personal

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ourmrmel · 6 years

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Mel Feller, MPA, MHR, Asks About Your Passion

Mel Feller, MPA, MHR, Asks About Your Passion.

Mel is the President/Founder of Mel Feller Seminars with Coaching for Success 360, Inc. and Mel Feller Coaching. Mel Feller maintains offices in Texas and in Utah.

The dictionary definition of passion is, “a strong or extravagant fondness, enthusiasm, or desire for anything.” Why do people start their own businesses? Is it for money, for freedom – from corporate structure or otherwise, power? What would you want to do it if you did not need to work? Some people might answer that they would want to lie on a beach or watch television, all day that might not pay you! However, is it possible to do something you would want to do whether or not you were making money – and actually make money? Of course – but if it were that easy, everyone would be doing it.

I have always suggested you should do what you love, but I had not followed my own advice sometimes. Why is it so important to pursue what is important to you? Here is what I have learned since deciding to focus on my passion:

It comes naturally. When you have a passion for something – you enjoy it and it means something to you. That does not mean it will not be work, because as I said and as we know, everyone would do it in that case. However, creating a plan and following through on it will certainly be easier when you are passionate than going after something you have no interest in.

It keeps you motivated. It is easy to get an idea and be excited about it – and then move on the next one. When launching a business is not due to genuine interest, but necessity, it can be difficult to stay on track. While having new plans and dreams is great, how powerful is it when you can pick something up and finish it!

It is not about the money. Of course, money often does play a part in it, but that is not why you do it. Money should never be what drives you, if you can help it. Pursuing only for money can leave you feeling desperate and certainly not happy or secure when it does not pan out.

It teaches you discipline. When you stick to something, you can accomplish it and make a career out of it. Being committed is necessary and you have to train yourself to get to that mentality. Once you have developed a routine and a plan for what you need to do to succeed, you will be more dedicated to the ultimate goal.

You are proud of it. Sure, everyone is pleased when they are promoted, feels pride in a big accomplishment, or when they start and own a business. However, imagine the exponential increase you would feel when you do something you believe in.

You advocate for it. Not as the typical business promotion – but as “guess what I get to do for a living?” People can tell when you are truly excited, and if you feel good about your business, it will help others feel that very same way as well.

It makes you feel good about yourself. Maybe this is a given, but who does not need a boost of confidence now and then? Don’t you always feel better when you do something you believe in rather than something you do not? Alternatively, almost as bad, something you are apathetic about? At the end of the day, feeling good about yourself and being happy about what you do every day will lead to fulfillment that you likely couldn’t get otherwise.

Now the Second Phase:

It has been said that nothing in the world has ever been created without a thought initiating the process.

Thomas Edison made hundreds of attempts at the light bulb before he found success. When asked why he kept persevering, he replied, "For each attempt that failed and was discarded, it put me one step closer to the one experiment that would succeed." For each thought, each belief that created a reality that was not quite right; a new thought took its place, creating a better reality.

We have all heard of these success-from-failure stories and they often help to motivate us to try our personal best, to keep persevering. However, how can we keep trying in the face of overwhelming odds? How do we get past the negative beliefs, the distractions, and the lack of support from our family and friends? What can we do when we are tired of trying?

Your thoughts do create your reality, and in learning to modify your old, entrenched thought patterns, you can modify your reality. There are three ways to modify our thoughts. First, changing your attitudes and beliefs about your current reality often shifts your focus and awareness so that you can begin to find peace in your life. Second, creating an image or thought of the new reality you want to create and keep that in focus as you go about your day. Third, through psychotherapy, gain insight into the birth of the thought and heal it. Which in turn allows the passions to truly shine while making sure you have a plan to move forward with.

Priorities are What Follow

The first step in creating your own reality is to determine which reality you are looking for. Often we do not reach our dreams because we never have a clear idea of what dreams are the most important to us. What is it you want most in this lifetime? Vital good health? A loving and supportive mate? Success in your business or career? A nice home? Freedom from emotional turmoil? An opportunity to start the dream business?

Whether your dreams are physical, emotional or spiritual, first write a list of what you want. You may find that you want something in each of those categories. In writing your list, be specific. Instead of writing "a good marriage," be specific: what specific actions and emotions are you looking for in your definition of a good marriage? In place of "good health," you might write "freedom from arthritic pain" or "more energy."

Do not feel pressured to write the list all in one sitting; take some time to allow things to bubble up from your soul. Organize the list in any way you would like, but make sure you determine which items are more important to you than the others are. You may want to write the list, and then take a few days to think about it. Finally, review it one last time; re-arrange priorities, or adding and subtracting items as needed.

Because your needs and life situation may change, your list will remain flexible and will change as time goes by. Try to remain open to these changes, even if it means rearranging your list of dreams. Perhaps a simple, mild change to an item is all that is necessary in order to keep up with the times.

Work the Plan and Plan the Work

Now that you have a list, the next step is to determine a means of visualizing or imagining that outcome, and putting that image out into a work plan.

Each of us must take personal responsibility for attaining our happiness. While I firmly believe the Universe can help us manifest our dreams, we must be ready and willing to do whatever is physically necessary to move us in the right direction. As Goethe said, "Until one is committed, there is hesitating, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative, there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: The moment one definitely commits oneself, Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance which no man could have dreamed would come his way." However, it is up to you to use those "incidents and meetings and materials" in order to complete the plan.

The purpose of a business plan, or your plan for passion, for a self-employed person who is financing their own business, is to have a central repository for all strategic thinking about the business for the coming year or two. Here is what should be included:

Your business idea in three sentences.

Your target audience.

The challenges that your target audience faces.

The benefits of using your products and services to meet those challenges.

Your company brand and image.

Your projected revenue and expenses for a year.

If you project more expenses than revenue for the first year, a statement about where the money will come from to pay for those expenses.

A list of your major competitors, and how you are different from them.

At least six marketing techniques you're planning to use over the coming year, when you plan to implement them, and what results do you expect from them.

A list of people who you will need to hire to implement your business plan or marketing plan (unless you have the business skills and time, yourself, to do all the work).

You should review your business plan, and update it, annually. I recommend reviewing the marketing section of your business plan quarterly, so that you can gauge the success of your marketing campaigns.

By following your passions, in writing, putting a plan together and finally executing that plan your love and passion for what your life will look at is now a map to arrive at your destination.

Mel Feller, MPA, MHR, is a well-known real estate, business consultant, personal development consultant and speaker, specializing in performance, productivity, and profits. Mel is the President/Founder of Mel Feller Seminars with Coaching For Success 360, Inc. and Mel Feller Coaching, a real estate and business specific coaching company. His three books for real estate professionals are systems on how to become an exceptional sales performer. His four books in Business and Government Grants are ways to leverage and increase your business Success in both time and money! His book on Personal Development “Lies that Will Sabotage Your Success”. Mel Feller is in Texas and In Utah. Currently an MBA Candidate.

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