AN: If anyone's been keeping up, this is not the ILD fic I mentioned in an earlier note- that one I haven't finished. This is something I just had to get out of my system.
"Not a shirt on my back, not a penny to my name. Lord, I can't go back home this-a way."
Jean's angelic voice fills the air, soaring up to the heavens at which she'd scoff were Llewyn to tell her she belongs there. The stage lights cast her in luminous warmth, as if she's glowing from the inside out.
Then, as her eyes wander onto Llewyn, a pointed glare falls across her face. It's as if she's shot a dart through his heart, which she might as well have done countless times before.
In that moment, he hates her. He hates that she can stand up there onstage and sing this phony old song with some corny soldier who thinks he's a real musician and her square husband, who works in an office somewhere manufacturing tunes like this day in and day out and is still deluded enough to believe that puts him at the forefront of the folk movement. He hates that she's content to do this, to stand there harmonizing and looking pretty and never seeking a higher purpose, never wanting to. He hates that she's wasting her voice on shit like this when she should be doing so much more, that she can turn around and criticize him for not trying hard enough when she isn't even trying at all.
A hand slaps him on the back- it's Pappi, come out to see what sort of show is happening on his premises. He settles into Jim's empty seat and affects an air of interest, but Llewyn knows he's only got eyes for the center of the stage.
"Boy, they're not bad," he says, and Llewyn wonders if he can hear the song at all.
"Uh-huh."
Jean's thin soprano sails above Jim and Troy's voices. Her eyes are turned skyward, a smile playing about her lips, and suddenly she reminds Llewyn so much of Mike that he can't look away. Weariness falls over him.
"That Jean," Pappi says, hardly loud enough for the subject of his attention to hear but certainly close enough for her to read his lips, were she to look his way. "I'd like to fuck her."
"That Jean" is swaying back and forth, her momentary irritation as Llewyn forgotten. Her very soul is alive with music, and it's the most depressing thing Llewyn has ever seen.
"A hundred miles, a hundred miles, a hundred miles, a hundred miles. You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles."
God, she's beautiful.
"Uh-huh."
"And the auld triangle went jingle-jangle, all along the banks of the Royal Canal."
There's not much to look at in the bottom of Llewyn's glass, but he stares numbly into its depths all the same, because the alternative is turning and facing the quartet of Irish trad singers who are up on stage at the moment. He got a look at them when he came in, replete in splendidly matching sweaters, and that look was more than enough. God. He never could stand this kind of music, the tragedy and the earnestness of it all. Or maybe it's the presentation that stinks, rather than the songs. Anyway, there's no point in trying to analyze it. If Llewyn's lucky, he'll get to finish his drink in peace and indulge in the few mind-melting seconds of haziness that it provides. He knows it won't be enough to completely wash away the direness of his personal situation, but for the moment- just one moment- he doesn't particularly care.
Of course, fortune turns its back on Llewyn- like it's done all week- when he feels rather than sees Pappi approach. He deposits himself into a chair, and though Llewyn's still not looking at him, he knows he's smirking.
"We're gonna hear you tomorrow."
"I guess," Llewyn mumbles, more to his drink than to anyone in particular. Like it even matters at this point.
"Well, you're welcome." Pappi waits for an answer, but Llewyn doesn't have it in him to respond. What's he want me to do, credit him for all my amazing success? That's so typical of Pappi, always congratulating himself and expecting others to kiss his feet. He doesn't care if your life's turned to shit or anything, as long as he gets what he believes is due.
Seemingly oblivious to Llewyn's silence, Pappi attempts to draw him into a nonexistent conversation. "Whaddaya think of these guys?"
Llewyn slowly swivels around and makes an impressive effort to focus on the group, though it's an effort wasted on Pappi. "I like their sweaters." Weird, but now that he's actually listening to them, he could almost swear he hears Mike's voice among them. Jesus Christ. Why does everything in this city have to remind him… It's not like Mike's the only Irish singer he's ever known.
"You wouldn't fuckin' believe the rent here," Pappi sighs. "This folk shit, I dunno."
Sure. Folk shit. Whatever. Let's go with that.
"Jim and Jean get a good crowd," Pappi continues, talking just to talk. "You know why, Llewyn? A lot of these guys come in here and catch the act because they wanna fuck Jean." That stupid smirk won't leave his face, and not for the first time, Llewyn wonders how Pappi'd react if Llewyn ever told him he has, in fact, fucked Jean.
"And some of 'em…" A conspiratorial note enters Pappi's voice. "Some of 'em, Llewyn… they come in here because they wanna fuck Jim!" Laughter explodes from his chest. "They wanna fuck Jim! Know what I mean?"
For some reason, that comment grinds Llewyn's gears more than anything Pappi has said prior to it. He doesn't know why. It's not like he's necessarily in the habit of fucking men, or that he'd ever want to fuck Jim, although he supposes if he ever did he'd be even with Jean, in a very twisted way.
"You mean they wanna fuck Jim."
"Exactly." Again Pappi sighs, spent from his momentary humor. "Well… me, I've only fucked Jean."
The statement acts as a lifeline, pulling Llewyn from his miserable stupor back to the equally-miserable real world. He stares hard at Pappi in blank confusion.
"All along the banks of the Royal Canal!"
"Huh?"
"Oh yeah." Apparently noticing that Llewyn is interested, Pappi repeats himself with a little more braggadocio. "Oh yeah. You know." He gives a casual shrug and begins to applaud for the singers. "You wanna play the Gaslight…"
The sudden cocktail of emotions surging through Llewyn are too bewildering to sort out. At first he has no idea how to react. After the way Jean chewed Llewyn out for sleeping with her, here she is apparently fucking Pappi in her spare time? She and Jim have been booked plenty of times, why did she feel the need to-
An answer emerges in Llewyn's memory, from Jean's own mouth no less.
"Pappi'll let you play tonight… I asked him."
For a second the room sways around Llewyn, and he isn't sure if he wants to slam his fist into Pappi's face or just get up and leave this entire shithole behind him. The act onstage makes his decision for him.
"Let's all give a great big welcome to Elizabeth Hobby, from Elinora, Arkansas!"
A shadow at the foot of the stage materializes into a woman, who trades places with the Irish singers. She looks like someone's grandma, or at least someone's overbearing mother, with graying hair and a little lap harp and an all-too-eager smile. Exactly the picture of old folks' hick music that that asshole Roland Turner had ragged on during Llewyn's trip to Chicago. He'd almost want to puke if it didn't drive him so goddamn crazy.
"Thank you," Elizabeth Hobby says, and her voice is as sickening as her appearance. "This is my first show in New York-"
"How'd you get the gig, Betty?" Llewyn blurts, unable to hold himself back.
A few patrons shush him, but Pappi chuckles, which further turns Llewyn's stomach. He catches Pappi's eye and gestures to the stage, and Pappi bursts into full-blown laughter. "C'mon, Llewyn, give me a little credit."
"I'm going to do a song," says Elizabeth Hobby. Of course you are. "It's like most of the songs I do, it's a song I grew up with." Of course it fucking is.
The instant the first words slide from her mouth, Llewyn gets to his feet.
"Where's your haybale?" More shushing, but what the hell.
"Where's your corncob pipe?" Elizabeth Hobby stumbles in her playing, and it only encourages Llewyn to shout more aggressively. "You wearing gingham panties? Show us your panties!"
"C'mon, Llewyn," Pappi urges. "It's enough." Yeah, right. When has it ever been en- A hand is at Llewyn's shoulder, and he shakes it off, at once well and truly pissed. "Oh God, I hate fucking folk music!"
He's not quite sure what happens after that, but it's a blur of restraining hands and jolts of pain and finally the frigid outdoor air as he's thrown out of the Gaslight. Literally thrown, too, his palms catching the cold metal side of a car parked in the street. Lining up on the sidewalk is a sizable bunch of people waiting to get inside to see the show. Having little pride left to collect, Llewyn picks himself up and surveys the crowd, wishing for the comfortable numbness that had sustained him only an hour before.
"The show's bullshit," he mumbles to anyone who'll listen. "Four micks and Grandma Moses."