Act I Scene ii: The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage
The environment isn't all that it seems to the girl, of course. She is a girl, you see. Shapely as she may be, at seventeen she can't be anything but, as much as she tries to defy that fact.
Drunken twenty-somethings draped over not-so-drunken fourty-somethings clutter the armchairs dispersed across the carpet, which is graciously black so as not to display stains of its century long inhabitance. Feathered dancers perched upon a foot-high stage perform an out-of-date dance, waving large fans past their glazed-over eyes. The bar is manned by two men, one young and dressed in a flashy vest and green tie, juggling cups and mixing martinis for a ravenous cougar. The other is an old man with a soggy barcloth on his shoulder and hanging jowels, chatting with another elderly man and taking secret sips from a glass of something amber and acrid. And all this at only quarter past seven.
Completely populated with members of most every spectrum of the human race (or those who are old enough, or look old enough, or are sneaky enough to enter a bar), this inexplicably magnetic place is where our story truly begins.
My own eyes have viewed this story - cover-to-cover, preface-to-epilogue - countless times and from every angle. I've scrutinized every detail from the vantage point of each person, from the lucky old men to the drunken girls and even our main characters - our stars, if you will. I can promise you that you'll see the honest, wonderfully outlandish and incredible tale from start to finish if you promise to sit, listen and watch carefully. Eyes - even sharp ones like yours, darling - are deceptive little devils, and you can trust me, but you can't believe everything you hear...