Slam and Chicken and Waffles

Dallas was walking down Seventh Avenue - Fashion district. All there was here fashion design studios and jewelry stores. The wind was blowing, messing up his ungreased hair, and he shivered, whether it was from the wind or from what he was about to do he didn't know.

Dally looked at the address he wrote on a piece of paper - 237 7th Ave. He was going to check the place out. Then he would try to get a job there. He could tolerate this place a little better than Fifth Ave, but he was still irked. He was in a very foul mood, thinking that every hour, no, every minute mattered. It is one more minute Johnny could be hurt, could be killed. Dallas realized that it would take a week or maybe even two weeks to figure out which of the three suspects is the one who kidnapped Johnny, and that made Dally mad. Then he thought of the cops, he couldn't trust these clowns to find the kidnapper, no, he had to take things into his own hands. . He also felt guilty - he should've known not to let them go to the museum on their own. He should've known he couldn't trust two-bit to look after them, if anything two-bit himself needed looking after.

Thinking these gloomy thoughts Dally finally reached his destination - 237 7th Ave. Huge window glass with all sorts of rings, earrings, necklaces and watches-. diamonds, rubies, emeralds. Dally was wearing a blue button down shirt and black trousers that he bought when he was at the mall with Pony. As much as he hated his outfit he realized that he couldn't show up here wearing jeans and converses. That is if he actually stood any chance of getting a job here. Without hesitation he pulled the door open. Johnny was in danger, and Dally would do anything for Johnny.

Inside there were rows and rows of window glass with jewelry arranged in semi circles. The place was busy even though it was early in the morning. People, who were dressed sharply and seemed important were walking in and out, buying all sorts of jewelry – engagement rings, necklaces, watches.

Dally tried to go unnoticed and just try sizing the place up. He noticed that most of the sales people were females. An idea struck his mind. He realized that they won't just hire someone of the street. They'd ask if he worked as a salesperson before, and to call his former boss. He could ask Tim, but they might not believe him. Besides, he had no intention of telling anyone that he was from Tulsa. No, he had a better idea. He could try to sweet talk one of the salesgirls and talk her into getting him a job. He smiled to himself.

He looked around, and went to the window glass, where a cute blond was rearranging the jewelry. She noticed him and looked up, - "looking for something for your girlfriend? I can help you with that."

Dally squinted slightly, looking directly at her slyly, "Who needs a girlfriend when there is someone as good looking as you." She blushed a little and giggled – "you are not so bad yourself." In response Dally flashed his signature smile.

"So what are you looking for?" She twirled a strand of loose hair around her finger, curiosity in her voice.

Dally swallowed hard, "I'm looking for a job." He said firmly.

"Is that so?" she smirked, taking a few steps forward, standing next to him now.

"You bet." Dally ran his fingers through his hair, hoping that his plan worked.

"So, how about a phone number, and I'll put a good word in for you." She giggled again. Dally realized he couldn't give her the hotel phone number. "How about you give me your number?" he said coolly, leaning on the wall and looking directly at her.

"Ok," she wrote the number on a piece of paper.

Dally took his sweet time folding the paper with the phone number and putting it in his pocket. He started walking away, then turned around and asked "Anyway, what is your name?"

"It's Bev, you better call me." She called after him. The next day Dally had a job and a date with Bev.

Soda was driving to the address of Evan Hamilton - the rock star. He thought maybe he could figure out how to get on his good side so he takes him as a private chef. Soda realized that he was too young for it, but he hoped that somehow he would pull it off, he was really worried. What was he supposed to do now? He parked, and got out of the car.

Right then a boy walked up to him and stuck a piece of paper into his palm. Soda frowned, but looked at the paper. It was a flier, it said "Tomorrow June 15th at Washington Square Park Evan Hamilton and the Skulls live performance 6:30 p.m. tickets start a t $20." Soda looked at the flier and idea formulating in his mind. There were carts at Washington Square Park, they saw it when they went to a concert there when they just arrived to New York. You could rent it for $50 for the night to sell whatever you want. Most of the people were selling food, jewelry and mini candles to burn during the concert.

The next day Soda and Steve pulled up to Washington Square Park. They found the cart owner and paid $50. Then they started setting food on the counter. The concert was about to start, and Soda and Steve with Pony's and two-bit's help were unloading the food. Dallas was not with them – he had a date with Bev. They didn't know the first thing about what kind of food was popular in NYC aside from hot dogs, but they figured they'd make southern food. It will be different and delicious. They had jambalaya, Po Boy sandwiches and fried chicken and waffles.

They tasted everything, and it was delicious. They set up really close to the make shift stage where the band was. People really loved their food, but Soda and the others didn't care about that too much, they hoped to attract the attention of the singer and his band members.

Finally it was intermission. "Here we go, let the real show begin," Soda mumbled and stepped forward. He poured a glass of sparkling wine, and walked up to Evan. He had butterflies in his stomach, but he looked confident and calm. "Hey great performance, are you thirsty?" Evan looked up at him, grabbing the glass. "Thanks man, I can sure use a glass of wine. Hey where are you from? You talk different."

"I'm from the south, c'mon check out my food, it's delicious. Free of charge, on the house."

"Alright, alright." Evan walked over as well as the band members, all five of them approached Soda's cart.

Evan seemed friendly enough, Soda thought. Didn't feel like a kidnapper, but first impressions could be deceiving, he knew that. In the mean time Evan and the rest of the band were enjoying the food. "Man," Evan said, smudging the sauce all over his face, "this is the best fried chicken I've ever had." Soda smiled proudly, handing him a napkin.

"Where can I find you? Do you have a joint here in the city?" Evan took another spoon of jambalaya.

"Actually I just moved here, and I'm looking for a job so if you need a private chef I would be honored. My rate is very reasonable." Soda tried to sound casual as he said that, pouring another glass of wine for Evan.

Evan was thoughtful for a few seconds. "I don't know about my private chef, but we are having a jam session at my loft this Monday. We can start with that and then see how it goes." He took another bite of chicken and was chewing loudly.

"Oh thanks, I really appreciate it," Soda replied, trying not to show how thrilled he was. "Alright, let's continue the show," Evan wiped his face with the napkin and took another sip of wine, then he and his band members went back on stage and started playing. In the meantime Soda was high fiving Steve.

On Monday Pony was walking into his new school. The place was swarming with people, it was really crowded. Some couples were walking holding hands, some were kissing in the hallways. At least they won't have reach against poor troubles here, Pony thought bitterly – they are all rich, and it didn't escape his view how some girls had diamond earrings and bracelets, and the guys nice watches. Pony was thankful that they had uniforms, and he didn't have to wear preppy clothes.

Pony snoozed through physics and geometry, and finally it was English. Mr. Wilson walked into the classroom. Pony was surprised to see he was a young man maybe 25 or so. He had a buzz cut, wore camouflage pants and he had two dog tags dangling on a chain around his neck. A war vet, Pony realized.

"So we have a new student today, please introduce yourself." Mr. Wilson said casually, putting a cup of coffee and a stack of papers on his desk. Pony dreaded this. "I am Anthony and I am from Kansas." He said unenthusiastically, getting up from his chair.

"You will like it here in New York." Mr. Wilson stated matter of factly, taking a sip of coffee from his cup.

Then he put the coffee aside and went to the blackboard, "Ok class, today we are going to read some poetry by Robert Frost," he wrote the name on the board. Pony was pleasantly surprised, while Mr. Wilson was passing the handouts with the poems. There were 3 poems on the sheet: "A road not taken", "Mending Wall" and "The Runaway."

"Please move your desks to the closest person next to you," Mr. Wilson announced, "choose one of the three poems and discuss it with your partner. Then we'll hear some of you. You and your partner can't pick the same poem."

Pony reluctantly moved his desk to the guy on his right. He cringed - he had to talk to a soc and real preppy soc, and pretend to be friends with him. In the meantime the guy stretched his hand out to him, - "I'm Josh, so how do you like it here so far?" Pony ignored his question. "I pick a Road not Taken," he said rather dully. He knew this poem well, and the meaning was quite obvious. "Do you live around Fifth Avenue?" Josh asked with an expression on his face showing that he thought it was really important. Pony just nodded, hoping he wouldn't ask for details.

Josh continued, "Mr. Wilson is cool, he treats us as adults. No homework for the weekend, and a lot of times he brings movies, and we watch them in class. And he never gives pop quizzes." Pony almost said "tuff enough," but caught himself in time. He was sure they didn't say "tuff" in New York. "He is a Vietnam vet, right?" Pony managed, aimlessly clicking his pen in and out.

"That's right," Josh replied, "and lot of times he tells us stories about the war, and he is really into poetry. He hosts slams at his house on weekends." Pony looked at him confused – "what is a slam?"

"You don't know what a slam is?" Josh snorted, and Pony glared at him.

"It's when everyone recites their own poems, and at the end one person wins and gets a prize." Again, Pony was pleasantly surprised. This guy seemed legit. "What kind of prizes does he give?" Pony asked curiosity getting the best of him.

"How about no homework for a week for the winner? Or no essay due. Anywahy, what's your take on this poem, you picked the most obvious one."

"Ok," Mr. Wilson said, walking into the center of the room, "let's have it." He called on a few people, and they shared their thoughts. Luckily Pony didn't get called.

"Alright," Mr. Wilson said next, "here is what we are going to do next." He opened his bag, and to Pony's total surprise, took out a record. "This is moonlight sonata by Beethoven. Please write down at least three paragraphs on what you think, and most importantly, what you feel when you listen to it." Pony's jaw dropped. Josh saw his astonishment, and chuckled "he does that all the time. If you ask me beats pop quizzes." Pony nodded, "yeah, it does."

Then Josh spoke up again. "He is classically trained in music, says in Vietnam that's what got him through. As he was marching into the battle, he mentally played all the different music pieces he'd learned. Ok, we better write something before the end of the class." Pony just nodded. He wrote his three paragraphs without a problem. He liked this teacher already - a war vet, who liked poetry and misc, and treated his students as adults. Pony could definitely dig that. Of course he was still a soc, but even a soc could be tuff sometimes. Besides, this wasn't Tulsa, this was New York.

As he was leaving school that day he felt uneasy. Mr. Wilson seemed really tuff, and not like someone who'd get into kidnapping kids, even though there was still a possibility. On one hand Pony felt relieved, on the other hand that meant they still didn't know who took Johnny, and he might be hurt. Pony realized it would take at least a week to fully get what this teacher is about, and he thought maybe going to his house for this slam or whatever it was called, would confirm that he is not the kidnapper. But a week. What could happen to Johnny in a whole week. Pony hoped he had some good news from Dally or Soda. Well, it couldn't be called good news, considering the circumstances, but something that could lead to finding Johnny.