Chapter 2: Persistence

Summary: Harley meets Arthur for the first time in a seedy Gotham bar.

HARLEY

Marco's was a hole-in-the-wall bar that remained a Gotham staple for decades. It catered mainly to the working class, although high-end city white-collar folks would occasionally stop by on Thursdays and weekends to experience the "rougher part of the city" with their friends like it was an adrenaline-inducing sport. Marco Vescani III, Harley's boss and third-generation owner of the place, never failed to put on his fake smile and energetically welcome all folks from all walks of life, as long as they paid the entrance cover and made him money. "A paying customer is a welcome customer," he'd said to her when she was hired, and he repeated it every night before they opened the doors. That Thursday wasn't any different.

Thursdays at Marco's were open-mic nights, one of its busiest nights of the week. Before the bar opened at 9:00 PM, there was already a line of patrons outside waiting to enter. The queue was a mix of open-mic performers and their friends and family who came to support them, along with a combination of regulars that made it a point to end their night at the bar with a stiff drink and entertainment after a hard day's work.

One particular Thursday, Harley was assigned the ticket seller position. She had to ensure that all attendees, including the performers, paid the entrance fee and directed people to where to sit or prepare if they were a performer.

The Thursday crowd tended not to be too rowdy in the beginning until the night progressed, the stage opened, and drinks started pouring. Harley allowed herself to enjoy the calm before the storm as she took people's payment and welcomed them with a smile.

To keep herself entertained, she devised a game for herself called "Whose a performer?" as she let attendees in. She'd been working at Marco's long enough to recognize the regulars. She noticed a good number of attendees weren't regulars and noted three musical performers who were.

"Jimmy, Chuck; Lewis," she greeted each one with a nod as she said their names and was met with a tip of their cowboy hats and a "Good evening, Miss Harley!" in a Southern twang and a warm smile in response as they paid and sauntered in with their guitars. They were super regulars if that even existed. Apparently, the trio attended every open-mic in hopes of one day being the next rising country stars, even though most folks in Gotham probably didn't like country.

"They might have more success in Wilmington," Harley thought. She was confident they'd be performing a new love song that would sound similar to their previous ones and would be met with tepid applause. Harley didn't mind it at all. She enjoyed their songs since she had a heart for men who were in touch with their emotions, and the words they'd sing on their own tended to be in the romantic fluffy poetic realm. She wondered if the songs they sang were for someone in the crowd of attendees who came to support them. That would have been romantic.

As the line progressed, Harley noted the new performers who identified themselves, many of whom that night. There was a juggler, a few musicians–this time an accordionist and a pianist. There were two ventriloquists, a mime, and a few dancers, which surprisingly seemed to be a norm in these open mics. Most of the performers were accompanied by friends or family, who vocalized how excited they were to see their performance and bolstered their ego if it was their first time performing in front of strangers.

Whoever thought Gotham was just only a crime-ridden place failed to observe its people's artistic and expressive abilities. Harley was confident that the open mics in her hometown of Wilmington were probably folks singing karaoke while doing line dancing in a drunken stupor–hence Wilmington and the one bar it had didn't have open mics to showcase talent. Harley smirked at the thought as she handed the sticker to the last person in line and sat back on the stool behind her to wait for other attendees.

It was fifteen minutes before the show started, and typically once it did, new customers and performers wanting to get into the bar had to wait outside until there was ain between the performers. Marco said it was to show respect to the craft and was an excellent way to mediate the bar's traffic and get folks seated more quickly without causing a lot of distraction.

Harley looked at the time, eight minutes now before the start of the show. She ran a hand through her curly, shoulder-length hair, grabbed a tie from her wrist, and threw her hair in a high ponytail. The bright light pointed at her at the entrance, and the heat emanating from the crowded venue made her feel warm and grateful she wore her short sleeve t-shirt.

She peeked inside the bar to see people settling in their chairs and the bar tenders taking drink orders from the bar–Marco's did try to be fancy sometimes–and when she turned her attention back to the entrance. She was greeted by a tall gentleman with long hair, blue eyes, and a kind smile.

"Hi! Welcome to Marco's ! Audience or performer?" She asked, returning his smile.

Harley studied him in that short moment, taking in his appearance. He wore a red suit, pants, vest, and a white shirt with very light yellow designs she couldn't tell. His hands were in his pocket until he took one out to hand her an ID and cash, three dollars more than the standard cover. He was a performer.

"Arthur Fleck," Harley read the name on the ID out loud and looked up at him. "Performer, huh?"

He nodded at her, and she noticed that the corners of his eyes crinkled when he did. She wondered what his talent was.

"Uh..yes, Arthur. I'm a comedian," he said to her as he took his ID and the ticket from her hands, their fingers touching briefly in the exchange.

A comedian? Four comedians were already slated; each one carried so much gusto and a pose of friends to see them and at least howl at their jokes. This gentleman didn't have any of those, and that was something she hadn't seen since she worked at Marco's .

Harley couldn't help but wonder what this Arthur Fleck's set would be like, as she pointed him and directed him to the seats at the corner of the stage where all the performers sat. There were still some empty seats between the ventriloquist and mime–which wasn't a surprise.

"Best of luck," she told his back as he sauntered away, only to see him pause and wave lightly. Again he gave her a meek smile of thanks and a light wave and turned back around.

Harley didn't know why, but she looked forward to seeing what he would do. Of course, comedians often had it quite hard in open mics; she thought more so when there weren't friends or family to support them to do initial laughs even if the joke wasn't funny. Her excitement, however, didn't trump her excitement for the mime and the accordion player who sported a very well-trimmed and fashioned mustache that curled on the edges. That night certainly going to be an interesting one.

"Boo!"

"Get off the stage!"

The heckles weren't the first time the crowd turned on the performer that night, so it shouldn't have been much of a surprise and a cause of sympathy when Arthur, the comedian, was the recipient of the harsh commentary. Somehow though, regardless of the heckles, she watched as he continued on saying his jokes–or better yet–reading his tricks from a journal, in between laughter that he tried to hide. It was a peculiar sight, one that Harley had never seen. She had never seen a comedian laugh at their own jokes mid-set. His jokes were quite dark, but to the right person, some were humorous, while others fell flat.

"People can be jerks," she thought as she watched Arthur close his book as he finished with a quiet "Thank you, folks," followed by some light scattering of heckles, boos, and some generous applause. At least some folks were friendly enough to acknowledge that doing an open mic in front of people was hard. Harley was one of those folks as she stood on the corner of the bar in the back, holding an empty tray, ready to bus tables from open drinks between performers.

When Arthur left the stage, she watched as he walked down the aisle, his eyes cast down and his hands over his mouth. As he passed her, she caught a glimpse of his expression, one of embarrassment or maybe disappointment? Whatever it was, his long strides allowed him minimal time to get to the exit.

Harley watched him leave Marco's, wondering if he'd be another open-mic "casualty" she would never see again. It was infrequent that someone who didn't do well on their open mic returned to the same venue to try again. Hopefully, he, like the juggler and pianist that were booed, would find some courage to take the failed open-mic with stride and use it to help them improve and maybe have better luck again or somewhere else. It was wishful thinking. She was confident she would never see them again.

Boy, was Harley wrong? Three weeks later, she was surprised to see a familiar face in another open mic. It was the comedian again. She hadn't seen him go in since she wasn't working the ticketing booth but instead was aiding at the bar, prepping the stations in preparation for the increased rush once the bartenders started taking orders from the tables. It was still pretty early; they had 15 minutes before the show began.

Harley observed him quickly and noted his red suit again, except he wore a crisp white shirt this time. At least he was consistent with his look, whatever his spiel was.

Harley turned her attention to her task of lining up the glasses at the counter. She was doing so in silence, listening to the ambient sound of music and conversations around her as she tried to do her work as quickly as possible.

This was all interruptive when a large clang was heard, followed by expletives. Harley looked up from her task to see a large gentleman in his 50s apologizing profusely to Alexa, the bartender, as bright blue liquid, sliced lemons, oranges, and a tiki umbrella was scattered around the table. The glass had been knocked over on the bar counter, the drink toppling over, spilling its 20 oz contents all over, before rolling over and crashing into the floor amidst a growing spill.

Harley quickly pivoted to her core role, which was to help clean. She received a sorry look from Alexa.

"I got it, don't worry." She said as she quickly grabbed a broom and dustpan, along with a small basket of cleaning supplies such as a spray bottle and a roll of paper towels. She had to get it all cleaned up quickly since it was getting close to opening, and the lights would be lowered.

Harley got out from behind the counter and was surprised to see that the older gentleman had disappeared, leaving a hefty tip in his wake as he apparently went to the bathroom to clean his shirt and pants, which also took a brunt of the spillage. Left near the spill, however, was the man in his red suit, doing his best to line the spill's path on the table with napkins nearby so that it didn't spread anymore.

Their eyes met, and he looked at her sheepishly. She smiled warmly at him, amusing that he was even trying to help when he might be more concerned about his set during the open mic. That thought was fleeting as he spoke to her.

"Sorry, I couldn't stop it all from spilling more," he said, "Not enough napkins." It sounded so matter of fact, and she paused for a moment watching as he continued to hold on to the napkins at the one end of the spill to prevent it from spreading. It was sweet he was trying to help; most patrons would simply cough and walk away without a word and expect that their mess would be cleaned up by her.

"Hey, please don't bother," she says, indicating for him to stop as she replaced the napkins with a bar towel that soaked up the spill. "I can take it from here." She smiles at him as she nears him, moving forward to wipe the spill, and grabbing another towel. She discarded the towel in the basket she had and then sprayed it.

She felt him move out of his seat, grabbing his glass filled with ice and what looked like water or vodka; she wasn't sure. He had chugged it before slowly fixing his suit and running a hand over his hair. Harley tried her best not to stare, instead using her actions and motions of wiping the table as a way for her to hide her observing him. Then somehow, their eyes meet, and she finds herself stopping and quickly glancing at him up and down until she realizes what she just did. She noticed a slight blush forming on his cheeks. Oh no, did she just check him out so blatantly?

"You didn't get any spilled on you by chance, did you?" She asked him as she straightened herself, grabbed the broom and dustpan, and began to quickly sweep the big chunks of glass once the tall glass of the tropical drink.

"Uh, no. I'm good," he says. "Wasn't close enough. Otherwise, I probably wouldn't be going up there." He points at the stage.

"Must be your lucky day," she says before watching him bid goodbye and walk towards the area where the other performers sat.

She looked at him, curious at what it was about him. He was quiet and courteous and clearly must have been either a masochist or a man with a lot of persistence and thick skin. Because somehow, as the hours progressed and the open mic continued, she saw him, this 'Arthur Fleck' as he introduced himself, standing up on the stage and reading from his book of jokes once again.

Like last time, he had no friends, family, or support in the crowd. Like last time there were hecklers and a drunken group of high-city folks in their preppy suites trying to boo him, and yet like before he finished his set. There was still laughter between his set, coming from his own lips, which confused even those that heckled a bit. Was it his way of blocking away the hecklers? Was that it?

When he finished his set, he kept his hands to his lips briefly, hiding laughter or giggles or perhaps himself mumbling at how he could have made it better. Unlike before, where he left immediately, Harley watched as he walked to the very back of the bar and sat down on one of the stools in the far end, hidden in the shadows and his book in hand.

She wondered if perhaps he realized that maybe he'd be able to improve his technique by staying and observing the subsequent performances and the following comedians. There were 5 others this time. Or perhaps he was just back there to sulk. Whatever the reason, Harley decided to keep her head on her job. She had a ton of tables to clear and then several more tasks before she could leave, and her shift would be up, and she took advantage of any night where she didn't have to work until closing.

When she finished her tasks, she didn't stay to watch the rest of the open mic. Opting instead to take the bus home.

When she arrived home, she took a long shower, thoroughly washed her hair since it was washing day, and scrubbed her body with her favorite lavender, jasmine body wash, and shampoo. It had been a long day, starting with her working at the cafe and ending at Marco's bar.

That evening as she laid down on her bed, she thought about the courage it took for folks to do an open mic and wondered if she would ever have the courage to do so, even though she didn't have any specific talent to showcase. But if she did, would she be as persistent as the man in the red suit and vest, with the kind eyes, the dark jokes, and peculiar laugh?

TBC

Next Chapter: Arthur helps Harley solve a problem at work.