A/N: You'll notice some of the characters have changed.
August, 1978
She was confused at first, confused by the mass confusion that in itself was the city of New York. It was unbearably hot; the sunlight bounced off the rough stone of buildings, rubbed off on the thousands of sweaty bodies, and absorbed into the cement. All about them the smell of exhaust and melting tar permeated the air, which was so thick Satine almost cup it in her hand. The taxi's leather seats were moist with humidity and her legs stuck to them, clinging as she tried to stand.
Moving her possessions was a far worse task than simply sitting in the backseat of the stifling cab. After unlocking the small apartment that she'd recently purchased, Satine had to set about the daunting task of unloading her things. The pavement seemingly blazed through the plastic of her red thong shoes and to avoid getting a third degree burn from the metal of the taxi, she had to do a ridiculous dance around it. Thankfully the movers were coming with her more hefty furniture, which left her with---how many was it?---ten boxes. Great.
Her apartment did not offer air conditioning, so the first thing she did was place a huge oscillating fan by the window, where the breeze would hit her right as she opened the door. After the fan was placed to her liking, her sweating hands fumbled with the lock caging her pet tabby, Kermit. Upon being released, the gray cat raced to plunk himself right in front of the aforementioned fan. Satine scowled, wishing she could do the same. But no, there was work to do.
It was two hours before the movers came, cursing the whole up the three flights of stairs. Satine didn't blame them, because what they were carrying couldn't have been much easier than carrying an elephant. She stood by the doorway, trembling in fright that they'd drop her precious baby down the steps, imagining the dissonant noises a broken piano would make. They were persistent, though, and their hard work paid off. Sweating and still cussing, they set the piano down where Satine pointed and accepted the glasses of water she offered them. "Huge fucking motherfucker," one swore, glaring at the gleaming white instrument.
"Life's a shit sandwich." Added another. "Where d'ya want us to unload the other shit, kiddo?" "I can help you . . ." Satine began, but they cut her off.
"Let a pretty little thing like you haul those big things up the stairs? Whaddya think we are, stupid?" The heavy Brooklyn accents made Satine laugh inwardly, and she grinned.
While they groaned and cursed their way through her furniture moving, Satine surveyed the place that would now be her home. Gone was the massive Nevada mansion that her parents had owned, and in its place was a tiny New York apartment, in a building full of old hippies and Studio 54 partiers who listened to Janis Joplin and Mozart at ear-shattering levels and painted peace signs on their doors. Gone were the creamy linen colored walls, and in their place was a huge mural of famous faces. Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman, Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Jean Harlow, Elizabeth Taylor, Charlie Chaplin, Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich, Clark Gable, and others stared at her. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers jitterbugged across a cerulean sky dotted with silver stars while Bette Davis and Joan Crawford pouted sexily and Rudolph Valentino stared deeply into the eyes of Pola Negri. Gone, too, were the whispers of silk hanging from the windows. Now Indian saris drifted gracefully to the floor, which was a dreary but smooth maple covered in pseudo-Oriental rugs. Gone were the servants and in their place was Satine, who would now have to make her own meals.
She didn't miss the luxury. She didn't miss her overbearing but distant parents. She didn't miss Nevada. She didn't miss anyone or anything except her grandmother and her brother, whose portraits sat in silver frames on the minuscule television. Satine, in all her "I'm-away-from-home- and-my-parents" glory, did cartwheels and laughed like a giddy child. When the men came back with her yellow couch embroidered with huge, gaudy pink cabbage roses, they smiled to see her lanky form flipping around them like a circus performer. "Whaddya do, anyway? What brings ya to New York?" The one named Al asked, patting his protruding stomach and swigging his water as one might swig beer. (And Satine was pretty sure he could do that well, judging from his size.)
"I'm a writer. Well, I want to be, anyway."
"Like books, writer?"
"No. I want to be a journalist. Like Walter Cronkite."
"Ah, I see. Well, that's pretty cool." He scratched his chin and Satine could hear the rough scraping of stubble and skin, like sandpaper against wood. "Anyway, baby doll, we're gonna take off now. Pay up, princess."
"Oh, yeah." Satine stared blankly for a moment, then rummaged in a cupboard for her purse. "How much do I owe you?"
"Normally it'd be about seventy, but since you're such a doll," he winked for emphasis, "we'll take . . . fifty."
"Great." She shelled out the cash and put it in Al's warm, coarse hand. "Thanks so much."
And then they were gone.
She sat unmoving on the piano bench for what seemed like hours, staring out the window, staring at nothing. When her fingers moved to touch the smooth, cool shine of the keys, no music could come pouring out.
Songwriting was her hobby. She'd filled three-ring binders to the point of breaking with her songs, but tonight nothing would come. Words, music, brain, and hands would not cooperate. "Damn, damn, damn!" A jumbled mess of notes from Satine's frustrated hands seemed to signal what was to come next.
"Hello!" Came a male voice, high-pitched but definitely masculine. "Hello, neighbor!"
"H-hello," she called back, leaving her place at the piano and walking towards the door. Satine stopped short, remembering her glamorous outfit of tattered jeans, paint-stained black t-shirt, makeup free face and hair greasy in a ponytail. "I look like shit, but come in anyway."
Where she'd thought it was only one person, four more crowded in. All three women were wearing bright, gaudy makeup and glittery clothing, and the two men wore white leisure suits of a polyester shine. They looked as though they were going out and made Satine feel ashamed of her appearance. "I'm Toulouse," said the man who'd yelled from her door. What surprised Satine was not the name of a famous painter but that this man, too, was of a very short stature; his head only reached her midriff. "I'm your next- floor neighbor. Call me Lucy."
"Hi. I'm Satine." She extended her hand and he shook it.
"This is Mari," he pointed to the blonde wearing the gold halter and gold hot pants who grinned and waved. "And Deb." Deb was the brunette dressed the same, save for green instead of gold. "And Amalia." She was the dainty Asian with silky black hair and a blinding silver dress.
"And I'm Omar, but you can call me Chocolat because everyone does," came the rich voice of the man with skin like coffee grounds. His surprising emerald eyes met hers and in that glimmer of green she saw an enormous sadness though he hid it very well.
"I'm so glad to meet you all!" And she was, because if there was one thing Satine hated, it was loneliness.
"We've come to ask you," Mari began, "to come with us."
"Where?"
"54."
"Really? I've always wanted to go there! But I can't!"
"Why not?" Asked Chocolat, grinning to display perfect milk-white teeth.
"Look at me! I just moved in and all . . ." Satine's nervous eyes roved about her apartment.
"That's where we come in," said Deb in her Jackie O. voice. "Get in the shower, sweetie."
When Satine's new friends had finished with her, she looked like someone who'd stepped out of a fashion spread. The long auburn curls were pulled up into a high ponytail that grazed her shoulders by Amalia's talented hands and she'd stepped into her favorite dress: black, spaghetti strapped and falling to the lower part of her thigh in a slim skirt. The straps and bodice were dazzling with intricate rhinestone beading and her high heels were the same.
Satine was, admittedly, strikingly beautiful. Her skin was a luminous Marilyn-Monroe-pale and contrasted shockingly with her dark red hair. The eyes were blue, deep-set and laced with dark but short lashes. Though redheads weren't supposed to wear crimson lipstick, Satine applied it anyway. After all, this was the legendary Studio 54 and this was 1978. Who listened to makeup rules anymore? Besides, it brought out her eye color even more than the dark eyeliner did.
"Are you girls ready yet?" Through the door wafted sweetish cigarette smoke and on it the voice of Lucy.
"Just about! Hold your frickin' pants on!" Deb's Jackie O. voice was now not so cultured and calm, but louder and more high-pitched by the drink she held in her hand.
"We know you can't wait to see Stine all dolled up and sexy as she is!" Added Mari, bestowing a plum-colored lipstick mark on Satine's cheek.
"Exactly!" Echoed Chocolat, dancing into the room with Lucy, looking like a powered-chocolate Fred Astaire with a petite goateed Ginger Rogers on his arm. They stopped short, however, when Satine turned around to face them. Lucy gave a low wolf whistle when his new neighbor sashayed over to them, moving her hips like a pendulum. She grinned, tossed her ponytail, and took Lucy's offered arm.
"To 54!" They chorused, looking like an offbeat Wizard of Oz group, lighthearted and giddy.
She'd always been a dreamer, always a hopeless romantic. She'd always wanted someone to sweep her off her feet at an unexpected moment, and in New York City, Satine hoped it would happen.
She had no idea how soon it would.
August, 1978
She was confused at first, confused by the mass confusion that in itself was the city of New York. It was unbearably hot; the sunlight bounced off the rough stone of buildings, rubbed off on the thousands of sweaty bodies, and absorbed into the cement. All about them the smell of exhaust and melting tar permeated the air, which was so thick Satine almost cup it in her hand. The taxi's leather seats were moist with humidity and her legs stuck to them, clinging as she tried to stand.
Moving her possessions was a far worse task than simply sitting in the backseat of the stifling cab. After unlocking the small apartment that she'd recently purchased, Satine had to set about the daunting task of unloading her things. The pavement seemingly blazed through the plastic of her red thong shoes and to avoid getting a third degree burn from the metal of the taxi, she had to do a ridiculous dance around it. Thankfully the movers were coming with her more hefty furniture, which left her with---how many was it?---ten boxes. Great.
Her apartment did not offer air conditioning, so the first thing she did was place a huge oscillating fan by the window, where the breeze would hit her right as she opened the door. After the fan was placed to her liking, her sweating hands fumbled with the lock caging her pet tabby, Kermit. Upon being released, the gray cat raced to plunk himself right in front of the aforementioned fan. Satine scowled, wishing she could do the same. But no, there was work to do.
It was two hours before the movers came, cursing the whole up the three flights of stairs. Satine didn't blame them, because what they were carrying couldn't have been much easier than carrying an elephant. She stood by the doorway, trembling in fright that they'd drop her precious baby down the steps, imagining the dissonant noises a broken piano would make. They were persistent, though, and their hard work paid off. Sweating and still cussing, they set the piano down where Satine pointed and accepted the glasses of water she offered them. "Huge fucking motherfucker," one swore, glaring at the gleaming white instrument.
"Life's a shit sandwich." Added another. "Where d'ya want us to unload the other shit, kiddo?" "I can help you . . ." Satine began, but they cut her off.
"Let a pretty little thing like you haul those big things up the stairs? Whaddya think we are, stupid?" The heavy Brooklyn accents made Satine laugh inwardly, and she grinned.
While they groaned and cursed their way through her furniture moving, Satine surveyed the place that would now be her home. Gone was the massive Nevada mansion that her parents had owned, and in its place was a tiny New York apartment, in a building full of old hippies and Studio 54 partiers who listened to Janis Joplin and Mozart at ear-shattering levels and painted peace signs on their doors. Gone were the creamy linen colored walls, and in their place was a huge mural of famous faces. Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman, Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Jean Harlow, Elizabeth Taylor, Charlie Chaplin, Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich, Clark Gable, and others stared at her. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers jitterbugged across a cerulean sky dotted with silver stars while Bette Davis and Joan Crawford pouted sexily and Rudolph Valentino stared deeply into the eyes of Pola Negri. Gone, too, were the whispers of silk hanging from the windows. Now Indian saris drifted gracefully to the floor, which was a dreary but smooth maple covered in pseudo-Oriental rugs. Gone were the servants and in their place was Satine, who would now have to make her own meals.
She didn't miss the luxury. She didn't miss her overbearing but distant parents. She didn't miss Nevada. She didn't miss anyone or anything except her grandmother and her brother, whose portraits sat in silver frames on the minuscule television. Satine, in all her "I'm-away-from-home- and-my-parents" glory, did cartwheels and laughed like a giddy child. When the men came back with her yellow couch embroidered with huge, gaudy pink cabbage roses, they smiled to see her lanky form flipping around them like a circus performer. "Whaddya do, anyway? What brings ya to New York?" The one named Al asked, patting his protruding stomach and swigging his water as one might swig beer. (And Satine was pretty sure he could do that well, judging from his size.)
"I'm a writer. Well, I want to be, anyway."
"Like books, writer?"
"No. I want to be a journalist. Like Walter Cronkite."
"Ah, I see. Well, that's pretty cool." He scratched his chin and Satine could hear the rough scraping of stubble and skin, like sandpaper against wood. "Anyway, baby doll, we're gonna take off now. Pay up, princess."
"Oh, yeah." Satine stared blankly for a moment, then rummaged in a cupboard for her purse. "How much do I owe you?"
"Normally it'd be about seventy, but since you're such a doll," he winked for emphasis, "we'll take . . . fifty."
"Great." She shelled out the cash and put it in Al's warm, coarse hand. "Thanks so much."
And then they were gone.
She sat unmoving on the piano bench for what seemed like hours, staring out the window, staring at nothing. When her fingers moved to touch the smooth, cool shine of the keys, no music could come pouring out.
Songwriting was her hobby. She'd filled three-ring binders to the point of breaking with her songs, but tonight nothing would come. Words, music, brain, and hands would not cooperate. "Damn, damn, damn!" A jumbled mess of notes from Satine's frustrated hands seemed to signal what was to come next.
"Hello!" Came a male voice, high-pitched but definitely masculine. "Hello, neighbor!"
"H-hello," she called back, leaving her place at the piano and walking towards the door. Satine stopped short, remembering her glamorous outfit of tattered jeans, paint-stained black t-shirt, makeup free face and hair greasy in a ponytail. "I look like shit, but come in anyway."
Where she'd thought it was only one person, four more crowded in. All three women were wearing bright, gaudy makeup and glittery clothing, and the two men wore white leisure suits of a polyester shine. They looked as though they were going out and made Satine feel ashamed of her appearance. "I'm Toulouse," said the man who'd yelled from her door. What surprised Satine was not the name of a famous painter but that this man, too, was of a very short stature; his head only reached her midriff. "I'm your next- floor neighbor. Call me Lucy."
"Hi. I'm Satine." She extended her hand and he shook it.
"This is Mari," he pointed to the blonde wearing the gold halter and gold hot pants who grinned and waved. "And Deb." Deb was the brunette dressed the same, save for green instead of gold. "And Amalia." She was the dainty Asian with silky black hair and a blinding silver dress.
"And I'm Omar, but you can call me Chocolat because everyone does," came the rich voice of the man with skin like coffee grounds. His surprising emerald eyes met hers and in that glimmer of green she saw an enormous sadness though he hid it very well.
"I'm so glad to meet you all!" And she was, because if there was one thing Satine hated, it was loneliness.
"We've come to ask you," Mari began, "to come with us."
"Where?"
"54."
"Really? I've always wanted to go there! But I can't!"
"Why not?" Asked Chocolat, grinning to display perfect milk-white teeth.
"Look at me! I just moved in and all . . ." Satine's nervous eyes roved about her apartment.
"That's where we come in," said Deb in her Jackie O. voice. "Get in the shower, sweetie."
When Satine's new friends had finished with her, she looked like someone who'd stepped out of a fashion spread. The long auburn curls were pulled up into a high ponytail that grazed her shoulders by Amalia's talented hands and she'd stepped into her favorite dress: black, spaghetti strapped and falling to the lower part of her thigh in a slim skirt. The straps and bodice were dazzling with intricate rhinestone beading and her high heels were the same.
Satine was, admittedly, strikingly beautiful. Her skin was a luminous Marilyn-Monroe-pale and contrasted shockingly with her dark red hair. The eyes were blue, deep-set and laced with dark but short lashes. Though redheads weren't supposed to wear crimson lipstick, Satine applied it anyway. After all, this was the legendary Studio 54 and this was 1978. Who listened to makeup rules anymore? Besides, it brought out her eye color even more than the dark eyeliner did.
"Are you girls ready yet?" Through the door wafted sweetish cigarette smoke and on it the voice of Lucy.
"Just about! Hold your frickin' pants on!" Deb's Jackie O. voice was now not so cultured and calm, but louder and more high-pitched by the drink she held in her hand.
"We know you can't wait to see Stine all dolled up and sexy as she is!" Added Mari, bestowing a plum-colored lipstick mark on Satine's cheek.
"Exactly!" Echoed Chocolat, dancing into the room with Lucy, looking like a powered-chocolate Fred Astaire with a petite goateed Ginger Rogers on his arm. They stopped short, however, when Satine turned around to face them. Lucy gave a low wolf whistle when his new neighbor sashayed over to them, moving her hips like a pendulum. She grinned, tossed her ponytail, and took Lucy's offered arm.
"To 54!" They chorused, looking like an offbeat Wizard of Oz group, lighthearted and giddy.
She'd always been a dreamer, always a hopeless romantic. She'd always wanted someone to sweep her off her feet at an unexpected moment, and in New York City, Satine hoped it would happen.
She had no idea how soon it would.