Disclaimer: Not mine, you know that. Ah, and no copyright infringement intended.
Summery: The girl's running in search of catharsis. And who knows where it'll land her. Oh wait, I do…sorta.
Notes: I was bored. And I feel like I'm plagiarizing, 'cause this really reminds me of something I've read, but I can't for the life of me remember what. I got the date thing from somewhere to...probably the same somewhere, knowing me. Jumping timeline, some parts will be unexplained, for now.
The title seems a bit irrelevant, and hell, maybe it is. It's actually the vicarious title of a poem; The Traveler is the primary title. And you can make your own conclusions from there.
First chapter's a bit of a bore. I've got some ideas for this puppy, but who knows if I'll finish.
Reviews equal motivation. Meaning you review, I produce. So review my fickle friends, and we'll all get along just fine.
- - -
A Prospect of Society
- - -
She's on a plane again. This one's small. It seats eight, with barely six inches between the back of one seat and the front of another. It's times like these that she's grateful for her petite stature.
The guy next to her looks uncomfortable, he's big. Very big. Like Shaq big (yeah, she knows basketball…boo yah). Poor fella. He's all scrunched up with his long, long legs and his colossal muscles. He's just big and she sorta wishes she could give him her seat, she wouldn't mind sitting in the isle – she's little enough.
Boom. Wee. She smiles, she loves hitting turbulence – always was one to welcome the ominous. Or, in actuality, she closes her eyes, grips the arm of her mammoth neighbor and prays for it to be over. He's even more uncomfortable now. Because, of course, now he has some crazy little Brit giving him an Indian sunburn. Sweet.
- - -
"Party in the city where the heat is on. All night, on the beach till the break of dawn. Welcome to Miami. Bienvenido a Miami…"
Big Willie Style, yo. Get with it.
Of course, Miami is only…about nine and a half thousand miles away. But it's a good song, really.
Well, no, but she likes to say bienvenido. It's fun. She also likes to make her voice go really high, but only because she likes to see people's reaction. Of course it's different here. People here don't necessarily know who Big Willie is. Or, they don't know him by that name.
Hey, maybe she's still closed minded. Because that guy was speaking English…and she sort of thought no one in Jolo would speak English. She's still ignorant and she has to try really hard not to hate herself for it.
- - -
Damn it's hot. So hot. Her thick curly hair is pulled back in a sweaty mass she likes to call a pony-tail. La-la-la. She wonders why there's never any Gatorade when she needs it most. Of course, Gatorade gives you cancer, so she wouldn't drink it anyway, but it seems like there should be Gatorade. You know – hot day, hiking, it only seems natural to sweat blue or red or lime.
And it's time to pack up her little Tumi (thanks Daddy) and get the hell outta this hot hell. Beautiful it may be, but she's got a stereotypical English complexion, man, and she burns easily. And sunburns make her sick. Of course, maybe that was the strange smelling shellfish she had last night. Maybe she shouldn't have polished off the last twenty.
Ohh man.
- - -
So she's gotten back on that tiny little box they call a propeller plane. And she doesn't like it one bit, because this time her neighbor isn't big, in fact, he's quite small – barely two inches taller then her, but he smells. Like nachos and fart and sweat and shellfish. And now come the flashbacks of yesterday's hike. She doesn't want flashbacks, she doesn't think she's ever puked that much, not even when she had food poisoning, the flue and a violent reaction to strep medicine. All at the same time.
She's on the plane again, but this time she doesn't know where she's going. This time she doesn't have a plan. She's given up on plans; nothing ever goes how it's supposed to. And it sucks.
"Bouncing in the club where the heat is on, all night on the beach till the break of dawn. I'm going to Miami. Welcome to Miami…"
"Be quiet." Well thank you mister, its nice to know that a farting, nacho eating, sweaty little midget man doesn't like her singing. But she likes to sing, so…
"Party in the city where the heat is on. All night, on the beach till the break of dawn. Welcome to Miami. Bienvenido a Miami…"
- - -
"Hi, Daddy"
"…No, I'm fine"
"…No Daddy, not today."
"…I'm in the Rome Ciampino."
"…I promise."
"'Bye, I love you."
Clunk. Bye Bye Motorola A1000.
Hello wonderful world of Davidoff Lights.
- - -
So…maybe blowing a large portion of her cash on cigarettes wasn't a good idea. 'Cause now she's standing outside The Maritime wondering whether or not she really needs a place to sleep. Although she does look timelessly cool with her high-end cigs.
Yup, she needs a job. And a cheap motel.
- - -
"You've bartended before, Lola?" This guy's hairy, was the only thought that ran through her head.
"Uh, yeah. Sure." No. She had never done anything before, really.
"Well Lola, where're you from? Can't give you a job unless I know where to send your checks." Problem, she's technically not from any where.
"Well, uh, see…yeah. I, uh, don't really have one specific residence right now. That's why I need the job. Need some money."
"Alright Lola, you look like a pretty smart kid. I'll hire you. But if you suck or, you know, are a feminist or shit, you're gone."
Feminist? Ha! She's not really one for causes anymore. You know, shit can do that to you.
"I got it."
"Hey, mind if I get one of those smokes?"
"Sorry dude, I'm flat broke. These babies are all I got." She thinks dumbing herself down well win him over.
"Aiw got it. No worries Lo. I like Lo better then Lola. From here on out, kid, you're Lo." And she's right, because no one really wants an articulate, intellectual bartender.
"Alright. Lo."
So in a half hour she's gone from Hermione Granger to Lola Thomas to just Lo. And she kinda likes it, all this change. It's exciting and new. She never liked change until… well she was more afraid of it then anything.
She looks at hairy-mans name tag, "Hey, Tony, when do I start?"
"How 'bout you find yourself a hotel-thing and get on back here as soon as you can. I'll have Sam show you the ropes."
"Thanks, man." And she's gone. Wham, bam, she's an able skedaddler.
- - -
"Look, I'm really sorry, but please, I'll have the money tonight. What if I leave my bag as collateral?" God she hates this, everyone wants her to pay upfront. But, damnit, she has no money. She's broke. And…now it hits her. Dad was always the one to deal with people…and they never needed to pay upfront…and they always had money.
"Co-what, now?"
"You know, what if I give you my bag, for now, and then when I come back tonight with money for my room, you give me my bag back."
"Oh…okay."
So she hands over her Tumi (thanks Daddy), and scrunches her nose as she finally takes in her surroundings. They're dark and damp and …smelly. Something vaguely reeks of cheese and spoilt tomatoes and…no, she doesn't want to know. Not at all.
So she gets the hell out of the mildew-infested motel and moves fast, like Cat Woman fast, and is back to the pub by three.
"Hey Tony, I got a place to stay," it's smelly and dark, "really nice and cheap, too."
"Great, Lo. I named you Lo, right? I can't keep track, y'know? Old man losing his…"
"Marbles?" She suggests.
"Yeah, those."
Oh, okay. She works for an idiot. How did he manage to get a hold over this place anyway.
Oh. She turned left and ran straight into the wall, where a dusty old sign proudly exclaims, "In the family since 1951". So that's how he became Mister-Boss-Man.
"Hey Lo, you need to learn some…crap. Sam here will teach you."
And so this is how she ended up out back savoring one of her cigarettes and listening to an eighteen year old explain how to pass off a Virgin Mary as alcoholic.
"Tony taught me," Sam tells her, "says it saves the vodka from the morons, y'know? I mean, who wants to drink a Bloody Mary anyway? Old rich women that's who and posers who think they're old rich women. Real rich women don't come to this joint, so the fakers can't tell the bloody difference. Ah no…whatever meant." Pun.
Hermione's, no, Lo's mother drank Bloody Mary's.
"Yeah. So, Sam. Where're you from?"
"Grew up in Durham. Boring place. You?"
"London."
"I only made it to London once. And that was to get my scrawny arse on a plane to Rome."
There's no response to that. Really. Sam must have "lived" a butt-hard life.
"Oh."
"Buttery Nipples are big sellers," and she's lost…she doesn't want to butter her nipples, thanks though, "mostly to drunk bastards though. They like the name. C'mon, we should get in there. I'll start you waitressing tonight. Maybe if the crowd gets rough you can serve the regulars at the bar, all they drink are cheap imported beers from the States. Bud Light and that crap."
"Sounds good," she doesn't really want to do this. Not at all. She likes bars. Really, she does. But this one's grimy and not the type of place she would ever consider going into. She calls herself a mild drinker. She's drunk Woo Woo's in Prague, Cosmos in Rome, Martini Royale's in France, Between the Sheets' in Lebanon, Mai Tai's in Beijing, taken shots in Fez, Fifth Avenue shooters in New York (ironically or not), blah, blah, blah. But she doesn't get drunk in greasy bars with all kinds of sleazy men.
- - -
"Hey, Lo,"
"Yeah?"
"Pull your skirt up a bit; it'll get you better tips."
"Sure thing, Sam."
And she does, because she needs the money.
- - -
"You have to drink it, Hermione."
"But last time-"
"Last time, we were twelve-fucking-years old. Last time, we were stupid and had a stupid mischief complex. We need it this time."
"I'm not good enough. I-I'll mess up. I'll lose it."
"You…have to…kill them in the end, anyway."
"I can't. Oh, God, I can't, Harry. Please don't make me."
"Drink it, Hermione. Just three sips."
- - -
4-24-05