Trettende januar:
India:
Before Raj could go and celebrate Lohri, he'd some fire safety regulations to ensure at other celebrations that were taking place at the same time, or very close to it.
-I don't care how you manage it, he said exasperatedly to the person on the phone with whom he'd been arguing viciously with for the past three hours; the effect of this tedious administrative task had made his hair lose its schwung, his eyes to get lines and bags, and he felt worse than he had when Pakistan was established, ripping itself from him, just without the bittersweet feeling that his legal independence from the British Empire had given him at the time. Just make sure that there are firemen stationed near the bonfire at the Bhogi festival, and try to find someone whom doesn't stand out. I, of all people, know that it's tempting to make a big entrance, but it'll defy the purpose of the firemen.
After making final formal arrangements, Raj could finally hang up with that governmental official. Taking a large gulp of water, he hoped, nay prayed, that the Assam State Fire Department would be a little more forthcoming, otherwise he wouldn't make it to Punjab in time for the Lohri distribution.
He'd luck there.
-Of course, we'll have someone there. We don't want Assam to burn down any more than you do.
After thanking the Chief profoundly, Raj hung up, splashed some water onto his face, and got changed.
He arrived just in time for the sunset and the lighting of the bonfire, which consisted of cow dung and wood. He joined his people in tossing gur, rewaries, sesame seeds and sugar-candies on it, before dancing the night away, all the tediousness of his earlier administrative duties completely forgotten.
Others:
Many things could be said about Alfred F. Jones, USA, many things that were true too. But, he hoped, no one would ever say that he was anything like Im Yong Soo, Korea. He knew with a certainty that no one would call him diplomatic.
Despite these two things, he knew that he'd have to find something in him to make sure that when he talked to Im Yong, he would agree to come to California for Korean-America Day, without saying the words "Korean-America Day originated in Korea!"
A tough task indeed.
USA:
-Oh, Susanna! Don't you cry for me! I'm coming down from Alabama, with a banjo on my knee! The cheerful voice, accompanied by whistling, reverberated through the halls of America's house as he thundered down the stairs to the door, his doorbell just having been rung.
Outside stood a delivery man.
-Mr. Alfred F. Jones?
-No, need to be so formal dude. Just say Alfred, or the Hero!
-Sign here please, the delivery man, whom was rather used to this behavior from Alfred, ignored the words and held out the signing pad. It's the delivery from the storage unit 3712, underground facility 3 basement section 10, that you requested four days ago to be dropped off at this date. He continued.
-Do you've to go through the entire whatchamacallit every time I order something from my own storage facility?
-Standard procedure, sir.
-Oh, well, fine. Alfred said with a pout, signing the pad, receiving his package and watched as the delivery man walked back to the armored truck that always came whenever he ordered from any of his storage units. He wondered if they'd go through this mess, this dance, if he ever ordered that eyeliner, he'd stashed [there] which Lauder had given him.
Probably he thought, it was from the 80s.
He looked at the truck; at least they'd listened to him and painted it in patriotic colors.
He walked back in with the package, slamming the door shut with his foot; the package was a bit heavier than he remembered from last time. When he got to the room that Arthur called "parlor" for some reason, he saw why.
-I'd completely forgotten that I'd put this old thing in here the last time I visited the storage, he said as he pulled out an old gramophone. That's good, now I don't have to dig around for one.
He placed it carefully on a table, then he took out one of the old records, carefully wiping it with a handkerchief that Arthur had stitched his initials on, then placed it gently on the gramophone. He cranked it a few times, then sat down in his old good chair and listened to "Oh, Susanna!" while rifling through the handwritten notes that had also been in the package he'd sent to himself.
-If I weren't afraid that I would get stains on these manuscripts of yours, Stephen, I would've saluted you with my Pepsi. He looked at the gramophone and the record spinning there, as if he were talking directly to it. I was honored then, and I'm honored now, that you chose to give these to me on your deathbed. Don't worry; I never told George Cooper about them. He gave a sort of saluting nod. So, here's to you Stephen Collins Foster. May your memory and songs carry on living in the gentle hearts of dear friends.
Author's Notes:
I like the idea that America got so many things that he can't keep them all in his house (and he only keeps the things that are most important to him there), so I wanted to show that.
However, him going to an old, musty (or industrial clean) storage facility didn't sit right with me, so I did this instead.
I don't own Hetalia