2007-05-30: Dylan Could At Least Write


Jane_icon.gif Trina_icon.gif

Summary: Jane visits the Den Of Iniquity, meets Trina, and they talk.

Date It Happened: May 30, 2008

Dylan Could At Least Write

Den Of Iniquity, Brooklyn, NYC

3:00 PM on a Friday. That means there's only about an hour before the real rush hits and backup staff arrives. Right now, it's just the early deserters and early starters who are here, and Trina — having taken one of Jack's shifts — can handle them easily enough.

The front door is propped open by means of a heavy chunk of concrete to allow in the somewhat fresh air that comes of New York in the early summer, the dark-haired young woman — decked out in black pin-stripe capris, black tank, black Mary-Jane heels, and a silver scarf wrapped about her waist as a make-shift belt — takes a moment to lean against the bar and breathe deeply with eyes closed and a quiet smile on her face. S'a good day.

The woman who enters around that time looks far less than happy. She's five feet eight inches tall, brunette, wearing a black tank top with Pat Benatar's face on it and a dark cotton skirt stopping about two inches above her knees. Ankle height boots with two inch heels cover her feet. One shoulder supports a well used backpack that's still in good repair and the other a guitar case. Jane steps into the Den with an air of familiarity about her, she's clearly been here before.

The stormy mood on her face and in her eyes seems to abate a bit as she moves further into the place, taking a turn from the doorway toward a spot midway along the front, where windows face the street. It's here she stands and closes her eyes, perhaps taking a reminiscent journey.

From across the bar, Trina is stirred out of her reverie and straightens. She's already moving towards the glasses as she calls out her greeting. "Hey. Go 'head and set yourself. Can I getcha anything?"

Her eyes reopen, as she hears herself spoken to, and a few steps forward are taken. The woman is recognized by one of the other people here, some nearly thirty guy who works in a nearby factory. "Brunette Canary. Miss hearing you play here!" Jane nods toward the guy, flashing him a subdued smile, as she answers "It was good times, but I had to move on, y'know?" She doesn't say why, her path continues toward the bar and a seat is claimed at it. "Rolling Rock, please."

"Comin' up." With a quick change in her step, Trina makes her way towards the sacred refrigerated unit where the beer is stored, extracting one of the chilled bottles and then cracking it open with an opener nearby. That done, she makes her way back to the new arrival and sets it down beside a pilsner glass on a cocktail napkin that are also set out. The chatter back and forth isn't lost on her, but she doesn't say anything to it immediately, either. "That'll be four even. S'that it, or you gonna start a tab?"

A debit card is pulled from her skirt pocket as she sets the backpack down, then the guitar case which she leans against the bar. "Thanks," Jane replies, offering the card to pay and lifting the bottle to drink from it. "How's Jack been?" she asks. "You're fairly new, you weren't around last time I was here."

Taking the card in hand, Trina deftly moves to scan it and then to start runnning it. "He's good," she replies without really going to much into it. He's the boss after all, and some bosses don't like too many people knowing all of their ins and outs. "And yeah. Just started up full-time with him this week. Been part-timing it for the last couple." Finally turning to hand the card back, there's a small, crooked, close-mouthed smile and a tilt of that be-ponytailed head. "The name's Trina."

"Jane," she replies, her own features showing a quiet smile. "Glad to hear he's been good. We've not really talked in a while." Fingers which show calluses, probably from playing that instrument a lot, retake the card and pocket it. Then they curl around the green bottle, covering the number 33 on the label, lift, and she drinks.

"City's big," Trina offers with a small shrug. "I know what it's like to get all caught up in whirlin' in it." And, what with not having any pressing customers, she decides to make a little idle conversation. Leaning forward on her elbows, she idly scratches at an unknown something on the counter. "Know him well?"

"We talked a time or three," Jane replies, "he gave me my first paying gig in the city." There's more, but she won't say, at least not yet. One short nailed hand remains on the bottle as she speaks. "At least one person here still remembers me, I saw. Good times, the place is so rock and roll, just the sort of spot a musician should start in."

That's her Jack. Part of Trina surges with just a little bit of pride. Look at 'im, helping people out all over the place. She knew he was the keeper sort. "Never had a head for music," the motor head confesses. "They tried to put me in a chorus class for a couple years. I don't think they were really sad to see me drop. Not everyone can be a Maynard Keenan, I guess," Trina contends with a grin. "Someone's gotta be Ozzy. Who — despite his lack of singing skill — still fucking rocks." How eloquent she is. Moving on, she flicks the debris out from under her nail and then smiles more openly at Jane. "Hope you fell on better times than this, 'though."

"I did," she replies with a spreading grin. "Landed a session contract at a studio in Greenwich Village, formed a band too. But I still like to wander the city and play on the street. It's so direct that way. Just me, the instrument, my voice, and the people who like it enough to pay or don't." Jane takes another drink before continuing. "Ozzy. His voice isn't that bad. Certainly can be understood better singing than talking. Now, if you want a successful artist who can't sing, it's easy. Bob Dylan."

"Yeah, but Dylan could at least *write*. Music's alright, but it's all in the words." Trina leans back at that, crossing her arms over her stomach. When a guy a couple stools down starts whining about his glass, she holds her finger up with a small smile. International Sign: Just a minute. "But good for you. Imagine New York's a pretty decent city for finding somethin' like that."

"Granted, Dylan's a far better writer," Jane agrees with a nod. "Almost as good as Lennon and McCartney. Ozzy's work is mostly fun stuff, for blowing off steam." She takes in a slow breath, and demonstrates her singing voice, a rich soprano similar to Ann Wilson or Pat Benatar. "I've listened to teachers, I've listened to fools, I've listened to dropouts who make their own rules…"

"Hey, that's pretty good." Trina opens her mouth as if to say something else, but in the quiet summer air, there is the sound of breaking glass. Then of angry raised voices. "Hey!" the brunette calls out over the fuss to the two arguing gentlemen. Her body, however, turns to tear off Jane's receipt. "HEY!" she shouts again, louder, as their arguing continues. "JACK DOESN'T LET YOU GET AWAY WITH THAT SHIT, AND I WON'T EITHER. NOW YOU BETTER FUCKING CALM DOWN BEFORE I GET OVER THERE." She then slides the receipt and its carbon over to Jane. "Bottom copy's yours. If you're gone by the time I get this shit cleaned up, 'hope to see you back soon. I'll tell Jack you said hi." And with that, the not overly tall and fairly slender woman makes her way around that corner. "You assholes have until the count of three. 1… 2…" Ahhh. Just another day in paradise.

Ah, just another day in the Den. She saw it a time or two while she played here, after all. Some time during the fracas and Trina's work to clean up from it, Jane finishes her beer, collects the gear, and slips out.

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