2007-07-01: Unexpected Vacation


Jane_icon.gif Trina_icon.gif

Summary: Bar wench and guitarist cross paths outside Carnegie Hall.

Date It Happened: July 1st, 2007

Unexpected Vacation

Outside Carnegie Hall, Midtown West, Manhattan, NYC

Here we are now, in the vicinity of 881 Seventh Street, Midtown West, Manhattan. It's between West 56th and 57th streets. The place Jane is near even has a name, and holds a starring role in a dream she has. One of many, in fact, with the same theme. To stand inside on that stage before a packed house and rock the boisterously cheering crowd. It's a well enough known New York City landmark, this place. Carnegie Hall!

Out in front of it, wanting to make at least part of the dream real right here and now, she's setting down her backpack and lowering the guitar case to the concrete, preparing to set up and entertain the public.

Trina isn't here with any delusions of fame. In fact, her dirty, automobile fluid stained jeans and Metallica-endorsing baby tee (Master of Puppets, none of that St. Anger bullshit) speak the truth of her dark purpose: she's just managed to procure a few parts for her car for free! FREE. Those parts are safely nestled in the duffle bag slung over her shoulder, and there's a gleeful smile on her face. Paid day off, and FREE PARTS. She's totally spending quality time with the Mustang today; Baby deserves it. With the extra time she's been able to put in, it'll be no time at all before the disabled Mustang makes her way back onto the streets.

As she takes the red Fender Strat from its case and sets out the portable amp, about to plug in, Jane looks up to spot the duffel bag carrying motorhead and calls out, thinking but not quite certain she recognizes her. "Trina?" she asks, the voice clear and carrying along the street. "That you?" In goes the plug, her fingers dial the volume low then start moving across strings and frets to begin making sure she's in tune while she watches for a reaction from the person she addressed.

Upon hearing her name, the brunette's head turns, mascara-framed blue eyes scanning the crowd. Then she sees that …someone's watching her back. Shifting the weight of her bag so that she can pause and stand, Trina offers a cordial enough smile. She knows the face, but can't quite place it. "Hey. You're… that chick." A shrug. "'m sorry. Take me out of the bar and I can't remember shit."

"Jane Forrest," she replies with a laugh. Her head tilts to one side. "I'm sure you see lots of faces working there, it's good you remember me even being there at all. We talked music, place was quiet that day. And we agreed Dylan's a good writer." She glances at the duffel, then back to Trina. "Day off?" Her fingers keep going, testing she's in tune without being loud enough to preclude conversation.

"Unexpected vacation," Trina replies with another shrug, again shifting the weight of her bag. "There was apparently a bit of a mess with the sprinklers or somethin' at the Den. Haven't gotten the full deal yet. Hope you got a backup oasis." She points a finger. "You make a full-time gig of that? Honestly, city? There are better places to be than a street corner."

"I play streets still because I like it, y'know? It's all pure, no one in the middle. Just me, my voice, the guitar, and the audience. No business details involved. I play, they hear, and if they like it they pay. Besides," Jane grins, "I love playing, and there's more hours in the day than the studio can spare for one person most of the time. But I do have a band and studio session work. At the Cutting Room in Greenwich Village, not far from home." No sooner is this reply spoken than the rest of Trina's statement sinks in. "Hold up. Jack's place had sprinkler troubles? Was there a fire?"

Trina resists the urge to liken street musicians to hookers, given their corner tendencies. S'probably best for everyone that way. "Dunno. Like I said, no deatils. All I know is Jack's alright, and I'm guessin' everyone else is, too. I figured he'd've said something if they weren't. 'm sure he'll get it all squared away soon enough."

It's not a corner, in this case, anyway. It's in front of Carnegie Hall, halfway up the street. Regardless of what might be said, if such a thing were, Jane just enjoys the freedom of it. Traverse the city, play when and where the mood strikes, make money on top of it. "That's good to hear," she replies, looking relieved. Lots of thoughts go through her head, knowing the sorts of things and people Jack's involved with, but she doesn't say any of it. She hasn't the first clue whether or not Trina shares their unusualness. One hand gathers up her hair, the other goes into a pocket for something to fasten it back into a ponytail, and in the process those twin marks on the back of her neck are exposed.

"It is." People get tattoos of weird things, and so Trina — if she even notices the marks — doesn't say anything about them. All she knows that the bag on her shoulder is getting heavy fast. Thumbing over her shoulder, the bar wench grins. "Anyway, I better get to goin'. I got some stuff to do. Catch ya' when the Den reopens maybe."

A brisk nod. "Take care, Trina. See you sometime." And just like that, Jane moves from conversation to the thing she came here for. To be able to claim honestly she played at Carnegie Hall. Perhaps inspired by the woman's shirt, however, the first tune she goes into is Metallica. Enter Sandman.

As the familiar strands of notes hit her ears, Trina turns around to walk backwards for a moment to give Jane a double thumbs up before turning back around to face properly. "Awesome choice!" Incredible Hulk eat your heart out; her Walking Away Theme is infinitely cooler. And with that, the be-ponytailed motorhead is off and soon lost in a sea of people. TIME TO GET INTO SOME GREASE!

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