Post by mickey on Aug 23, 2006 21:38:03 GMT -5
There were no Starbucci in Caldecott County.
This was more troubling than perhaps it should've been.
Mickey raked his fingers through his curly hair, which sproinged back into place as soon as his hand left it. He bit the inside of his labret. he twiddled his eyebrow barb. He checked his eyeliner in his rear-view mirror briefly and then decided that he could no longer put off emerging into the Mississippi heat and finally turned off the ignition, feeling the heat seep into the car even before he opened the door into it.
Ugh. Oregon had never been this hot. New York had been, but there had always been air conditioning everywhere he went. Good air conditioning. Air conditioning that was replaced the second it started to rattle, or even hum too loud, and sometimes just because it was what you did before summer began, in case of the inevitable heatwave.
Here, not so. Mickey leaned on the side of his car - an extremely slick black Lambourghini he'd had to save his allowance for two months to purchase, at least with all the bells and whistles he wanted - and lit up, even if it was extra heat right in his face. There had quite possibly never been a better time for a cigarette, or a time when one was so desperately needed.
He sucked in deeply and puffed the smoke out through his nostrils like a dragon. An old woman gave him a foul look from the embroidery/scrapbooking/girl supply that was next to the little bar he'd in front of which he'd parked. He made a complicated obscene gesture she probably didn't understand, but she left anyway.
Damn old hag. Judging him. Everyone just couldn't wait to judge him, could they?
Mickey took another drag from his cigarette and walked into the Girl Store just to prove that you couldn't automatically assume he'd stroll into the bar, noting with amusement the 'help wanted' sign in the shop's window. He wondered if they'd hire him. Of course not - nonracial profiling. He'd read all about it in Rolling Stone. No one trusted anyone who looked a little different than these days.
Puffing over the little bits and bats of ribbon and frills that Mickey supposed you glued to little girls in an effort to make them look less like Winston Churchill, Mickey wondered idly how long it'd take him to find Rogue's Place. He didn't really want to ask, especially not the demon-woman who ran the till and was currently glaring at his ash-cloud. Nah - he'd just soak up her air conditioning for a while. He stuck one hand into the tight pocket of his equally tight jeans, which he'd bought in the misses' section at The Limited just days before.
He'd be bound to stumble across the place eventually, wouldn't he?
This was more troubling than perhaps it should've been.
Mickey raked his fingers through his curly hair, which sproinged back into place as soon as his hand left it. He bit the inside of his labret. he twiddled his eyebrow barb. He checked his eyeliner in his rear-view mirror briefly and then decided that he could no longer put off emerging into the Mississippi heat and finally turned off the ignition, feeling the heat seep into the car even before he opened the door into it.
Ugh. Oregon had never been this hot. New York had been, but there had always been air conditioning everywhere he went. Good air conditioning. Air conditioning that was replaced the second it started to rattle, or even hum too loud, and sometimes just because it was what you did before summer began, in case of the inevitable heatwave.
Here, not so. Mickey leaned on the side of his car - an extremely slick black Lambourghini he'd had to save his allowance for two months to purchase, at least with all the bells and whistles he wanted - and lit up, even if it was extra heat right in his face. There had quite possibly never been a better time for a cigarette, or a time when one was so desperately needed.
He sucked in deeply and puffed the smoke out through his nostrils like a dragon. An old woman gave him a foul look from the embroidery/scrapbooking/girl supply that was next to the little bar he'd in front of which he'd parked. He made a complicated obscene gesture she probably didn't understand, but she left anyway.
Damn old hag. Judging him. Everyone just couldn't wait to judge him, could they?
Mickey took another drag from his cigarette and walked into the Girl Store just to prove that you couldn't automatically assume he'd stroll into the bar, noting with amusement the 'help wanted' sign in the shop's window. He wondered if they'd hire him. Of course not - nonracial profiling. He'd read all about it in Rolling Stone. No one trusted anyone who looked a little different than these days.
Puffing over the little bits and bats of ribbon and frills that Mickey supposed you glued to little girls in an effort to make them look less like Winston Churchill, Mickey wondered idly how long it'd take him to find Rogue's Place. He didn't really want to ask, especially not the demon-woman who ran the till and was currently glaring at his ash-cloud. Nah - he'd just soak up her air conditioning for a while. He stuck one hand into the tight pocket of his equally tight jeans, which he'd bought in the misses' section at The Limited just days before.
He'd be bound to stumble across the place eventually, wouldn't he?