yorelm
Well-Known Member
Okay, this draft is done, and hopefully the next will be final. This is a big chunk before the climax, so lots to chew on and have at it.
This also includes the living room desc from my earlier post as it is now, after implementing some of the suggestions from that post.
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...I'll be honest--I don't get much conversation." He half-shrugged with a subtle smile.
Rain drummed against the porch roof as I weighed Dean's offer. After eleven years walking D.C.'s streets, I’d learned to read people, to catch those small tells that hinted danger or deceit, but my cop senses, they weren't pinging. His face and steady gaze read as genuine—though that meant nothing. I've faced worse wolves in better sheep's clothing. Still, the thought of another forty-five minutes fighting sleep and the back roads to Georgia, and then in this downpour, made the decision for me.
"I'll...take you up on that, if you're sure. I'll be up and out of your way by six. Just need to grab my charger."
When I returned, the man waved me in, and my shoes clinked onto checkerboard tiles. They were scruffy from traffic but recently mopped. I guessed he'd had a tourist or two in the past if not lately. The place had a feel like it was used to being overlooked.
The museum was a schlockmeister's haven, a graveyard of maritime odds and ends that no one had bothered to care about in decades. A few huge display cases stood in the corners--one with different styles of threadbare nets and another with big rusted hooks in different shapes. The rest of the exhibits seemed like a seafarer's swap meet for nautical junk.
The only exceptions were a few decent country-themed paintings. They had a touch of class that didn't match the rest of the clutter. The one closest to me pictured a man sitting on the steps of a country storefront, his slumped shoulders and distant gaze the snapshot of small-town melancholy--pure Mayberry stock. And with good detail. Every crack in the wooden planks and fold in the man's shirt showed almost obsessive care. Though I admired the work, it made me uneasy staring too long.
"Don't let the showboatin' fool you. This is actually my home. The living space is downstairs. Let me get you a towel."
His "towel" was a big wad of paper wipes he removed from under one of the counters. Probably what he used to clean the displays because every surface gleamed under the soft light.
"Got a name? Won't seem like a complete stranger staying in my home."
"Cliff," I said, running the wipes through my hair.
"Everybody calls me Dean, Cliff. This way."
Downstairs was one big living room with a couple of doors sealing off side areas, and an opening leading into a kitchen. This guy understood decorating about as much as I understood hieroglyphics. A couch and chairs were a faded green plaid design with pleated skirts, looking like something yanked from a thrift store reject pile. An old-fashioned glass lamp sat on an end table, lighting the room through a maroon pleated shade, giving the place a reddish glow. Function over fashion, I supposed. Still, for all its outdated, mismatched decor, the place had a hominess to it. And it gave me a kind of easy, lived-in feeling I didn’t usually get when walking into a stranger’s home.
"Don't have much in the fridge already fixed, so can't help you with a meal 'less you feel like cooking."
"That's fine, I'll just have a big breakfast on the road tomorrow."
"A drink then? Got some Irish whiskey. Gotta drink it straight, though."
"That I wouldn't mind."
He switched on a TV/VCR combo—a relic from the '80s, complete with chunky dials. The screen flicked to life, playing some random black-and-white movie. Background noise, as far as I was concerned. Honestly, I was more surprised the antique even worked.
"You can plug your phone in here." He pointed to an extension cord snaking from behind the TV, then left to get the whiskey.
He returned balancing an ice-filled glass in each hand and gripping a bottle of Jameson by the neck with two fingers. The seal was intact, so maybe he was saving it for guests. I grabbed the bottle so he could place the glasses on the center table without fumbling.
"Let me give you a few bucks for letting me stay. What do you think is fair?"
"You needed help and I could oblige. I couldn't take money for that. Ruins the gesture." He pulled out a cigarette. "Smoke?"
"No thanks."
"If you're a proud man, there's another way you could repay me."
Okay, here it comes. That 45-minute drive wasn't looking so bad. "What's that?" I'm pretty sure he could read my caution.
"You could let me paint you."
"What?"
"Paint you. Your portrait." He filled the glasses.
Before I could protest, he went on. "All I need is a good start. Might take fifteen minutes at most. The main outline, a few shading strokes. The rest I could fill in later, I got a knack. Then you could get some sleep, and you won't hear another word from me until you say goodbye in the morning."
"My portrait? Nothing special about me."
"The angles of your face, the prominent jaw bones. Right when I opened the door I thought you reminded me of my son in ways. Nothing wrong with trusting an artist's eye is it?"
Even with his beard and my being a different race, I could see he and I shared those traits, so it could be true about the son. Still, it was already awkward agreeing to stay here. Suddenly becoming a model was a helluva push.
"I don't want to seem ungrateful, but I'm not too comfortable with that." I coughed from the cigarette smoke, and Dean nonchalantly snuffed it.
"Just fifteen minutes. You could finish your drink in that time. Promise I won't take longer. Do a rusty old man a favor."
This also includes the living room desc from my earlier post as it is now, after implementing some of the suggestions from that post.
--------------------------------------
...I'll be honest--I don't get much conversation." He half-shrugged with a subtle smile.
Rain drummed against the porch roof as I weighed Dean's offer. After eleven years walking D.C.'s streets, I’d learned to read people, to catch those small tells that hinted danger or deceit, but my cop senses, they weren't pinging. His face and steady gaze read as genuine—though that meant nothing. I've faced worse wolves in better sheep's clothing. Still, the thought of another forty-five minutes fighting sleep and the back roads to Georgia, and then in this downpour, made the decision for me.
"I'll...take you up on that, if you're sure. I'll be up and out of your way by six. Just need to grab my charger."
When I returned, the man waved me in, and my shoes clinked onto checkerboard tiles. They were scruffy from traffic but recently mopped. I guessed he'd had a tourist or two in the past if not lately. The place had a feel like it was used to being overlooked.
The museum was a schlockmeister's haven, a graveyard of maritime odds and ends that no one had bothered to care about in decades. A few huge display cases stood in the corners--one with different styles of threadbare nets and another with big rusted hooks in different shapes. The rest of the exhibits seemed like a seafarer's swap meet for nautical junk.
The only exceptions were a few decent country-themed paintings. They had a touch of class that didn't match the rest of the clutter. The one closest to me pictured a man sitting on the steps of a country storefront, his slumped shoulders and distant gaze the snapshot of small-town melancholy--pure Mayberry stock. And with good detail. Every crack in the wooden planks and fold in the man's shirt showed almost obsessive care. Though I admired the work, it made me uneasy staring too long.
"Don't let the showboatin' fool you. This is actually my home. The living space is downstairs. Let me get you a towel."
His "towel" was a big wad of paper wipes he removed from under one of the counters. Probably what he used to clean the displays because every surface gleamed under the soft light.
"Got a name? Won't seem like a complete stranger staying in my home."
"Cliff," I said, running the wipes through my hair.
"Everybody calls me Dean, Cliff. This way."
Downstairs was one big living room with a couple of doors sealing off side areas, and an opening leading into a kitchen. This guy understood decorating about as much as I understood hieroglyphics. A couch and chairs were a faded green plaid design with pleated skirts, looking like something yanked from a thrift store reject pile. An old-fashioned glass lamp sat on an end table, lighting the room through a maroon pleated shade, giving the place a reddish glow. Function over fashion, I supposed. Still, for all its outdated, mismatched decor, the place had a hominess to it. And it gave me a kind of easy, lived-in feeling I didn’t usually get when walking into a stranger’s home.
"Don't have much in the fridge already fixed, so can't help you with a meal 'less you feel like cooking."
"That's fine, I'll just have a big breakfast on the road tomorrow."
"A drink then? Got some Irish whiskey. Gotta drink it straight, though."
"That I wouldn't mind."
He switched on a TV/VCR combo—a relic from the '80s, complete with chunky dials. The screen flicked to life, playing some random black-and-white movie. Background noise, as far as I was concerned. Honestly, I was more surprised the antique even worked.
"You can plug your phone in here." He pointed to an extension cord snaking from behind the TV, then left to get the whiskey.
He returned balancing an ice-filled glass in each hand and gripping a bottle of Jameson by the neck with two fingers. The seal was intact, so maybe he was saving it for guests. I grabbed the bottle so he could place the glasses on the center table without fumbling.
"Let me give you a few bucks for letting me stay. What do you think is fair?"
"You needed help and I could oblige. I couldn't take money for that. Ruins the gesture." He pulled out a cigarette. "Smoke?"
"No thanks."
"If you're a proud man, there's another way you could repay me."
Okay, here it comes. That 45-minute drive wasn't looking so bad. "What's that?" I'm pretty sure he could read my caution.
"You could let me paint you."
"What?"
"Paint you. Your portrait." He filled the glasses.
Before I could protest, he went on. "All I need is a good start. Might take fifteen minutes at most. The main outline, a few shading strokes. The rest I could fill in later, I got a knack. Then you could get some sleep, and you won't hear another word from me until you say goodbye in the morning."
"My portrait? Nothing special about me."
"The angles of your face, the prominent jaw bones. Right when I opened the door I thought you reminded me of my son in ways. Nothing wrong with trusting an artist's eye is it?"
Even with his beard and my being a different race, I could see he and I shared those traits, so it could be true about the son. Still, it was already awkward agreeing to stay here. Suddenly becoming a model was a helluva push.
"I don't want to seem ungrateful, but I'm not too comfortable with that." I coughed from the cigarette smoke, and Dean nonchalantly snuffed it.
"Just fifteen minutes. You could finish your drink in that time. Promise I won't take longer. Do a rusty old man a favor."
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