juliusarchive

[juliusarchive]

Its not in the time or the place Or in the money you make You dream of feeling complete But you don’t even know what you need And in the dead of night When the feeling is right You're sinking down to your knees And you're begging for love

[juliusarchive]

emmyloumartell​:

Do you want it out of business? At this, Emmy scoffed, air leaving her nose as she set her coffee down to focus on her waffles. “Alright ego, don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m pretty sure Abeba still thinks you’re my boyfriend because, not everyone reads your reviews yet.” Her employer’s thinking wasn’t completely outlandish, given that she’d never actually spoken to Julius and probably had something to do with the way that they fawned over each other, their dramatics as he left her for a evening stretching sometimes into the start of a shift. “The moldy yams weren’t that bad, at least those were behind plexiglass— it’s the hyper realistic ‘Penises I’ve Known’ sculpture series I had to bring from Queens to the gallery that I’ll never forgive them for.” She shuddered, “Remember Carlos? It’s so hard to forget.” After the ceramic dildos, there’d been thirteen bronze casts of another artist’s chest over a series of years, documenting change and how gravity came to play. In retrospect, the entire year that Juliette and Abeba had experimented with displaying age and time at the gallery had been a rough one for her, but profitable enough that they often attempted bringing in strange works (the moldy yams were a more recent offender) just to see if there was a market for them. Much to Emmy’s chagrin, it seemed as though there always was. Julius’ whinging made her clutch her styrofoam container closely, cutting off another neat section of the Belgian waffle to dip into syrup and happily chew.

“God, can you imagine dating someone with a Tempurpedic? It feels like a fantasy to me, or maybe I don’t see enough investment bankers— I can count on one hand the amount of people I’ve spent the night with that don’t have their mattress on the floor. Instagram made that shit okay, but you know what,” she jabbed at the air with her fork, gesturing as she spoke. “It’s not okay and doesn’t even make that good of a picture.” She told her story, sheepishly, breaking often to chew more of her food, knowing that the response she was to receive wouldn’t be sweet or warm. Instead, she braced herself for disappointment. Julius’ attempts for reform were obvious, from chiding texts when she spent a weekend night in, to clucks of disapproval when she didn’t text back the cute waiter at Pokito even after he chased her out of the neon bar to give her his number. This however, was a severe crime— and Julius was quick to launch into her.

No, you didn’t. One hand raised, covering her face as she grimaced. With her ring and index finger spreading she peeked at Julius’ expression, hard and unsmiling even with the dark sunglasses perched on the end of his nose. “It was a mistake,” she insisted, “Like, muscle memory.” Emmy sighed. “It wasn’t even that good, like— you’d think he’d work harder because it’s been so long but literally, so lousy. I’m going to delete his number, I swear. Today, when I get home. New slate.” Danny wasn’t an evil person, but he’d made her into someone she didn’t like. Someone jealous and suspicious, all to happy to serve someone else before herself. “Next time I’ll just call the GymShark guy, you’re right. He didn’t ask me to make him smiley fries.” She was finished with her breakfast too now, having eaten through half of the serving before realizing she’d hit her limit. Emmy pushed the take out container away, allowing herself to stretch out on their little blanket. The smell of Julius’s cigarettes made her nose wrinkle, but still she reached to tug one out and slip between her lips. “God, but finding a proper rebound in this city? Apparently it’s a Herculean task.” She leaned into the dancing, flickering flame that the lighter produced, inhaling to light the end of her cigarette. His words made her groan, squinting up at the sun over the tops of her sunglasses. “Hinge, the app you delete.” The tag line was corny, and she freed her mobile from her purse, handing it over without a thought. “Go on, find me the future Mister Martell. No more blondes, I’m sickened by them and their flesh coloured beards.”

I’m pretty sure Abeba still thinks you’re my boyfriend because, not everyone reads your reviews yet. Julius shrugged, unoffended. Normally he would’ve made it a point to argue— not everyone, just everyone who matters— but instead, he glanced at Emmy with a smile taking over his face. “You think? Is my straight drag that convincing?” Tucking his chin, he looked down at the wrinkled linen shirt and pink Hilfiger pool shorts, an outfit that did read kinda metro, replicated by dozens of ex frat-bros living in Murray Hill and working in downtown finance. Nothing like his usual European cool— but even tailored trousers and expensive, plain T-shirts weren’t broadcasting anything, not in Chelsea. That was just standard office attire. And considering how often he dropped by the gallery for lunch, providing Emmy with an excuse to escape for even thirty measly minutes, maybe it wasn’t such a stretch to assume they were a couple. They saw each other almost every day, had traditions and routines spanning back years. They could communicate entirely in private jokes (“No one shits in Meatpacking,” Julius would remark drily as they strolled past Gansevoort Market, with Emmy dissolving into giggles and others, if they were around to hear this, exchanging matching looks of confusion). Their friendship had proved more enduring than any romantic mishap and misfire either of them had ever had. But still, the thought of Abeba mistaking him for Emmy’s boyfriend— especially when compared to the last man that had held that position, bland-as-a-salt-free-diet Dan— amused him greatly. “She thinks we’re dating and you haven’t even introduced us? That’s rude. I’m a catch, y’know,” He flicked his wrist, as if tossing long, invisible hair over his shoulder. “I deserve to be flaunted.” Then, settling back on both hands, Julius tipped his head towards her again. His smile renewed itself sweetly. “Maybe I should chat her up next time I stop by?” Whatever words he’d exchanged with Abeba up to this point had been scarce; the woman always seemed to be in the middle of ten things at once. “I’ll tell her how much I love the summer collections. The Mike Kelley exhibit was such an inspired choice, all those colorful, amorphous blobs. So much better than anything Gagosian has been showing this year.” His iced coffee was sweating onto the blanket, leaving a damp ring on the yellow cotton; he picked it up, sucked lazily on the straw, then went on. “One conversation and just watch, I’ll get my own invite to the Christmas party. No more pity plus-ones.” Juliette and Abeba’s holiday party had been a fixture of their calendar year ever since Emmy had started working at the gallery— a glamorous Page-Six-worthy affair, held in the penthouse of the Waldorf Astoria, attended by artists, benefactors, socialites, even a few honest-to-god movie stars (they’d seen Renee Zellweger, one year). It was an event Julius looked forward to almost as much as Emmy dreaded. For her, the party meant a long night of taking coats and coaxing her two neurotic bosses off the ledge every time something went wrong with the catering, or So-and-So’s new mistress had been left off the guestlist and was now throwing a fit at the door. But for Julius, it was one of the rare times he felt like he had during his days at the Village Voice: an intriguing unknown in a room full of New York’s most influential, flitting between artists and celebrities and wealthy donors and winning them all over with his witty, precocious charm, feeling like this was the world he was meant for. Plus, there was always an open bar— in a city of seventeen-dollar cocktails, there were no two words more beautiful than open bar.

The breeze picked up again, stirring the leafy branches of the oaks. It snatched a few of their napkins and sent them fluttering towards the river, and when the lid of his styrofoam container began to flap— threatening to take off despite the weight of the omelette inside— Julius placed a hand on top. His other hand brought the cigarette to his mouth, then away. “Who said anything about dating?” he scoffed, releasing a shallow exhale and shaking his head. “I just want to spend a night on a Tempurpedic. Maybe two, just to get my back right. When I find a guy with a washer and dryer in his apartment, then we can talk long-term commitment.” Drew had neither a Tempurpedic nor a washer or dryer, but he’d lived in a renovated Greenpoint condo with its own sauna and gym, and most importantly, A/C, the Holy Grail of all amenities. Julius couldn’t say their relationship had been entirely without its perks. He also couldn’t say that in the past few months, he hadn’t considered sending a text like the one Emmy was so sheepishly confessing to now. Or that he hadn’t, just once and after a few too many gin & tonics, annoyed about a Grindr hook-up that hadn’t panned out— and then fallen asleep soon after, thank God. In the sober light of day, he’d ignored Drew’s confused reply and deleted evidence of the whole exchange. One moment of weakness did not a hypocrite make. Emmy, meanwhile, was peeking through her fingers like a child afraid of further scolding. Maybe he’d been too harsh. Julius let his expression soften, smoking steadily through Emmy’s sighing, cringing explanation of events, but still he made his dismay clear with a near-constant shaking of his head. He shot her a look of fresh disbelief when she admitted, it wasn’t even that good. “Oh my god. Emmy.” His snort clouded the air. “This is literally why vibrators exist. To save you from shitty, lazy, missionary sex with a guy who thinks sex is like the set-it-and-forget-it feature on a rotisserie oven. Who probably fucks with his socks on. God. I’ve seen SPCA commercials less depressing than this.” 

He could say these things now. But when Emmy had been with Dan— when it had seemed like Dan might, in fact, be the man she would marry— Julius been faced with the challenge of holding back his comments. He’d tightened his lips after every one of Dan’s shitty jokes (ranging between terrible puns and snickery, borderline-offensive comments), his own retorts ready at the tip of his tongue but then relegated to only his thoughts, which grew progressively less and less favorable on the subject of Dan. The guy was obnoxious. At restaurants— even Michelin-starred ones— he ordered beer and asked for what were, essentially, kids meals: mac and cheese, spaghetti and meatballs, the plainest chicken possible. How Julius itched to say, you know they only keep those on the menu for people whose palates stopped developing at age twelve? Dan’s knowledge of art began and ended with Banksy. His slaps on the back nearly knocked Julius across the room each time. Puppyish, in a way that might’ve been charming at a younger age, with a Golden Retriever’s dopey smile and messy blonde hair, always too excited in greetings, always stretched across the couch and lounging on his back whenever Julius stopped over, as if waiting for his stomach to be scratched. If this was what Emmy wanted in a companion, couldn’t she just adopt a dog? The list in Julius’s head went on, and on. The grating Staten Island accent. The sports fanaticism. Worst of all, the infantile need to be cooked for and cleaned up after, turning his girlfriend into a second mother even while his own mother prepared Tupperware meals for him on every visit— Julius had seen them stacked high in the freezer, had felt the chilly judgment descending from them, a future mother-in-law’s unspoken accusation that her son wasn’t being properly taken care of. This, his gaze asked Emmy as it slid towards her, usually in the middle of one of Dan’s long-winded and utterly pointless stories, is who you want to spend your life with? He wouldn’t say it out loud, not when she had always seemed so sure. And if he was going to be completely honest, Julius could admit that some of his dislike had been selfish. His best friend had been stolen from him. He’d watched her disappear into quaint domestic life of a 1950s housewife, at a time when they should’ve been conquering the city together. Summer of senior year; they’d still been living in that shitbox on Sullivan Street, their last apartment together before Emmy moved to Brooklyn— Julius remembered long nights when it’d been too hot to sleep, the two of them sitting in the open window and breathing the smells of Vietnamese cooking from the downstairs neighbors, ashing cigarettes onto the garbage cans and ad-libbing the movies of their lives. In those days, it had all seemed poised to come true. Famous artist, successful writer. It hadn’t mattered yet how. Only that the whole future lay ahead, almost too much brightness to look at directly— and in the meantime, there was the city, mythical and unexplored, with all its assorted offerings of temptation and freedom. There was life begging to be lived. Wasn’t that why they’d come to New York? Whatever his own mistakes in those post-college years, no one could say Julius hadn’t lived them to the fullest; he was still paying outstanding debts for just how fully he’d lived them. But smart, beautiful, talented Emmy, who’d always been his equal in her aspirations, had seemingly found the love of her life, had pinned all her hopes on settling down with Staten Island Dan, and none of it had made any sense to Julius. None whatsoever.

As the phone traded hands, he figured that he owed her this. Maybe if he hadn’t been so tactful, maybe if he hadn’t refrained from speaking his mind for so long, this Dan chapter would’ve ended much sooner. Emmy would’ve come to her senses before graduation, sent that loser back home to his mommy, and made a full recovery by now, with enough tequila and Nora Ephron movies to get her through. There’d be none of this messy, lingering attachment. Or maybe he just didn’t get it. It had never taken him longer than a week to get over someone, like fighting off the common cold. Julius squinted down at the screen; the glass was dark against the overbright sun, smudged with fingerprints. “The rules are,” he began, typing in her passcode, “We’re not using Hinge. Because that’s all about relationships or whatever, and we’re not looking for your next life partner, we’re looking for a palate cleanser. A sexual sorbet. But you’re right, though, no blondes. Foreign is better— language barrier means less talking, more fucking. It’s good, y’know, to get a little culture. Like a free trip abroad. Oh, and no funny-bio guys.” Julius looked up at her sternly, as if expecting a protest. “Because we both know, they’re all compensating for massive insecurities.” He found the Tinder icon, opened it. The first few options were eliminated almost as soon as they appeared: unflattering angle, unfortunate facial hair. Group shot of six people, bass-fishing picture. Julius let them whoosh off into the void. After several dismissive swipes, he stopped with his thumb hovering indecisively. “O-kay, Bachelor Number One. Sven.” He went back and forth between a few pictures, critically assessing the slightly-gingery, slightly-sunburned guy within them, then tilted the phone so Emmy could see; not his type, but she did like the sweet-looking ones. Julius took a drag off his cigarette, then tapped to extend the bio. A derisive noise followed. “MBA from Columbia. Two-year internship with Morgan Stanley— good, he’s got his whole CV here, just in case a future employer swipes by. But, at least he won’t make you watch his shitty art films. We’ll give Sven a chance.” Whoosh, to the right he went. “Oh my god. Arms.” This was directed at the next profile. Julius stared, his dark brows pinched in concentration, then brought the phone up and squinted harder to make out something beneath the glare. “Does he even have a face? Does it matter?” At this point, it occurred to him to show the phone to Emmy; he did so by swiping slowly through the pictures for her. “I know there’s a lot of beard in the way, but look at those load-bearing shoulders. Can’t you see him with like, a baby goat slung around his neck, carrying it up the mountain?” The guy was dark-haired, bearded, with the build of a former gymnast and the beautiful smile of a dentist’s office poster. In one picture, he seemed to be doing some kind of physical labor; his face was attractively grimed. Julius opened the bio, though it didn’t matter one way or another. Nothing much there except name and age, Zach, 27, with the following description: Love my family and my friends, they mean the world to me. New to the city. Still settling in, looking for someone to explore with! “He’s hot, and has zero personality.” Julius kissed his fingers lightly, a chef’s gesture of approval. Then he swiped right. The match was instant— wasting no time, he opened the messaging portion of the app. “What are we saying to Mr. Zachary? Personally, I think you should put all your cards on the table. Let him know exactly what you’re looking to explore.” He shrugged, and motioned with the Galouise in the crook of his fingers, trailing smoke like a film noir dame. “But, your call.”

[juliusarchive]

[juliusarchive]

finnxagain​:

Finn was overwhelmed; deadlines, budgets, the next project. Everything. Naturally, he made a to-do list to help ease the jumbled tasks in his mind, but Finn’s biggest problem was procrastinating what really needed to get done by completing some other mundane task on his list. Instead of posting on job boards for a narrator, he didn’t really want to go through the hiring process just yet, he’d decided to pick up some more books for researching. Why use the internet when he could waste more time with physical copies? 

He’d wandered into the library and had gone through the process of getting his new card to check out books. As he was leaving the line with the card in hand, he noticed something on the ground. “Did you drop this?” Bending to pick it up. 

The walk from his and Nora’s place to the Central Branch was only twenty minutes (seventeen, if properly caffeinated) and so Julius went often, seeking an escape from his claustrophobic apartment, and a better place to work than the neighborhood cafes, which— though he appreciated the convenience of not having to make his own coffee— were far too distracting, with their gurgling espresso machines and tinkling spoons and coffeehouse chatter. He liked libraries. He liked this one in particular; the Central Branch was one of the finest pieces of architecture the city had to offer, with its fifty-foot entrance visible from several blocks away, soaring above the tired brownstones and congestions of traffic. He loved the enormous portico, the mighty pillars and gleaming, bright gold bas-reliefs; it reminded him of an ancient pharaoh’s tomb, presiding over the surrounding stretch of noisy, bustling, modernized Brooklyn with a haughty, centuries-old dignity. Julius climbed the front steps, iced coffee rattling. He moved past the revolving doors into the shadowed interior, where was a hush, the kind found only in libraries and churches. Every footstep echoed on the tile. Tourists and locals mingled in the lobby, their soft murmurs amplified by the acoustics of the high ceiling. Some kids were waving down from the second-story railing that encircled the room; above them rose another floor, and then an elaborate round skylight, casting morning light down on the whole space. Despite carrying an armful of books due for return, Julius cut across the room towards the elevators with brisk intent, wasting no time— the best spots to work were on the third floor and they filled up fast. But as he passed the line for the reference desk, he stopped, glancing consideringly at its length. Maybe now was better than later. It was early, the line only five people long.

He stood waiting his turn, performing a one-handed juggling act— trying to read a message on his phone without dropping his coffee, the other hand pressing thick volumes of Kierkegaard and Musil to his chest— when he heard a voice from behind. Julius turned, frowning down at the Metro card being extended his way. He balanced the coffee precariously atop his phone and checked his pocket. Sure enough, the absence of anything but a few loose quarters seemed to confirm that the card was his. “Yeah, thanks,” he said, accepting it back. His brows rose, along with his gaze. “I think you just racked up some major karmic points, because I reloaded this with like, twenty dollars yesterday. If it were me, I would’ve kept it.” He smiled in a self-amused way, and shrugged his free shoulder, the one not weighed down by his tote bag. “Whatever that says about me.” Stowing the card— back in his pocket, though he vowed to return it later to his wallet— Julius lifted his eyes a second time. The guy was friendly-looking, tanned. The tan made him seem like the outdoorsy type, like the kind of guy who might have a camper van and a scruffy mutt waiting for him outside, who could tell you which national parks were best to visit in which season. And the camera around his neck— hobby, or profession? In the few seconds it took to make these observations, Julius's head had tilted to the side— a mannerism that made him look like a curious bird, spying something interesting in the grass. He knew he could easily turn this into a meet-cute, offer coffee or a drink as repayment for this minor kindness. Not something he’d do for every person who picked up his Metro card and gave it back to him, but, well. With this train of thought, Julius glanced over his shoulder to make sure the line hadn’t moved while he wasn’t paying attention, then back to the stranger. “You here to see one of the exhibits, or just regular library business?” If his hands hadn’t been occupied with the sweating coffee, the phone, the books, he would’ve made some gesture here; maybe placed a knuckle thoughtfully underneath his chin, or brushed stray hair away from his forehead. It felt unnatural not to involve his hands. Instead, Julius kept a trace of his earlier smile and continued, head still on a coy angle, “Because I don’t really believe in karmic repayment. Those checks seem to get lost in the mail, like, all the time, so I’d rather get you something myself. Y’know- as your Good Person reward.” He gave a nod to the left, where the library’s in-house cafe was open for business and drawing an early crowd. “Coffee with a semi-decent French pastry? If you’re not in a mad rush.”

[juliusarchive]

in all levels except physical i’m in a 1920s jazz club

[juliusarchive]

new york slut

[juliusarchive]

There was no trace of Indiana in the Julius that most people knew. Not in his candid, blasé demeanor, or his sophisticated wardrobe, or his expert knowledge of the Manhattan grid and the confounding subway system beneath it, or how— like most inhabitants of the city— he had no shortage of disdain towards other transplants: the yokels from states like Wyoming or Ohio who cluelessly gave away their origins with broad smiles, and the droves of shuffling tourists, gawking at skyscrapers while taking up entire sidewalks in Midtown (Julius viewed tourists as one of the city’s four plagues, the other three being: rats, roaches, and festering curbside garbage). By all accounts, he was an authentic New Yorker; at the very least, he could easily be mistaken for one. But if there was ever a time when his identity might be questioned, it was on the few occasions— two or three times a year— when Frank Rowe came to town.

Big and broad-shouldered, Frank coached football at Terre Haute’s North Vigo High School. The only television he watched was Sunday night NFL and the news; the only movies he'd seen all the way through were Frozen and Frozen 2, on the account of having two little girls at home, ages five and seven. With his loud voice, his deep-chested laugh, his navy windbreaker and baseball cap, he seemed like someone Julius should have no possible connection to— and yet the fact of the matter was that this man, this salt-of-the-earth Midwesterner, was his father. Here was living proof of a past that Julius would much rather deny, one that he did deny whenever Frank wasn’t around. But he couldn’t deny Frank. His father had been a constant presence all his life, solid and dependable and loving, the opposite of his flighty mother in every way; and in spite of local expectations, Frank had always doted on his boy— who, it became abundantly clear early on, would never be the "football playing” type— just as much as his two daughters. Now he came to visit as often as his schedule and his family life would allow, undertaking the grueling two-day drive to see Julius in New York. Whenever he did, the incongruities between them were fit for a comedy: the sight of Frank, sitting in the armchair in Julius’s clean and sparse Williamsburg studio, poring over his son’s reviews, his thick thighs in their chinos like extra pieces of furniture protruding into the room; or father and son at the East Village diner that had been their traditional lunch spot since Julius’s days at NYU, Frank with his baseball cap on the table beside him, looking for all the world— Julius knew it, he’d even shut down a few snickering brunch conversations about it— like his son’s suburban john, a married sugar daddy getting a bit of boy on the side. If it occurred to Frank that people might interpret the scene in this way, then it didn’t bother him; he was affectionate with his son, slinging an arm over his shoulders and tousling his hair, his pride in Julius’s accomplishments seemingly endless, his delight that his son was a New Yorker evident for all to see— although for himself, make no mistake, Terre Haute was home and just fine. 

This time, Julius had pushed back Frank’s visit for as long as he could. He’d bought himself a few months after the move to Crown Heights and the break-up with Drew— claiming heartbreak, a backed-up work schedule, an endless slew of writing assignments— but now, on this hot Wednesday in mid-July, what was inevitable had finally come to pass. The next three days would be spent with his father, who had earnestly ironed his Polo shirt and khakis in preparation for the matinee of Hadestown they would be seeing (thanks to Julius’s old TKTS hook-up, who was lousy in bed but always reliable for last-minute tickets; they were decent seats, too). Now they were walking back down Broadway, through the glittering hubbub of Times Square. The summer tourists, in loose sundresses and wide shorts flapping like flags, ambled beneath the neon canopy of billboards, while bike couriers wove in and out, skimming the curbs, and locals— still so many of them, even on a workday after lunch— chattered, waved, pushed, argued, like hammy extras on a film set. They’d stopped by a souvenir shop so that Frank could pick up gifts for Luanne and the girls. Julius waited outside, debating whether his father’s indecision over snow globes gave him enough time to smoke a cigarette, when a taxi blared its horn— scolding someone for crossing against the light— and he looked up, just in time to see a face he knew on the other side of the street. A familiar curly head, waiting for the WALK sign along with the next wave of people.

Of course Mateo, with his rotation of innumerable, ever-changing jobs, would find a reason to be in Times Square right now.

Julius turned away, found his own reflection in the dusty store window. It stared back at him with blank panic. He considered his options. He could call in a bomb threat— the See Something, Say Something hotline was visible right over the subway entrance. Okay, too drastic. He could go over to one of the pedestrian-harassing mascots, the Elmo with the matted red fur, and promise fifty dollars in exchange for a commotion that would clear out the whole street. Or he could simply start walking: pick a direction and cleave through the swarm, leaving Frank to step outside the gift shop in a few minutes, blinking against the bright sun and wondering where his son had gone. But it was too late. The collision course was set, the precipitating events already in motion; without turning, Julius winced as Frank boomed his name, and he knew he couldn’t pretend to be unrelated to this man, no more than he could pretend not to see Mateo's bike skidding to a halt a few feet away. Frank had an I ♡ NY shopping bag hanging from one elbow, looking as dainty as a purse on his huge forearm. “Look, Jules!” And Julius did look, his expression grim. His father was holding up a snow globe for appraisal. Like most things he bought for his daughters, it was Frozen-themed. “You know, the guy said he only had one of these left, they sell so fast? Lucky find, right? Don’t think Maddie’s got one like this.” The back of his neck prickling— sweat or shame, it was hard to tell— Julius managed an expression of lukewarm interest, lifting both brows. “Yeah, that’s... that’s a good one.” Then, because it couldn’t be delayed any longer, he turned to acknowledge Mateo’s nearness on the sidewalk with a cool, sideways gaze. “Hi Mat. Are we in your way or something?” Frank looked between the two of them; confused for a moment, eyes bouncing back and forth, then suddenly, his face alight with expectation. “This a friend of yours?” “No,” Julius said quickly. “We’re not friends.” It was only after this response that he realized— this might necessitate elaborating on what they were.

@aguilarmateo

[juliusarchive]

sonatassolo​:

Sonata had rarely stepped foot in Allied, choosing to consume their music from other outlets, and Allied wasn’t exactly the kind of place where The Phantom of the Opera was being performed in full, nor Giacomo Puccini’s La bohème. They stood, posture straight, and always a bit uncomfortable (location rarely mattered for that). Looking around for Julius, who was not only the reason they were dragged here tonight but the reason they were dragged most places, and though Sonata was thankful for him it didn’t stop them from being a bit of a brat about it. “Do you know who’s playing tonight?” they asked, only half curious, before placing their fingers on the bar top and strumming them to the song in the background, looking hesitantly behind the bartender. “Sauvignon Blanc, please.” they smiled disarmingly, because if they were going to spend the night listening to underground punk music, they might as well do it in style. 

@fidelitystarters​

A relaxed drinking hole on most nights, tonight Allied was overrun with friends and supporters of the band, casual punk-rock fans, regular patrons, total newcomers, all mobbing the venue till it seemed close to exceeding capacity. The old floor groaned beneath the crowd’s weight. The opening act could barely play their instruments, plucking the same chords over and over with the amps cranked up; each tuneless thrash sounded the same as the one before. And somewhere in the midst, surrounded by rockabilly goths and art students in pleather, Julius stood with a drink in one hand, free arm folded across his body, looking crisp in dark trousers and a rolled-sleeve linen shirt, watching the stage thoroughly unimpressed. Less visibly, he was itching for a cigarette. The Galouises were in his back pocket— only the thought of fighting his way out of the crowd (and then back in) stopped him. So he drank his drink (Cuba Libre, little too heavy on the Cola) until the first glass was empty in his hand, then looked around for the easiest way back to the bar, knowing that there’d have to be more. If he couldn’t smoke, he would drink. Not too much— he still needed some recollection of this shit-show to put into words tomorrow, or else this would all be for nothing, just a waste of precious time. He couldn’t afford to suffer meaninglessly these days. The least he could expect, after a long, wearying night in this cramped space, listening to some art-punk band from Gowanus (which, if their demo was anything to go by, would be its own test of endurance)— was a paycheck for his trouble.

Julius shouldered his way to bar and ordered a refill (“A rum and coke?” the bartender clarified, raising both brows; at which Julius released a petulant sigh through his nose, probably unheard, and simply nodded). Tasting it to discover this one was almost straight rum, he turned around and edged out a small space where he could lean backwards and scan the room for Sonata. They’d arrived together, but gotten separated after entering the dark and the noise— was that their curls, barely visible above someone else’s head? Maybe; but the curtain of people closed again, and he lost sight. The lighting in here was the seedy red of an Amsterdam street. Faces were blurry, indistinct, like photo negatives hanging in a darkroom, not yet fully exposed. Julius placed his drink behind him on the bar and rested his elbow, trying to ignore some girl’s faux-fur vest (in here? in this sweaty hell?) encroaching on him, tickling at his forearm. He had never liked punk. Not the hoarse yelling, not the clumsy, repetitive two-riff melodies. Not the mantra of hard, fast, loud with no regard for anything else. And maybe the anti-everything mentality had been radical, once, in a different era, but it seemed childish now: a staged tantrum was hardly revolutionary. Someone shrieked with laughter too close to his ear. Julius pulled himself upright and scowled, freshly annoyed— then, by some miracle, saw Sonata materialize out of the densely-packed crowd, their face saturated in the lurid red light. “I was starting to think you left,” he called out, moving closer. He spared Faux Fur Vest one last disgusted glance as he stepped around her. “Called an Uber and went to see that Agnès Varda screening in Bushwick. Not that I would’ve blamed you.” Close enough so that neither would have to shout, Julius leaned against the bar again, and frowned thoughtfully at the question. What was the band’s name? It was something unimaginative. Something that almost rhymed, but not really. “Fred’s Under the Bed.” He scoffed. “Not the worst name I’ve ever heard, but— certainly in competition.” As they ordered their drink, the request for wine made his eyebrows rise. “You sure you don’t want something stronger for this?” For the second time, his own glass was almost empty; Julius took another swallow of rum, felt ice cubes click against his teeth. “I’m not kidding, Sonata, their demo sounded like someone took the “Ambient Spooky Sounds” CD from a haunted house, then overlaid it with like, Mongolian throat singing, ASMR-style.” A slow shake of his head followed. “Honestly, it’s incredible what people get away with calling music these days.”

[juliusarchive]

dottiesxdreams​:

Dottie had never been one to frequent bars. Drinking made her feel funny, for one, and something about overpriced IPAs on tap made New Yorkers behave even more callously than when cramming into a packed subway car. Sure, since turning twenty-one she had already patronized a few dingy 21+ hardcore venues, she even indulged in a Stella Artois at a Julliard peer’s get-together every once in a while. Dorothy justified those as necessary rites of passage, which in her mother–– Frankie’s words was “Exactly why you need to go out and make questionable choices more often.” For once, Dorothy felt Frankie’s advice made the smallest inkling of sense (if she had listened to any more of it, she’d have firetruck red hair and a pierced belly-button), and decided that tonight she would try her ‘darnedest’ to socialize like an adult.

Growing up began with Dot perched atop a predictable leather-upholstered high bar-stool in search of her tinder date and if not, at least her long lost wine spritzer. Her focus was snatched away from her chipped nail polish upon realizing that she was the subject of the interrogation being conducted by the stranger a couple stools over. She should’ve figured, even the bouncer gave her a hard time quizzing her on the credentials that matched her ID. “Actually, I’m twenty-one.” Dorothy assured him with a cluelessly friendly grin, brows furrowed in thought when her drink was returned to its rightful owner. “Oh… So, I’m guessing yours is the one I spat back into the cup then… Oops.” She tucked a lock of her golden hair behind her ear and in an instant was sporting an award-winning puppy dog face. “I mean, you can keep mine if you wanna, or I could get you another one of–– Hey, how do you even drink that gross stuff anyways?”

“You’re twenty-one?” Julius echoed in disbelief. He exchanged a look with Greta over his shoulder— who simply shrugged, bemused, and blew a long stream of smoke off to the side. He twisted back around, both eyebrows held high. “Well, will wonders ever cease.” The tainted Negroni glowed a sinister, molten orange in the guttering light of nearby candles. Its garnish had dislodged, floating freely amongst the ice cubes— and the spit, Julius thought, with a delicate wrinkle of his nose. You can keep mine if you wanna, or I could get you another one... Briefly, he was torn. There was seldom a good reason to decline a free drink (as he was fond of reminding Emmy, buying your own drinks was like cutting your own hair; something done only out of absolute necessity), but to accept this offer from someone he’d just mistaken for a child— felt wrong. Not in a moral sense. He couldn’t care less whether she was actually underage. He’d done plenty worse at fourteen, or twenty-one, or any age in between. But it did seem like an affront to his own dignity, his status as an alleged adult, to accept a drink from someone who looked like their primary income might still be babysitting money. Julius smiled— perfectly polite, even if it was insincere. “No need. I grabbed your drink, so my mistake. I’ll just order another.” And then he stood idly by for a moment, sunk into one hip against the bar, waiting to intercept the bartender’s gaze. “It’s a Negroni,” he informed her while they waited. “Classic Italian cocktail. It might be gross if you prefer those cloyingly-sweet margarita mixes, or whatever that bland wine is you’re drinking, but it’s an apéritif,” —this, with a note-perfect French accent— “Which means it’s not supposed to be sweet. It leans bitter and strong, with some fruitiness. Though maybe since you just used it as a mouthwash, you didn’t have a chance to really taste it.”

Besides him, Greta erupted into her harsh, staggered laugh. “Please,” she said with a roguish smile, then leaned further against the bar so she could see the other blonde. “Don’t listen to any of zat. I don’t like zat one, either, it taste like—” She pulled a face, “ —bad medicine. He only drinks it because he read it in James Bond book as a kid.” Julius shot his companion a withering glare, wounded at this— and with a haughty tilt of his chin, he countered, “No, I drink it because it’s a better use of my fourteen dollars than some sugary fruit juice splashed with vodka. And If I wanted to drink white wine with soda water, or beer—” his eyes slid pointedly to Greta’s drained pint glass, arc of red lipstick on the rim, “I’d stay home. At least then the music would be better.” Currently, Joni Mitchell was keening Little Green beneath the layer of talking voices, a woeful soundtrack which, while not particularly offensive to him, struck Julius as an odd choice for ambiance— wouldn’t jazz have been more fitting? He finally caught the eye of the bartender. The man’s face had been the same mask of boredom all night; it didn’t change when he saw Julius tap the side of the still-full glass and raise his eyebrows meaningfully, but he gave a curt nod, reaching under the bar for the bottle of Campari. “And a fresh spritzer, too,” Julius called out. Then he adjusted his posture, angling to face the young blonde once again. The puppyish eagerness with which she leapt into conversation would’ve been charming, if he was the type to be easily charmed. Instead, Julius studied her with his head cocked to one side, eyes slightly narrowed. This scrutiny was of the anthropological kind. He liked guessing— or inventing— the hidden lives of strangers on the subway, just by their clothes or the book they were reading, which department store their shopping bags came from. Looking at this girl’s dark eye-makeup and flouncy, frilly outfit, he thought: art school. Or art school drop-out. Bushwick, but maybe, like him, she’d fled from rising rent prices in the great Millenial Migration taking over lower parts of Brooklyn, and now called home to parents in Greenwich or Westchester to reassure them that the neighborhood was much safer than it seemed on the news. He wouldn’t ask outright. He'd continue doing this detective work in secret, piecing together a story as this interaction went on and more information came to light. Like a mildly-engrossing puzzle, it was something to pass the time. “You know, that outfit isn’t helping your case.” He left two folded dollars on the counter after the bartender slid their drinks over on fresh napkins. “I mean, it’s one thing to look young, and it’s another to dress like it’s the first day of preschool.” Greta dug her elbow into his lower back. “Hey! Be nice!” “I am being nice,” Julius said with a slight turn of his head, a smile in his voice that didn’t show on his face. “I’m dispensing free advice. It doesn’t get nicer than free in New York.” 

[juliusarchive]

“There were many nights when I would worry myself out of a dead sleep and think Christ, I’m not doing it yet, and I’d think, doing what, and I’d think back, the thing I’m supposed to be doing, the special thing, I’m not special yet, and I’m going to die if I don’t do it, and I’d think well what is it but I refused to elaborate.”

— Daniel Lavery, The Only Time I’ve Ever Been To Connecticut (via christinefriar)

[juliusarchive]

[juliusarchive]

[juliusarchive]

The bar, moderately crowded for a Wednesday night, was one of those dimly-lit, shabby-chic places which pretended very hard not to care about decor, and through this pretension— you couldn’t escape pretension, not in Brooklyn— exposed itself as caring far too much. Chintzy, mismatched couches and fading brocade wallpaper, flickering candlelight pooling on tabletops; the atmosphere brought to mind a 1920s Paris artists’ salon, or an intimate underground speak-easy. Julius thought it was nice, if a little on-the-nose, a little too intentional— even though the furniture did look authentically rescued off the curb. He was here with Greta, a horsey girl from Berlin with a fabulous Marlene Dietrich voice, her peroxide hair dark at the roots, the two of them leaning lazily against the wooden lip of the bar and talking, Julius accompanying his recap of the weekend with an abundance of hand gestures while Greta smoked (surely not allowed, given that they were still in modern-day New York and not whatever chapter of the past this bar seemed stuck in; yet, no one had stopped her). Now she was telling him about her boyfriend’s new experimental film, or maybe Julius was still recounting an episode of drama from a recent party. It was hard to tell where one voice in the conversation ended and the other began, amidst the overlapping chatter of the bar. “I mean, to confront me in front of everyone like that is bold. I’ll give credit where it’s due,” he was saying, turning to retrieve the drink a bartender had placed on a cocktail napkin behind him. “But actually asking me to change my review? That’s like groveling to a teacher for a better grade. So undignified.” One sip and he grimaced, holding the glass out and eyeing it suspiciously in the bar’s muted light. This was not the Negroni he’d ordered. With a frown and a sharp complaint at the ready, Julius turned to confront the bartender— then saw his drink, sitting on the bar, a few inches away from the damp napkin where he’d evidently stolen someone’s unsuspecting wine spritzer.

Now frowning in a different way, more puzzled than annoyed, he looked to his left and caught sight of who the stolen drink must belong to. He blinked, then stared. Who was this girl-child? She looked to be of some indeterminate age between fourteen and twenty (though even twenty seemed like a stretch), with flaxen hair, doll blue eyes. Like some porcelain shepherdess come to life off the shelf. “Do they not card at this place?” he asked, openly incredulous. “Are you even old enough to be in here?” Next to him, Greta ducked her head out to get a better look. “Maybe she has a good fake,” she suggested in her husky, slightly-flat voice, both amiable and indifferent. In Germany, children probably drank Weissbier at breakfast. Julius narrowed his eyes disapprovingly, then replaced the offending spritzer on the napkin and slid it across the lacquered surface of the bar in the girl’s direction. “I’m not going on record saying that I approve of serving alcohol to minors, but here, you can have your watered-down Riesling back. Barely touched my lips. And I don’t have mono, Scout’s honor.” Not that he’d ever been a Boy Scout, but whatever.

@dottiesxdreams

[juliusarchive]

text: emmy

Emmy: god I would love some pho rn :/ abeba won't let me go for lunch yet and she's got this amazing viet sub that she's digging into and i'm about to call the union.

Emmy: I can't even afford a lobster roll in this economy..

Emmy: you know what we can do though. day trip to fort tilden?

Julius: FORT TILDEN?

Julius: like... fort tilden, that weird bunker in the rockaways???

Julius: I've never even been down to Coney Island and I consider that a point of pride, thank you very much

Julius: me: hey emmy wanna skip town & go somewhere sunny and warm where we can relax and just forgot all our sorrows for a day?

Julius: you: sure julius! how about an abandoned military base in queens?

Julius: you see how it kinda loses the fantasy?

[juliusarchive]

text: emmy

Emmy: are you okay??? fever?? anything??

Emmy: oh 🤡 @ me for not waiting for the rest of ur messages

Emmy: are you allowed to whine about it fading if your tan isn't natural? just kidding, i'm already texting juliette that picture of when i had shingles ❤️

Emmy: Okay if we can't get in though... plan B? I can open airbnb or something 💃

Julius: please. you know if I was actually sick I would've called you to make a run for pho and emergen-c packets hours ago. who needs postmates when you've got emmylou ❤️

Julius: I'm ignoring that. I will not rise to it. My tan is natural and I was blessed with this complexion.

Julius: ok but do you have Hamptons airbnb funds?? bc last I checked those go for roughly half my monthly rent overnight

[juliusarchive]