#a quarter of the Brooklyn tickets are gone | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

79chevyimpala · 3 years

Text

Impromptu Movie Night

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27661616

Bucky remembers when a movie night was actually a date, to which Shuri scoffs at him and his blatant attempt to make fun of her. "Seriously Shuri." She just rolls her eyes at the man out of time as she runs her scans or whatever it is she does, Bucky still isn't quite sure. To be honest, he doesn't care because whatever she's doing, he hasn't felt this good in decades. He puts his "himness" (a term he's decided to use to encompass . . . well . . . basically life) about on par with his time as a POW with the Howling Commandos before they were the Howling Commandos. "Before I left Brooklyn for the war, if a guy wanted to have a movie night with a dame, he'd have to take her to the cinema, spend a quarter for her ticket, and a dime for a bag of popcorn from a street vendor before going in." Shuri recognized the look of nostalgia and realized Bucky was telling her the truth. "What was the last movie you saw before the war?" "Captain Caution," Bucky answered and Shuri cocked an eyebrow at him. "Stevie liked the swashbucklers adventure type of movies. We were there for him anyway, so I always let him pick." He gave her a shrug and a 'what can you do?' kind of look. "Stevie is Captain Rogers, right?" Bucky just nods. "Okay, so why were you there for him? You told me before you enjoy movies, but that sounds like you don't," Shuri said all this while she still tinkered away, and Bucky realized that even though she may be young nothing got passed her. "I do enjoy movies, but back then Steve didn't look like he does now and he was 180 degrees health-wise." Shuri just nodded that time. She knew about the Super Soldier serum and that it built up his mass, but she didn't know it fixed his health. Like he was reading her mind, he continued, "Yeah, that serum saved his life. If there had been no Hydra, and the war was just a war over in five years, I probably maybe could have made it home. Steve probably wouldn't have survived." "How did going to the movies help his health?" "One of the things Steve had was really horrible asthma. Turns out summertime in Brooklyn ain't too good for your lungs when you've got bad lungs. I don't know if they all had it in 1940, but there was one theater in Times Square that had air conditioning; so on really humid days we'd sit in that theater for as long as we could just so Steve could breathe. "And, if we happen to go in cooler weather I picked the movie." By that point Shuri gave up on the pretense of working. She loved technology, but she craved knowledge, and here was a walking, talking, history book. "And what was a typical Bucky Barnes pick?" "Son of Frankenstein, Stagecoach, The Wizard of Oz . . . we both had a thing for Judy Garland. And a lot of Charlie Chan movies. I even got Steve to go see Gone with the Wind." That got a look from Shuri, "What? I read the book and was curious. Also it was in color-" "Wait, wait, I know someone who had to watch everything in Black and White?" "Two someones, yes." Shuri was practically buzzing as she walked away from Bucky. She was essentially racing through her lab while Bucky sat there even more confused than usual. In less than 10 minutes Shuri had a room that Bucky never noticed before, set up with a massive amount of popcorn on a coffee table in front of a really comfy looking couch; coffee, soda, and beer at the ready to drink, and opposite all of this a large white screen hanging on the wall. She came back grabbed Bucky's hand, dragged into the room, shoved him down on the couch, shut the door, turned off the lights, and from her wrist thingy started a projector built into the ceiling And then lastly, she plopped down next to Bucky on the couch on the side missing the arm. "Movie night has officially begun Bucky Barnes! We've got popcorn and drinks now, and the kitchen is going to bring us food after the first movie." "First movie? How many are we watching? And is this even appropriate?" Bucky was anxious. "Only two. They're from the 80s so they're like short. And okay fine, you may be like a hundred years old technically, but you're really like what 26-27 right; and that's not counting the times you were awake for Hydra missions. And I'm 17, anything up to a decade either way is not considered a big deal in age difference. T'Challa the king, and my mother the queen trust us to be alone together, and we're just watching movies; because I know you are smart enough to know that if you try to do anything to me as Bucky, you'll be dead dead before you hit the floor. If your mind slips and you become the Winter Soldier you'll just be dead, but in a way I can fix." "Understood." "Good, cuz I think you're going to really like these movies!" "I trust you, Shuri." "As well you should pretty boy. So, we have Who Framed Roger Rabbit? but first, Tremors!"

@comfortember

#comfortember #comfortember 2020 #fluff #movie night #bucky barnes #shuri

4 notes · View notes

remys-lucky-franc · 4 years

Text

Return to Coney Island - An Astoria Fic - Cerberus x MC (Grace)

I got a request for some Cerberus x MC Date Fluff from the lovely @mcbatty :) Thank you so much for requesting and I really, really hope you enjoy this!

Cerberus is just the sweetest, most joyous boy and I just want wrap him up in a big hug!! (I've only read his first season!) I am a huuuuuge sucker for soft boys with sad stories.

I've written this with my MC's name (Grace) but if you'd prefer to read it with a different name, let me know and I'd be more than happy to edit it in for you.

Word count ~1800 // Image Credit: http://nyc2way.blogspot.com/

No triggers or warnings on this wee fic, it's just fluffy and feel-good! <3

---

"Grace, do you need help? What are you doing?"

Cerberus pokes his head around the door-frame, muscled arms folded across his broad chest as he shakes his head smiling at his girl; she's packing food into a tote bag on the counter.

"You know they have places we can eat on Coney Island, right?"

Grace zips the bag up and stretches up on her toes to place a kiss on his cheek as she scoots past him towards the bedroom, calling behind her,

"I know, but I thought it would be nice to take some snacks for a beach picnic, then we can get something else later? Plus, I'm sure you'll manage!"

Cerberus chuckles as Grace reappears in a cute cap and a pair of shades,

"I won't let the picnic go to waste, I promise. Ready?"

Grace hands him their bag of munchies and links her arm through his as they head out of the door and towards the station.

---

Cerberus is bouncing on his toes as the Q train arrives, energy radiating from him,

"This was a great idea, Grace! Really cool way to spend our day off!"

Finding a seat on the busy carriage, their knees bump as the train starts to move. Cerberus intertwines his fingers with Grace's as she murmurs,

"I thought it would be nice to go back and just have a good time? When we went before we were on the look out for... You know..."

Cerberus looks stoic for a few moments, finally commenting,

"We weren't even 'together' yet, last time when we came here."

Grace nods happily as she squeezes his hand,

"But we are now."

The train speeds through Brooklyn towards their destination as Cerberus helps himself to the club sandwiches that Grace packed, laughing as she rolls her eyes, telling him that they were supposed to be for the beach.

Time flies as they chat about work, ideas for vacation and future dates. Before they know it, an hour has passed and they're ready to disembark at Stillwell Avenue. Heading out of the station, Cerberus wraps an arm around Grace's waist, planting a soft kiss on the top of her denim hat as he squeezes her close for a few steps, his arms remaining draped around her as they walk. Grace feels a blush colouring her cheeks at the casual intimacy of his touch: she loves the way he wants to be close to her always, how affectionate he is.

Reaching the beach at the east side of Luna Park, Cerberus lays down a round beach blanket printed to look like a pepperoni pizza, placing their picnic bag down at the end before plopping himself in the middle. Beaming up at Grace as she pulls a bottle of sunscreen out of her purse, waggling it in his direction, he stretches, pulling the dark grey t-shirt over his head, laughing and taking the bottle from his girl. Grace stealthily admires his frame from behind the camouflage of her sunglasses, taking the bottle back, applying some to her arms and sprawling down on the giant pizza beside him. Grace delves into the bag, tossing a bag of potato chips to Cerberus who catches them effortlessly. Grace sets up a little speaker on the blanket and connects the 'Day at the Beach' playlist she created especially for today while Cerberus happily tosses chips into his mouth, tapping his foot to the beat, watching the world go by. They lie there people-watching, watching the shapes of the clouds in the sky change, soaking in the atmosphere and the sunshine for a while before Grace spots a vendor selling watermelon. She grabs her purse, ruffling Cerberus' shaggy brown hair then jumping to her feet,

"Wait here! I'll be right back!"

Cerberus shakes his head and fixes the hair that Grace mussed up as he watches her jog effortlessly across the sand, his heart swelling as he watches her. As she disappears from his line of sight, he takes out his phone and checks the group chat he has with his brothers, waiting for her to return. Before he's realised, she's back, carrying two watermelons with neon straws in them! A peal of laughter rings out of Cerberus as he looks at the giddy grin on her face,

"What did you get?!"

Grace giggles as she hands him one, sitting down cross-legged opposite him,

"Try it!!"

Cerberus cocks his head to the side, watching her bright eyes dance with mischief, before taking a big slurp through the straw, blinking hard as he swallows and lets out a small cough,

"That's... Pretty strong stuff, Grace..."

She beams at him as she takes a dainty sip,

"They scoop out all the watermelon, then blend it with ice and vodka and put it back inside!"

He takes another sip, acknowledging,

"It pack a punch but it's really tasty! Hey, come here, let's send Orthrus and Nemean a selfie?"

Grace shifts herself so that her back is against Cerberus' chest as he stretches his arm out, making sure both of them, and their tropical-looking vodka watermelons are in the shot,

"Say, 'Watermelon!'..."

Cerberus laughs heartily as he presses his cheek against hers, snapping the shot as they mouth in unison,

"Watermelon!"

He grins, wide and white, as he sends it, then sets it as his lock screen wallpaper.

---

After having enough sunbathing, Cerberus and Grace gather their belongings, strolling hand in hand along the bustling boardwalk, feeling slightly tipsy from the spiked slushie. Cerberus pulls Grace towards the carnival games, a flash of excitement in his eyes, spotting the Strongman Game, and the variety of stuffed animals hanging up for the winner... Grace wraps her arms around him from behind as he stops in front of the game, grinning at the attendant. He pays the fee and accepts the mallet, staring at the bell, twenty feet in the air. Graces stands back as he effortlessly swings the mallet in a perfect arc, clean and high, landing squarely on the lever. The puck flies up the tower striking the bell hard! Cerberus drops the mallet with a ‘woop’, gathering Grace in his arms and spinning her around and around in the air as she squeals and giggles. He kisses her as he places her back on the ground, gesturing toward the prizes,

"Which is your favourite, Grace?"

She shrugs her shoulders, scrunching her nose as she answers, sounding almost shy,

"You're my favourite. You choose?"

Cerberus' mouth opens like he's about to say something, but he just winks at her instead, turning towards the attendant, reappearing moments later with the biggest, fluffiest, plush bear Grace has ever seen! The bear is so large, that he's almost obscured behind it, his head poking around from behind it, cracking up with laughter,

"Did I pick well?? Do you like him??"

Grace wraps her arms around the bear and her boyfriend, laughing so hard there are tears in her eyes,

"Like him?! I love him!! And I love you!!"

Cerberus beams as he tries to manoeuver the bear out of the way, with somewhat limited success, to kiss Grace,

"What shall we call him??"

Grace, running her fingers through the bears soft fur, winks at Cerberus as she speaks,

"He's big and soft and snuggly, just like you. How about Bear-berus?"

Cerberus disintegrates into hysterics,

"Bear-berus it is!"

---

After playing various other funfair games, Grace smirks at a blushing Cerberus when his stomach growls loudly,

"You wanna get some food?"

He nods quickly as Grace catches his fingers in hers, dancing across the boardwalk towards Nathan's. The diner is jam-packed and loud with a jukebox playing and patrons laughing and joking, enjoying their day at the beach. Cerberus, Bear-berus and Grace squeeze into a booth together, ordering a couple of their famous Chilli Dogs with fries and a large chocolate milkshake to share. She smiles softly as she watches Cerberus tuck into the food: she loves being with him. Everything about his is so genuine, so honest. He makes her feel like she can do anything when they're together. She feels so lucky to have him.

Grace has barely touched hers by the time his is gone, and he's ordering a second portion of fries. His face colours as she tries to hold back a chuckle,

"I knew a portion to share wouldn't be enough!"

Cerberus drains at least a quarter of the milkshake before grinning at her up at her,

"I think Bear-berus ate most of them when we weren't looking... You know, we should come back here next time Orthrus, Nemean and I all have the day off: they'd love this."

Grace laughs,

"We may have to call in advance to make sure they have enough food!"

---

Leaving Nathan's, the couple call into the hall of mirrors on their way to the Ferris wheel, giggling and pulling faces at each other in the distorted glass. Tears roll down Grace's cheeks as they stop in front of one particular mirror that makes her look tall and broad and Cerberus short and skinny, crushed under the weight of the giant fluffy bear; she pulls out her cellphone, snapping a photo of their hilarious reflection and sending it to May.

Finally arriving at the Ferris wheel, they join the slowly moving queue. Cerberus toys with Grace's ponytail,

"Last time when we got to the top we never got to enjoy the view, we were so busy looking for Thanatos."

She nods,

"You're right. But this time, we can really enjoy it properly!"

Bending down, Cerberus kisses Grace gently,

"I enjoy everything when we're together, Grace. Even the stuff that shouldn't be fun, like queueing."

Grace pulls his lips back to hers,

"Same."

When they reach the front of the queue, Cerberus jokes with the attendant that he needs three tickets: one for him, one for Grace and one for the bear. The attendant smiles, telling him that anyone that cute gets on for free. He beams joyously as he quips,

"Hey Grace, you're so cute you get to ride for free, we only need to pay for me and Bear-berus!"

Tugging Grace's hand they find their seat and are secured in place by the attendant before they soar into the sky. Cerberus swings his dangling legs as they near the top, breathing in the fresh air as he turns to Grace,

"This has been a perfect day!"

Grace's head lolls against his shoulder as she sighs contentedly,

"Mmmh-hmmm..."

Cerberus' bright eyes smile as he tips her chin up to look at him, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles,

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

Grace reaches up stroking his cheek tenderly , her eyes flitting between his amber eyes and the warm curve of his lips,

"I love you."

Cerberus closes the distance between them, whispering against Grace's lips,

"I love you too."

They settle there, happy and comfortable with each other, enjoying the view as they sail through the sky together: a perfect end to a perfect date.

#lovestruck fic #lovestruck requests #Cerberus x mc #Astoria fic #Cerberus x mc fic

15 notes · View notes

johnboothus · 4 years

Text

As Football Returns Largely Without Fans Homegating Is the New Tailgating

By 7 p.m. the cars started turning off Route 1 in Saugus, 10 miles north of Boston, and funneling into the parking lot of Kowloon, a kitschy, 1,200-seat Mandarin restaurant and tiki bar originally opened in 1950. This being a pandemic and all, none of these customers had any plans to enter the restaurant, and few were even going to get out of their cars. They were there to watch a massive, 40-foot by 20-foot outdoor screen that would be projecting that night’s New England Patriots game versus the Seattle Seahawks, as well as drinking and eating during what the restaurant called its first ever Sunday Night Tailgate.

“The Patriots are not allowing anybody to tailgate in the [Gillette Stadium] parking lots,” explains Adam Benoit. He’s a director at The Greg Hill Foundation, the eponymous local sports talk host’s charity that organized the event as a fundraiser. Tickets were $75 per car, with à la carte, car-hopped dining options that included everything from crab rangoon to Mai Tais. It didn’t get too out of hand. “Patriots fans are more subdued than most fan bases — that comes with the success of the team. But, there is clearly still a rabid fan base who wants to get out and watch games together,” Benoit says.

For many Americans, the revelry and community surrounding football are more important than the actual games themselves. The arrival of fall means loading up the car, or RV if you’re truly committed, and driving to stadium parking lots across the nation to grill meats, toss cornhole bags, and drink heavily. But what happens when the games are going on but fans aren’t allowed in the stadium, and, in many cases, even the parking lots? For many football nuts, they are finding new avenues for pursuing their passion.

“I just love the experience of tailgating,” says Jim McGreevy, a Chicago Bears obsessive who has had season tickets for 20 years. For home games, he typically wakes up at 6 a.m. so he can get from his suburban Schaumburg house to Soldier Field by 8 a.m. in order to be one of the first five cars in the South Lot premium section, the premier place to tailgate. When he realized that would be an impossibility this year, he decided to tailgate the home opener in his driveway instead.

“I have a 28-year-old daughter who was planning to come. She asked, ‘What time are you starting?’ ‘Lot opens at 8 a.m.,’” McGreevy joked, though indeed, he did have everything set up that early.

He strictly invited his friends, about 30 people, who also tailgate with him at the stadium. Lawn chairs were placed at a social distance on his driveway and front yard and food was prepared in individual portions to prevent any unnecessary handling. A regional sales manager for American Beverage Marketers, McGreevy also had all his products on hand, like Loaded Bloody Mary Mixer, even arranging enormous inflatables on his lawn. By the end of the day the ad hoc tailgate had gone through nine bottles of Champagne, five bottles of vodka, 12 cases of beer, and, of course, some Jeppson’s Malört. The Bears also defeated the New York Giants, 17 to 13.

“It really did feel like a tailgate,” claims McGreevy, who is unsure if he will do it for future games, though he would like to. He’s trying to be as Covid-conscious as possible, while keeping his traditions intact. “I really do want to maintain this as much as possible,” he says.

Still, this is ’murica, of course, and some fans aren’t as respectful as McGreevy. Many, in fact, just refuse to accept that things are going to have to be a little different this year, even if some tailgating meccas, like Penn State’s State College, Pa., are currently overrun with Covid cases.

That’s especially true in the South, not just a Covid hot spot, but a college football hotbed, where Saturday tailgating is a way of life. If around 30 schools like Alabama, the University of Oklahoma, and Louisville are allowing restricted-capacity fans to actually attend their games, these same schools are mostly trying to completely curb tailgating. (Insert plenty of lame jokes about “peaceful protesting” in the parking lot.) Some have still figured a way around these restrictions, however.

“We put together a proposal that outlined and used Gov. Greg Abbott’s guidelines for the state, Department of State Health Services, and put it into a proposal on how we can do a special event that’s socially responsible,” explains Ryan Lepper, who owns Horn-Ball Texas Tailgaters.

Some 18,000 fans attended the University of Texas’s Sept. 12 home opener against UTEP at the 100,119-seat-capacity Darrell K Royal-Texas Memorial Stadium, and Lepper’s company had the only state-approved tailgate outside it. They set up operations in a private parking lot on 18th and Trinity Street, just across from the stadium. Groups could book their own 10-foot by 10-foot, socially distant tent with chairs, tables, and a trash can, food and drink provided by masked servers (costing upward of $500 per group). This was not the typically raucous Horn-Ball tailgates of years past, which have included Fireball ice luges and beer pong, but it still scratched the itch for many Longhorn fans.

“It was just great to be outside, near the stadium, having some drinks,” one attendee, Aubrey, told me. “Ice block drink ramp or not.”

Meanwhile some colleges, such as Clemson and South Carolina, as well as five NFL teams like the Dallas Cowboys and Kansas City Chiefs, don’t have official bans on tailgating, but are still imploring fans to, say it with me, follow guidelines. Masks and social distancing and pods and, please, no “large buffet-style spreads.” But, you try adhering to all that after a keg stand.

“I don’t think the tailgates this year are quite as rambunctious as they used to be,” explains Craig Renfro, the owner and editor-in-chief of Tailgater Magazine, a print periodical with over a quarter-million subscribers. He’s a longtime Cowboys and Texas A&M fan and a passionate tailgater. “You’re just not seeing the craziness of years past,” he says.

At other stadiums, though, the issue of what is and isn’t “tailgating” seems to lie less on health standards and more on pedantry and placating outside observers.

“Georgia is technically not allowing tailgating but they say they will allow people who come to the games together to ‘gather near their vehicles,’ whatever that means,” explains Amanda Mull, a Brooklyn-based writer for The Atlantic, and a big-time UGA fan. “Basically, I think they are trying to ban big tailgates while still letting people tailgate, but being able to tell media that they have ‘banned tailgating.’”

Still, for the vast majority of football fans, tailgating this year will be exclusively done at home, and all sorts of companies are stepping in trying to take advantage of the big pivot to “homegating.” Like the Tailgate Guys, an Auburn, Ala.-based company which, in a normal football season, rents and sets up a variety of tailgating packaging (including tents, coolers, cocktail tables, and even mounted DISH televisions) for fans at nearly 50 schools and three NFL cities. This season they are selling the #TailgateAnywhere package, offering their services to any home or business within 100 miles of their 17 warehouses.

Meanwhile, Lowe’s is hoping you’ll stock up on a variety of chairs, canopies, grills, and even inflatables to build your own NFL-worthy homegate. Sam’s Club too has an entire homegate section on its website, touting everything from frozen waffle fries to 82-inch TVs. There’s even Homefield Tailgate, which will literally sell you a tailgate, sans the rest of the truck. For the diehard who wants to cosplay hanging out in parking space.

“We’ve pivoted ourselves — yeah, the magazine is titled Tailgater, but our motto has always been ‘Your parking lot and backyard BBQ entertainment guide,’” explains Renfro. “We’ve always positioned it as, if you think about it, 80,000 go to a game, but millions watch at home and always have and always will. But you can still cookout on the grill and drink beer and cocktails.”

And, while admittedly none of that is as good as crushing Bud Lights and ice-luging Fireball in a scenic Meadowlands parking space, it does offer one advantage over traditional tailgating.

When the game is over, you don’t have to drive home.

The article As Football Returns Largely Without Fans, ‘Homegating’ Is the New Tailgating appeared first on VinePair.

Via https://vinepair.com/articles/football-homegating-tailgating/

source https://vinology1.weebly.com/blog/as-football-returns-largely-without-fans-homegating-is-the-new-tailgating

0 notes

wineanddinosaur · 4 years

Text

As Football Returns Largely Without Fans, ‘Homegating’ Is the New Tailgating

“It was just great to be outside, near the stadium, having some drinks,” one attendee, Aubrey, told me. “Ice block drink ramp or not.”

At other stadiums, though, the issue of what is and isn’t “tailgating” seems to lie less on health standards and more on pedantry and placating outside observers.

And, while admittedly none of that is as good as crushing Bud Lights and ice-luging Fireball in a scenic Meadowlands parking space, it does offer one advantage over traditional tailgating.

When the game is over, you don’t have to drive home.

The article As Football Returns Largely Without Fans, ‘Homegating’ Is the New Tailgating appeared first on VinePair.

source https://vinepair.com/articles/football-homegating-tailgating/

0 notes

if-you-fan-a-fire · 6 years

Photo

“The late Miss Jean De Koven was an average American tourist in Paris but for two exceptions. She never set foot in the Opéra, and she was murdered. In the first four July days of her initial visit to the capital of France, her routine had been classic: she had settled in a quaint little Left Bank hotel near the Place Saint-Germain-des-Prés, she had seen the boulevards by night, had attended the Folies-Bergère, admired the Louvre, and bought a ticket, ironically enough, for Dukas’s “Ariadne and Bluebeard.” But when the opera’s red-and-gold curtain rose, her seat was empty—for she was dead and probably already buried under the front porch of a cottage in Saint-Cloud.

The relation of the murdered and the murderer is the base of any assassination. The relations between Jean De Koven, professional dancer from Brooklyn, and Eugen Weidmann, practiced criminal from Frankfurt am Main, were merely social. Sociability with strangers was her personal weakness and his professional stock in trade. Urbanity (until it was interrupted by her strangulation) marked both their brief meetings—the first at the Hôtel Ambassador, when Weidmann, presenting himself with what Miss De Koven’s aunt, Miss Ida Sackheim, afterward described as the most gracious smile she ever saw, offered to interpret for the two ladies, who were with difficulty trying to locate a friend in the building. “I have just met a charming German of keen intelligence who calls himself Siegfried,” Miss De Koven wrote that day to an American friend (though to the aunt, anyhow, he had called himself plain Bobby). “Perhaps I am going to another Wagnerian rôle—who knows? I am going to visit him tomorrow at his villa in a beautiful place near a famous mansion that Napoleon gave Josephine.”

While Miss De Koven must have been disappointed historically in the villa—French house agents’ standard euphemism for three rooms without bath—the Bonapartian and Wagnerian talk probably satisfied. Her Siegfried was well-read, having been prison librarian at Saarbrücken while serving five years for robbery. He loved “The Ring,” and in the weeks after she had gone used to leave his house (over her buried corpse) to go to his next-door neighbor’s and listen to Wagner on the radio. In the quick quarter-hour with him before Miss De Koven went to her new operatic rôle, sheer sociality reigned; they smoked, she took pictures of him with her nice new camera, he kindly refreshed her with a glass of milk. When, five months later, his unfortunate guest was disinterred, she still summed up (except for the murderous cord tight around her throat and the awful action of time) the sartorial elements of the sociable summer tourist. She was still wearing her cute brown sports hat, her gloves, her blue dress with its red Scotch plaid top, her new patent-leather shoes—still had with her her white handbag (empty of $430 in American Express checks and about 300 francs cash), still had at her side her nice new camera containing snapshots of her murderer.

The De Koven case started the next morning when her aunt received a telegram stating that all was well and not to worry (which she had done all night). That evening a letter came, mentioning “Chikago” gangster methods but assuring her that the girl was sound and safe, kidnapped, and held for ransom $500, the Teutonic phrasing and spelling being illustrated by the Gothic shaped “j”s, the triangular “t”s, and the general Nordic slant of the handwriting. Miss Sackheim went immediately to the American Consulate and the police. But the case didn’t get seriously under way, owing to the constabulary’s cynical laughter. One of the rare gaieties of the Sûreté Nationale in Paris is provided by the missing Americans and English who later turn up, abashed, repentant, or still dazed after their first foolish fling in gay Paree. Furthermore, as the police pointed out, Miss De Koven was twenty-two years old; she was (the aunt had shown the police an overflattering press photo of the dancer) beautiful; she had departed voluntarily with a man whom the aunt described as handsome and Swiss; her disappearance was probably a publicity scheme; the kidnapping was an American truc that couldn’t happen in France, and anyhow Saint-Cloud (if she’d really gone there, which she probably hadn’t, since her aunt had heard her say she would) was lovely in summer pour un beau couple d’amoureux. Still smirking, the police nevertheless kept an official eye on the contact messages which the aunt, at the kidnapper’s request, was running in English in the agony column of the Paris edition of the New York Herald Tribune: “Jean, please come back.” “Jean, everything ready. Why did you not answer?” “Jean, do not understand your way of acting. Want proposition immediately.” The police also had their eye on the two rendezvous mentioned in notes from the kidnapper. One was the Luxembourg Gardens, where the password was to be “Jean,” spoken three times; the other was in Saint-Sulpice Church, where the word was to be simply “Baby.” Indeed, the police kept such an obvious gaze fixed on these places that the kidnapper never turned up, sending instead a final angry ungrammatical postcard. “Remind,” he said on it (though he meant “remember”), “the least sign we have of the police and we don’t send nobody to get the money.”

It was money that finally sobered the French Sûreté, for the girl’s $10 American Express checks began coming in, execrably forged. Honest voyagers like you and me may have difficulties in cashing our modest traveller’s checks, aided by our proper passports, our unimpeachable calligraphy, our respectable faces, and the backing of bourgeois friends. With perfect ease, $240 worth of Miss De Koven’s checks had been cashed by what, judging by various cashiers’ descriptions, was a motley pair of men, one big and maybe Austrian, one little and French, and, apparently, two local women, one blonde, one dark. These four had between them one passport—Miss De Koven’s. The most respectable Parisian houses were accepting the forged paper—Guerlain’s perfumery, two French banks, Lancel’s leather shop on the Place de l’Opéra, and the French Bureau de Tourisme. When the Trocadéro gateman of the Paris Exposition turned in a forged De Koven check, the police changed their tactics and the De Koven “kidnapping” (the sarcastic quotation marks are the Paris Herald Tribune’s) was for the first time made public on August 7th, fifteen days after the American girl’s “disappearance.” ---

The reaction was immediate and twofold. No more checks were cashed, and Jean De Koven, once her photograph was published, was reported as being seen all over France. A sharp-eyed M. Poo, headwaiter at the roguish Réserve at Saint-Cloud, saw her lunching on his terrace en flirt with a handsome French athlete; a taxi-driver named Ceci said she had screamed, in his taxi, to be taken to the American Embassy but that her two gentlemen escorts had preferred he deposit them all at the Closerie-des-Lilas café in Montparnasse; a fortune-teller in Nancy saw her in a trance, by the ocean somewhere; a cruel M. Tarashkoff telephoned five times in one afternoon to the aunt’s hotel to give his name and announce “in a frightful voice” that the girl was dead; some crooks offered to sell clues to her whereabouts for $600. On August 16th, Henry De Koven, brother of the girl, arrived in Paris, made a touching, dignified statement that “in our modest family my sister is considered a serious-minded girl, incapable of the acts which have been insinuated, either any escapade or publicity stunts,” and offered in the name of his father, Abraham De Koven, a 10,000-franc reward. The brother was convinced that his sister was dead and so were the police.

The faithful aunt, “Sacky,” as the niece always called her (the kidnapper’s first telegram had been oddly addressed to “Secky,” which had convinced her that the criminal was that smiling Swiss “Bobby” she had met), was too loving to believe the girl had been done away with, too sensible not to know that tragedy of some sort seemed affirmed though it could not be defined. Despairing, she and the brother sailed for home on September 18th. By the Sûreté Nationale of Paris, by the French Police de l’Etat, by the American Embassy, by the American Consulate in Paris, by Secretary Cordell Hull, who had been appealed to for G-men’s aid, by Governor Lehman of New York, by all on both sides of the Atlantic who had by this time been drawn into the unprofitable search, the De Koven case was considered closed, unsolved.

As a matter of fact it was just beginning to open. Unfortunately, it needed five more murders to be complete. On September 7th, a Parisian chauffeur named Couffy was found dead, robbed of 2,500 francs and his car, and with a bullet in the nape of his neck, in a forest near Tours. He was driver-owner of a luxurious limousine, ordinarily stationed for hire near the Opéra, and had started in it for Cannes with a client who was Anglo-Saxon, or at any rate spoke English perfectly. He was a cool client. When a passing Touraine peasant named Blé saw, just after lunch, a rotund recumbent figure on the grass with a newspaper over its face, he called to the stranger sitting nearby and whistling, “Aren’t you afraid you’ll wake your friend?” and received the reply, “No danger. He’s sleeping soundly.” This was true. Beneath the newspaper covering his bloody face, Couffy was sleeping the sleep of the dead. On October 3rd, though the police did not then know it, a Strasbourg cook, Mme. Jasmine Keller, come to Pars in response to a help-wanted ad, had been killed in the Fontainebleau Forest by a bullet in the nape of her neck, and robbed of 1,400 francs and a pitiful little diamond ring. On October 16th, opposite the cemetery of Neuilly, a parked car was discovered to contain the corpse of M. Roger Leblond, who had been shot, robbed of 5,000 francs, and then wrapped in a green-and-brown curtain laundry-marked M.B. Leblond’s latest mistress said he was a press agent, that he had gone to meet a business-advertisement correspondent named Pradier about a new cinema agency. The seven hundred Pradier families of France were vainly questioned by the police, and three hundred Parisian laundries were vainly consulted about the M.B. tag. On November 22nd, though again the police were not then aware of it, a German-Jewish youth, Frommer, who for his anti-Hitlerian political views had once been incarcerated in the prison at Saarbrücken, was robbed of 300 francs, murdered by a bullet in the nape of the neck, and buried in the basement of a villa near the famous mansion which Napoleon gave Joséphine at Saint-Cloud. On November 27th, only five days later and also at Saint-Cloud, a house agent, Monsieur Lesobre, was robbed of 5,000 francs and murdered by a shot in the nape of the neck by a client with a foreign accent to whom he was showing a three-room villa more than usually euphemistically called Mon Plaisir. --- It was at this point that what began and ended as the De Koven case entered into the peripheries of a master detective story, transferred, for once, from the folly of fiction into grim, real life. It was at this moment that an unusually intelligent and lucky criminal began to be tracked by an unusually intelligent and lucky detective. Into the hands of a Commissaire Primborgne, detective sous-chef of the State Police at Versailles, county seat of the Saint-Cloud district, fell a bloody visiting card found beside Lesobre’s body. The card was that of Arthur Schott, travelling salesman of the Rue Parc-Impérial of Nice. From Nice the young detective traced Schott to Strasbourg and summoned him to Versailles, only to learn that the cards had been distributed to thousands, including, among six other recent recipients, Schott’s nephew Frommer, the young anti-Nazi. Primborgne’s search for Miss De Koven now began by his hunting a man he’d never heard of alive and didn’t know was dead. All that Frommer’s meagre Idéal Hôtel in the Rue Saint-Sébastien knew was that Frommer had walked out on November 22nd, leaving his belongings and no explanation. The municipal registration offices for furnished rooms, for prisons, for hospitals, and for foreigners knew even less. However, in the Ile de la Cité’s carte-d’identité files the detective discovered that Frommer’s application blank gave, as resident reference, one Hugh Weber, 58 Rue de Clichy. Weber had moved, leaving no new address. Through the neighborhood police, the detective discovered he now lived somewhere in the Rue Véron, and there he found Herr Weber—and found, too, that Herr Weber spoke nearly no French. However, the patient Primborgne gleaned that Weber was another of Frommer’s uncles and was worried because the youth had failed to appear for the usual family Sunday dinner. He was even more perturbed at his nephew’s occasional luncheons with a criminal compatriot apparently named Sauerbrei, whom Frommer had known in Saarbrücken Prison. Sauerbrei lived, Weber thought, under the name of Karrer in the woods around Saint-Cloud.

Primborgne knew that, wherever Leblond had been murdered by that bullet in the back of the neck, it was near trees, for their leaves were on the soles of the dead man’s shoes; he knew also that Lesobre had been killed by the same sort of shot, and, parbleu, near trees, since he had been murdered at Saint-Cloud. He was sure that Jean De Koven had also disappeared in Saint-Cloud. The detective was by now nearly sure of certain things but didn’t know where in Saint-Cloud to set about searching for them. Inquiring always through house agents and garages (Weber said Frommer said Sauerbrei said he had a car), Primborgne at last located Karrer’s landlady, Mme. Marie Brau. Though she didn’t yet know that her best green-and-brown curtain, laundry-tagged M.B., was gone from Karrer’s cottage, she had another complaint: for all his charming smile, good manners, intelligent air, and excellent neighborhood reputation, Karrer had been late with his October rent—hadn’t, indeed, paid it till November 29th. On November 27th, Lesobre had been robbed of 5,000 francs.

Nobody being at home in the Karrer villa, the methodical Primborgne set off to telephone the villa’s house agent for further details, leaving two men to watch the house. Within five minutes of his departure, Siegfried-Bobby-Sauerbrei-Karrer-Weidmann walked through his front gate, playing with a neighbor’s dog. The watchers, interrogated, said they were tax collectors; were politely requested to show their proofs and showed their police cards. Weidmann’s last courtesy consisted in begging them to precede him into his house. Thinking of the backs of their necks, they refused. Weidmann entered first, but once over the threshold wheeled on them and fired three times, wounding them both. Being economically unarmed, as are all French State Police unless they choose to buy guns at their own expense, the men fell on him with their bare hands. One of them, tumbling in their struggle upon a little hammer (Weidmann had been doing some small household repairs), knocked their host unconscious. By the time he came to, in the police station, Couffy’s automobile and Lesobre’s had been found, neatly parked and with a light covering of December snow, in the villa’s back yard. The day had been unlucky for two lucky men. The lucky murderer had finally been caught, and the lucky detective had not been present when the capture was made.

Next morning, with a cigarette which the police put into his manacled hands and a brasier which they put at his feet (the French Sûreté believe comfort brings better results than American brutality in grilling), Weidmann started on his orderly confession. Saying that there was one thing he couldn’t say, but could write, he wrote down the name Jean De Koven. For her he then shed his only repentant tears. “She was gentle and unsuspecting,” he said. “I enjoyed speaking English to her, which I learned in Canada. When I reached out for her throat, she went down like a doll.”

----

Eugen Weidmann was born in Frankfurt, February 15, 1908, of respectable parents—his father is still agent for a small exporting business at Frankfurt, where his son went through grade school. At the age of sixteen, he served time for his first theft and has since been imprisoned for robbery in both Canada and Germany. He was a model prisoner, a favorite with German wardens, who considered him remarkably intellectual and well-read; they have said since that they can hardly believe that he has killed five times. He speaks, besides German, fluent English, French, and some Portuguese. Since his last arrest, in France, he has spent his time in his cell reading “Aventures de Télémaque,” by Fénelon, and writing his memoirs; has had so little time for working at the regular paid prison labor, brushmaking, that he has lacked the money to pay the prison barber for a shave. Before the investigating magistrates, his uncouth appearance humiliated him, especially the fact that, having caught cold in a chill cell, he had need of a handkerchief, denied him lest he hang himself with it.

Weidmann is an exceptionally handsome male in the medieval manner; his features are those of an etching by Holbein of some German moyen-âge merchant, with an alert, inquiring, open, hungry eye, a well-cartilaged nose terminating in a cold, curious ball like that on the end of a thermometer, and a large, amply delineated classical mouth with adequate lips. The hair rolls free from the forehead in untidy artistic confusion. He looks and acts like a man who, if he hadn’t had in his makeup the criminal compartment, would have made a good Gothic citizen. He has been scrupulously veracious with the police. “I never lie,” he truthfully told them in relating his murder of Leblond, which, on his terms, they could hardly believe. “Here is the proof,” he said, and flipped open his coat to show Leblond’s suspenders, which he was wearing. He had also saved the press agent’s incriminating cigarette lighter, watch, and gold pencil, the baldish Mme. Keller’s blonde wigs, and Lesobre’s small shoes, which he neatly preserved on shoe trees. He has also been obligingly helpful to the authorities, who otherwise certainly never would have been able to find the grave of Mme. Keller in a subterranean grotto in the Fontainebleau Forest, though he has still failed to explain why on earth his photograph came to be found by her side. Because she was also discovered without her shoes on, the theory of an erotic fetishism was raised, principally in a brilliant article by Mme. Colette in Le Journal. Certain of the official investigators have also inclined to a belief that his emotional nature must be peculiar, largely because, outside of his terrible crimes, he seems so sensible. The court interpretress assigned to him—he has fits of saying in German that he’s forgotten all his French, and usually consults with his French lawyer only in English—bluntly said she thought, in his collecting instinct, that he was less erotic than plain practical. To Mme. Tricot, mistress of his assistant, a novice French gangster named Million, Weidmann gave Mme. Keller’s imitation fur coat and one of her wigs. They were useful when a disguise was needed for check-cashing.

Contrary to his name, Million’s part of the four months’ swag—including his reward for having practiced up on murder for the first time by killing Lesobre under Weidmann’s tutelage with what Weidmann calls “the shot in the back of the neck that never fails”—netted him only a fourth of the paltry 22,000 francs which the six murders brought in from July through November. For there was a fourth in the Weidmann combine—clown-faced Monsieur Jean Blanc, of good middle-class family and with a private income from a doting widowed mother. Last summer Blanc backed Weidmann with 13,000 francs, apparently just for the thrill of being in on big crime. He and Million had already been arrested in Germany for some trifling illicit reichsmark transactions and had indeed first met Weidmann in prison, where they now are again. Probably the most esoteric feature of the whole case is that while hundreds of officials were searching for what they thought was Jean De Koven’s coy hiding place, seven people knew she was dead, and where the body was, and never told. Outside of the murderer, the six others, according to the latest reports, were Million, Million’s father, Million’s father’s café boss, and his boss’s wife, Million’s mistress, Mme. Tricot, and her innocent cuckolded husband, Monsieur Tricot, to whom she told all. Jean Blanc was evidently such a bourgeois boob that he was told little and allowed to pay the big bills. It should be noted that Weidmann gave away none of these accomplices to the police—categorically denied, at first, that anybody had helped him. He admitted they existed only after the police caught them. As the police said, he has been chic.

The Weidmann case will be the biggest murder trial in France since Landru, whose cell at Saint-Pierre Prison the German now occupies. Like the other so-called Bluebeard, the new mass murderer will be tried in Versailles. His chief defence lawyer will be Maître Henri Géraud, who failed to save the neck of Gorguloff, the assassin of President Doumer of France; assistant counsel will be a lady lawyer, Maître Renée Jardin, assigned to the case by the Court. The granddaughter of George Sand, the novelist, is the defence’s handwriting expert in the affair. Together they will doubtless not be able to save Weidmann’s head. The French are still a rational-minded race and their law courts show it. In France there’s little legal nonsense such as pleading insanity for a man who has an exceptionally high I.Q., as Weidmann has.

Only a typical Frenchman like Million, accustomed to the old apprentice system and his country’s gerontocratic policy, by which the young always work (at low pay) for their elders, would have participated in such a poor proposition as the Weidmann murders. Only a typical postwar German like Weidmann, unfamiliar with the value of money as the rest of the freer world knows it, would have killed so many people for so little. And only a typical American, like poor Miss De Koven, would have been so sociable, so confidential, or could have seemed so rich. The De Koven case was a small and sinister European entanglement.

- Janet Flanner, “American In Paris.” January 29, 1938. The New Yorker. February 5, 1938.

0 notes

motiveandthemeans · 6 years

Photo

Jughead was never one for silly love quotes, but he now understood the whole ‘when you’re in love you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams’ thing. From the minute he woke up to the minute he fell asleep and all the restless hours in between his only thoughts were Betty, Betty, Betty.

It had been a week since he’d had pizza at Betty’s and they’d fallen into a semi-routine. Each morning he’d text her good morning and wish her a good day at work, around lunch time they’d text a bit back and forth, make plans for the evening.

Monday they’d grabbed dinner at Pop’s and then made out in his truck for three hours. He had to admit, it never got old making out with a cheerleader in his truck.

Tuesday, Betty had the day off. They’d spent hours in her garage working on her grandfather’s old truck. She looked so cute in her overalls and converse Jughead couldn’t help but kiss her fervently on the tailgate of the Ford jalopy.

She’d had Wednesday off too, they’d gone to a double feature at the Bijou and well, considering they were the only two in the whole theater...they readily took advantage.

Thursday, Betty cooked them dinner after work (a mouthwatering pot pie) and they took Huck for a long walk. By the time they’d returned to her house, eaten, and opened a bottle of wine, Betty passed out halfway through Spider-Man. He’d gently laid her in her bed, kissing her forehead and left a note on her bedside table informing her that he’d call her tomorrow. And that she was cute when she snored.

Friday night, Betty got off work and met him at Zigler’s to watch The Oriole’s and The Red Sock’s game. Betty had worn black scrubs that day with the Oriole’s emblem on the left breast. Needless to say, she was sour when they lost.

And now today: Saturday. Betty was off for the day, but he knew she had promised to take the twins to a kite festival in Greendale.

‘Good morning, Betts. Try not to make anyone cry kite fighting this morning.’

He smirked sending it. Two minutes later, she’d responded.

‘I make no promises, the twins watched a YouTube video on it and I’ll admit to being that paranoid aunt.’

‘Make sure to send me pictures. Still on for tonight?’

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘I mean obviously yes. Just curious is all.’ She added the little upside down smiley face.

The bashful grin just would not leave his face.

‘I don’t know, nothing as exhilarating as kite flying that’s for sure.’

‘Ohhhhh I don’t know about that, I’m sure we can come up with some creative ways to entertain ourselves.’

Jughead smirked.

‘Now Betts, tread carefully. I’m a man of action.’

‘So Clue or Scrabble?’

The Serpent King let out a loud laugh.

‘You don’t stand a chance at beating me in Scrabble.’

‘The game is on, Juggie. Got to go, twins have spotted funnel cakes and I’m bound by a promise I made to always buy them pastries.’

Oh man, he was in deep. Way deep.

By 11:00 Jughead wanted to put his head through a wall.

“What do you mean you fucked up the deal?” He snapped at the four Serpents before him. “It was a simple deliver and collect. You take the iPhones to the cellphone store and get the money. How can you fuck this up?”

“The Ghoulie’s were everywhere, Jug!” Sack defended.

“They’d already shown up and delivered on a laptop bust they made-“

“I don’t care.” He said emphatically. “Find another buyer, I want those iPhones gone by the end of business today.”

The four nodded, slinking away and out the door. Jughead turned to Joaquin. “What about the weed?”

“All good, sold like hot cakes over at the local college.” Joaquin said. “Also some rich Northside dude, Hiram Lodge, asked to have a sit down. Said he has a business opportunity for us.”

“Lodge? What’s a big wig like him want?” Sweet Pea asked.

“Probably the usual: beat up the guy that’s shagging his old lady behind his back.”

“How much did he offer?”

“Gave us $30,000 up front.”

Tall Boy let out a whistle. “I reckon that merits a sit down.”

Jughead nodded in agreement. “Get me a file on him, I want to know everything.”

Jug’s phone pinged: Betty

It was a picture of Betty and two red heads about 10 years old (obviously Madison and Mason) floating in a hot air balloon. They all looked excited, though the boy looked a bit green but was obviously putting on a brave face.

‘We got bored of kites’ she tagged it.

Jug let a smile slip on his face.

‘Like I said, adrenaline junkie.’

“Ahhhhh, I know that face.” Sweet Pea chided, shoving his shoulder playfully. “Nurse Betty strikes again.”

“Shut up.” He replied, though he was still smiling.

“Serious about this girl, huh?” Tall Boy said. “That’s good. ‘Bout time you settled in.”

“Yeah, a Doctor no less.” Joaquin teased. “I don’t get it, how has a guy who’s never had a serious girlfriend land a Doctor of Nursing Practice and I’m still banging closeted Northside dad’s in khaki’s.”

“Because he has self-respect?” Sweet Pea offered. Joaquin lunges across the bar smacking his head in jest.

“So when are you bringing her back around man? Are you ashamed of us?” Joaquin continued. “I mean, she knows everything, right?”

“...She doesn’t ask.” The leader replied, running his hands through his hair. “Which...is fine.”

“She’s not ignorant, Jug. She’s gonna figure it out.”

“I know, I know...”

“Well, the good news is she’s only here for a few more weeks anyway so you don’t have to worry about it for too long.”

“Wait, what? What are you talking about?” Jughead interjected.

“Betty, her contract is up in like 10 weeks or something.” Joaquin said. “What did you forget she’s a travel nurse?”

Jughead sighed. “Uhhh...Yeah. I guess I did.”

“Hiram Lodge, President and CEO of Lodge industries. Originally from Brazil, educated at Oxford, married to a smokin hot mamacita named Hermione, parents are from Mexico but she’s a natural born citizen of the U.S., she grew up in Riverdale and moved to New York after graduating high school with honors she moved to the Big Apple. They met at a restaurant she was working at in Brooklyn. She attended City College and got a degree in business. They have one daughter, Veronica, who came to Riverdale in her sophomore year of high school after her father was incarcerated for a few months for running a Ponzi Scheme. There, the heiress met her now fiancé Archibald Andrews. She attended NYU, he went to Julliard-“

“Wait, Archibald Andrews?” Sweet Pea interrupted. “As in Archie Andrews? I love that guy! He’s going to perform at the VMA’s this year. Think Hiram will get us tickets?”

“I think fucking not.” Tall Boy guffawed.

“I’m not sure it’s smart to mix business and family dynamics.” Jughead resolved.

“Errr, well, you see Boss...this is where it gets...sticky.” Joaquin sputtered.

“What?” Jughead groaned in exasperation.

“Veronica Briseda Lodge is Elizabeth Jane Cooper’s best friend.” Joaquin explained. “Betty grew up next door to Archie Andrews. In fact, according to the engagement announcement her parents had posted in The Register, Betty and the Sherrif’s kid were the one’s that set them up. She’s the maid of honor and some guy named Reggie Mantle is the best man.”

“Veronica. Betts talks about a girl named Ronnie, she sometimes calls her V. Well...fuck.”

“Hey I know that guy, Mantle!” Guy, a prospective new Serpent exclaimed. “He was QB for Riverdale High, dude was a tool if I ever met one. I remember that Andrews kid being cool though. Doesn’t his dad own a construction company?”

“Yeah, Andrew’s Contacting or something.” Tall Boy said, turning his gaze to Jughead. “Your old man used to work with him back in the day.”

“Huh, small world.” Sweet Pea mused.

“Small fucking town is more like it.” He growled in response.

He could make it work. Jughead was confident that he could find a way to date Betty without disclosing that her best friend’s father’s illicit activities with the Serpents

He could also work with the fact that she’s leaving in January. No biggie. They would figure out, live in the moment until they did.

What he was positive he couldn’t hide was the black eyes, busted lip, and bruised ribs he’d gotten in a brawl with Ghoulies.

And the fact that he was seven hours late for dinner at Betty’s.

The rival gang attempted to crash the meeting with Lodge, a flamboyant way of trying to prove they were the one’s to be doing business with.

Malachi had sucker punched him out of nowhere and after that it was all a blur of fist and kicks till the Serpents were victorious.

He sat in his office at the Whyte Wyrm, using a pack of peas in lieu of an ice pack and scrolled through his phone.

Two missed calls and three texts from Betty.

‘Dinner’s ready!’ Read the first at 6:47

‘Jughead it’s getting pretty late. Are you still coming?’ 9:40

‘Night.’ 11:30.

Well, there was no escaping it now. The honeymoon bubble had officially burst. Reality had set in and Jughead needed to face the music like a man.

He didn’t feel that guilty showing up to her house at a quarter till two knowing she had Sunday’s off for Brunch with friends and dinner with her family.

He rang her phone as his truck pulled into her driveway.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four-

“Hmmm, h...ello? This is B-Betty (yawn) Cooper.”

Even in her sleep she answered the phone as if she were at work.

“Betts, it’s me. Jug.”

“Jug? W-what time is it?” She asked pulling her phone from her face. “Christ it’s nearly 2 a.m.”

He winced. “I know, look, I’m outside your house. Can we talk, please?”

He could sense her pursing her lips in thought.

“Please, Betts. I can explain. I’m sorry about tonight, so so sorry.”

“Alright, Alright.” She sighed into the phone. “It’s better this be done in person anyway, I suppose.”

Jughead jumped from the truck, racing to the door where he waited patiently for ire of a scorned Betty Cooper.

And he’d grovel till dawn if that’s what it took to keep her.

#riverdale #Betts #betty x jughead #Betty is a nurse #betty cooper #bughead #jughead jones #juggie #jug is serpent leader

4 notes · View notes

join-the-joywrite · 4 years

Text

Women in War -- 5

All Maggie Maravillla ever wanted was to help people. She never imagined losing damn near everything when winning a war.

WiW masterpost

Chapter 5

Becky was booked off work for at least two months. Maggie put in leave at the university. Peggy filed for all the leave she had accumulated while working -- a total of one month. Howard sent them plane tickets to Brooklyn.

Bucky was waiting in the airport.

The next month was spent nursing Becky back to normal. Winnifred was thrilled to have all her children under one roof again, though it broke her heart that one had to run so close to death to bring Maggie home.

Howard visited often to see how Becky was doing, to talk to Bucky about that car or something alike, to offer Maggie the job everytime. Peggy befriended both Alice and Evelyn before she left.

It was somewhere in the middle of their second month back in Brooklyn when Howard arrived at the Barnes home with a solemn expression, sans the expensive wine he usually brought for Winnifred.

Bucky opened the door. "Howard."

"Buck. Is Maggie free? There's something I need to discuss with her. Something, uh . . . private."

"Kitchen's free. I'll get Maggie."

Leaving Winnifred with detailed instructions for Becky's movement therapy exercises, Maggie headed to the kitchen. "What's with all the secrecy, Howard?"

Howard leaned against one of the counters in the kitchen. He beckoned Maggie over.

"What?"

"I'm seriously certain you should reconsider. From what I've heard, you handled the situation better than any doctor I've ever met. The army could really use someone like you. If I play the cards right, you might not have to subject yourself to being a nurse again."

"All the secrecy to tell me that?"

Howard moved closer to Maggie and dropped his voice even further. "The offer about helping me work with a German scientists who may have a superhuman formula is still on the table, and Maggie, I think your help would be invaluable. The formula is not yet complete and we are looking for experts in human anatomy as well as psychology. You fit the bill."

Maggie's eyes widened. "So it's not hypothetical anymore?" she whispered.

"You know it never was."

"I . . . I'll have to think about it, Howard. I have a job --"

"Teaching isn't what you wanted to do, Mags. You always wanted to help the world and you can. Do you really want to go back and find a new job as a nurse again? In between lectures?"

"Howard. . ."

"Or do you want to serve in the war? The way Peggy does, the way Becky does? The way only you can. You could save lives, Maggie, soldiers' lives. Imagine if Becky had had you there on that mission. She may have never gone so close to dying. You could do that for the soldiers. Or you can go back to your safe little lecture hall and walk around a different hospital being nothing more than a nurse."

"Howard Stark, I have never wanted to slap you more than I do right now."

"I'm sure there's a good reason why you haven't."

Maggie folded her arms and looked away from Howard. "It's because I think you might be right," she grumbled.

"So, it's a yes, then?"

"It's a maybe."

Two weeks later, Maggie bid her family goodbye again and left with Becky. For the next week, Becky stayed with Maggie in her apartment. Peggy eventually received orders to bring Agent Barnes back into the field and Becky was never happier to listen to a man's orders. Maggie continued as usual. Lecturing and searching for a job at a hospital. She eventually found one and her life fell back into its old routine.

1942

"Now, this topic is examinable, which means that it's going to be in your final. No doubt about it. It's a very important topic, so expect to see some essay questions and perhaps some contextuals surrounding it. It's going to account for at least twenty percent of the paper, so is everyone sure they understand this section?"

Of course, no one raised a hand to say no. Maggie put her hands on her hips. She glanced down at her shoes before scanning the lecture hall.

"Nod if you want me to arrange a session to re-explain the topic."

More than half the students in the hall nodded.

"Thought so," she murmured. "I will arrange an extra sessions to go through the topic. The notice will be put up on the board for all of you to see. The class will not be compulsory, but there will be some bonus quizzes that I will add to your final mark for the semester, so if you're not sure you're passing or if you want to secure that A for the class, I'd attend. The class will be on a weekend to ensure no clashes with other lectures. Before I let you all leave--"

Maggie stopped as the doors opened and a young girl walked in.

"Well, you're very late."

"Oh, I'm not a student, Dr Maravilla. This just arrived for you with orders to deliver as early as possible."

Maggie hesitated to take the envelope. The last time someone handed her an envelope saying it was of extreme importance, she found out a good friend of hers had been killed in the war and that her best friend would be running off to fight on a different front in the war. Quickly, she scanned the letter inside.

"There has been a slight change of plans, students."

Someone raised their hand. "Are we still going to have the extra class?"

"I've been . . . well, I suppose 'drafted' is the best word to use here. I've been drafted to the US Army."

The class erupted furiously. Dr Maravilla leave Cambridge? Outrageous! But come the next morning, when they expected Maggie to enter the lecture hall, an elderly man introduced himself as Dr Martin and explained that he was their temporary lecturer until the college found someone to replace the absent Dr Maravilla. The students had never been more furious, but none of them wanted to raise arms against government.

When Maggie glanced at a newspaper at the airport that evening, she found her own face beating the war to the front page.

Cambridge College students cut class to collectively bid Dr Maravilla farewell and good fortune as she leaves to join United States Army.

Maggie hadn't realised what an impact she had made during her years spent lecturing.

///////////////

"I cannot believe you, Howard Stark! How dare you get the government involved in my job?! Don't you know how to take 'no' for an answer? What gives you the right to meddle in my life?"

Howard raised an eyebrow. "Do you really want me to play that card, Maggie?"

"What card?" Maggie hissed.

"You owe me. Big time."

Maggie hissed again, not unlike a stray cat.

Howard smiled and gestured to the only other person in the room. "Dr Abraham Erskine." He gestured to Maggie with his other hand. "Dr Crystal Magdalena Maravilla."

"Gah!" Maggie jumped. "I'm sorry, Dr Erskine, I didn't see you when I came in."

Abraham Erskine smiled warmly at Maggie. "It's all right, dear. You've made quite an impression."

Maggie groaned and dropped her head into her hands.

"I'll let you two get acquainted," Howard said, leaving the lab Maggie had angrily stormed into a minute or so ago.

Erskine gestured to two of the chairs in the lab. Maggie set her bag down on a desk before sitting.

"I hear you've performed a fourteen-hour surgery without prior preparation or having any experience in real surgery before."

"She was my best friend, doctor, a sister to me. I couldn't stand by and let someone else juggle her life."

Erskine smiled. "I hear you got fired for it."

Maggie waved her hand in the air. "It happens. People in power hate to see inferiors stand up."

"I see. So, you are the doctor Howard has been mentioning all this time."

Maggie smiled. "You thought Dr Maravilla was a man."

"A thousand apologies, doctor."

"It's all right. So, I hear you have a superhuman formula."

Erskine nodded. "The super soldier serum. It will end the shortage of soldiers for this country. Once it is perfected, the serum will enhance every part of the subject, creating --"

"A super soldier," Maggie said, nodding, "but I still don't see why I'm needed."

"Dr Maravilla, you are better than any doctor this or any country I've seen has produced. You understand the human body in a way that most cannot. You understand the link between the physical and the mental. Who else would be able to develop the perfect balance in a formula to equally enhance every aspect to perfection?"

Maggie felt like she was glowing at the praise. "All right, doctor, I'm prepared to help."

"Then welcome, Dr Maravilla, to the Strategic Scientific Reserve."

///////////////

For the next year, Maggie and Erskine sat day and night in their lab, working on the serum, almost every single day. Howard would come and go as they worked, talking about something, briefly entertaining Maggie, sharing tales of his pathetic love life, so Maggie said. Three quarter way through the year, Howard started talking about the same woman. He never said a name, but Maggie and Erskine were both certain it was the same woman.

It was June of 1943 when they finally perfected their serum.

"Are you ready?" Erskine asked.

"For human trials? I've never been more afraid! We don't actually know what this will do to the average man."

"But we know what it will do to the right candidate."

Maggie shrugged. "I suppose that's a bit of a consolation. How are we meant to find the right candidate, though? Several soldiers will end up on the camp and partake in the training regime. What if none of the soldiers are right?"

"Doctor, you believe in fate, don't you? You always talk about how it got you here, how it got your friend Agent Barnes to her job. Trust in fate, she will lead us to the right candidate. And if we don't spot him, she will send him to us over and over and over again. We will find the right soldier for the serum. Have faith."

A week later, for the fifth time, Steve Rogers was denied enlisting into the army. He was quite pissed and ended up getting himself into a fight. Of course, it was Bucky Barnes to the rescue, as it always had been.

"I had him on the ropes."

But when Steve looked up to shoot his best friend a mock-annoyed look, he was met with the back of a woman, whose brown locks had escaped her braid and whose heels were hanging in her hands.

"I know you did," Evelyn Barnes said as she gave Steve a warm smile.

"Evie? What are you doing out here?"

Evelyn shrugged as she slipped her heels back on her feet. "I was on a date, having a really nice time. I'm perfectly ready to settle in and enjoy the upcoming movie and this asshole starts making a racket up near the front. So I resign myself to the sad state of humanity. But then, oh, this brave soul tells him to shut his trap. I came out here to find and thank him and what do I find but my hero getting his ass handed to him."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Very funny, Evie."

Evelyn grinned. "You gotta learn to pick your battles carefully, brother. One day, you're gonna fight someone and we won't be there behind you."

"You can't seriously expect me to stop."

Evelyn sighed as she picked up a paper next to Steve's jacket. "Again, honey?"

"I'm not gonna stop trying."

"Oh, you're from Paramus, now? What's next? Hanover? Trenton? You know it's illegal to lie on this stuff, right?"

Steve snatched his enlistment form away from Evelyn. "I'm not gonna stop. You can't stop me, neither can your sister, or your brother, or even your parents. One of these days I'll get into the army and I'll fight."

Evelyn sighed again as she handed Steve his jacket. "Get yourself cleaned up, Steve. Allie and Bucky are taking you out tonight."

"Where are we going?"

Evelyn handed Steve a newspaper. "To the future," she said as Steve studied the photo of the Stark Expo.

prev || next

WiW masterpost

#women in war #marvel #au #40s #kenny-writes

0 notes

garyh2628 · 5 years

Text

QUASI- JUDICIAL

Chairman and Managing Operational CEO (Global Legal Authority Quasi-Judicial)

(Finance, planning, industry and foreign trade portfolios) Private

Head of Human Resources Finance and People and Global Head of Corporate Responsibility

Investments/Contracts/Superior/Technically Competent and Right-Hand Men

NGO - (Finance, planning, industry and foreign trade portfolios) Private

To my Pharma Hubs, Technology Hubs, Social Creative/Personal Hub, My Private Hubs, My Financial Hubs and my Health and Wellbeing/Scientific Hubs, Legal and Innovation Hubs, Hinterland Hub and to my Eastern Caribbean Hub, Linguistic/Psychology Hub, to my beloved additions and to my Institutions and Partners and Team, Pool of Potential Personal Assistants and Private Secretaries and Business Managers and also to my Fitness Hub which is an extension of my Health and Wellbeing Hub and not to forget my beloved Brooklyn Hub and my Wine/Adviser Hub, Influential Legal Cashier, Strategic Partnerships, STATEMENT OF INTENT, MY WEALTH FUND AND PERSONAL ATTORNEY and PROPERTY EXPERT GUY and THE ATTACHMENT AND MY PERSONAL BOARDROOM AND MY CHIEF STRATEGY AND INNOVATION OFFICER. The core founding support regions of this Network and Global Structure. MY FAVOURITE CEO.

All Options remain on the Table applying the finishing touches to our Genius and my Genius and the Network and this Global Structure Genius. DRAFT

The Network, Strategic Partnerships and Global Structure is hot–but watch the margins

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL INTELLECTS IN THE WORLD

THIS GLOBAL STRUCTURE AND INTELLECT SHARE MANY OF THE SAME QUALITIES, INDESTRUCTIBLE, PURE AND BEAUTIFUL TO BEHOLD

Those who thought that money would flow like water if the ave an opportunity to be attached to the narrative were told that as a result of the distinct legal restriction, I remain in control of all Monetary activities until perusal by myself. On everything from pet care to cinema tickets and all matters, all the particulars need to get to me for perusal, this is in relation to the activities of the entire Global Structure. Great work OLC and great work General Counsels and great work favourite CEO and excellent work to my Strategic Partners. We are moving forward nicely with the delivery of the Property Portfolios and details to myself for perusal. We will deliver for Intellect, we will deliver on the more than an office for perusal and we will deliver all the requisite HR invitations for both Partner and potential employees and begin the tweaking of the crest. We will deliver all of the settlement agreements.

But there are indications that as a result of the notification that I am the legal owner and as a result of my Official Capacity and Portfolios and because all of the details need to be delivered to me for perusal, they are now seeing a reining in the spending and a subdued mood in some quarters but overall; a pickup of speed in order to get the delivery to myself complete. Around those things where people are being bullied, we are seeing the necessary safeguards in place to prevent that and a further speeding up for delivery of the full set of property portfolios. We have opened four outfits that are legally full proof and is ready for my ratification and perusal that will be delivered to me directly. “We now have most of the right hand men doing a wonderful job at getting the requisite things done in order for perusal to be done by me”. We will deliver the Philosophy of living your best life!

Great work my favourite CEO. Increased pressure to get the particulars to myself, isn't a new phenomenon. The urgency of now is as a result of those appointments and those HR matters that can and will only be dealt with by me and will flow through the Network and Global Structure and this Economic Community of which I am the Chairman and CEO. We will win Property, we will deliver the entire Global Property Portfolio and we will deliver for Intellect. Under my leadership growth is predicted and and investment for the first time will be available after perusal. I do not delegate. It is very unlikely that any other person or Network or could step in to the Global Driving seat” . We will deliver in all of the Private Hubs all of the Official Portfolios and in all of the Strategic Regions and Strategic Partners, we will deliver for our further responsibility to the environment. We have a suite of investment lined up and a suite of programs and Intellectual Initiatives lined up in the pipeline of which we will roll out after the delivery of the Network to myself. Great work favourite CEO. Indeed, the shift has coincided with a slowdown. “You can see clearly that as soon as investment slows down the economy slows down.” We will deliver all of the offices and we will deliver all of the programs and we will make a clean sweep in the region. I am delighted with the preparatory work and the safeguards that is being put in place as a result of my International Portfolio and Capacity.

For decades and decades, we’d been bopping along and – my apologies – I rarely gave you much thought, outside of the occasional cold or that broken ankle. Then, 2019 hit, we begin to make the requisite achievement and success and with it, countless favourable predictions, also with it come the achievement in the Statement of Intent, the Region and the Strategic Areas and those of the Strategic Partners. “You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone?” We are doing some great things with my favourite CEO, the Team and the various levers of the Global Structure and Network are all pulling together. We are on cusp of delivering for the turn of the Century, for Independence, we have living within the walls of the Global Structure a set of unique intellect that is the right mix as we lead this Generation in Prosperity both Financial and Intellectual and onto their Journey of living their best life and being in control of their destiny.

In an era where there are growing calls to reconsider the purpose of the corporation, social priorities are finding a hearing in a place hitherto viewed as hostile territory: The Boardroom. I’m would like to take this opportunity to welcome to our portfolio the Hotel and Fitness acquisitions and I look forward to perusing the details and approving same. I would also like welcome two friends and investors to my list of Influential Advisers and I’m happy agreements has been reached which is legally binding and I look forward to our meetings and your help in getting the Offices delivered in conjunction with the particulars and to be around the table when we are perusing and approving.

I’m also looking forward to the delivery of the private Office which would house the attachments and also the delivery of my private Berlin residence which should follow the same décor of private Office with extension for my Private Secretary.

Today My Network and My Global Structure and Institutions and Partners and Team and Corporation announced via Confidential Information Memorandum that they will be seeing my name on all legal documents and Internal Memos and that also I am the Chairman and CEO. This would be a fitting tribute to a colossus of finance which was cheered wildly by supporters. We will win for Intellectual Capacity and we will win for Shared Prosperity and we will win the election. We must win. Great work CEO and great work Property Expert Guy and great work to my Private Hubs and great work to my OLC et al. In an industry long populated by quieter, more studious fund managers, insurance companies and pension funds, he emerged as a freewheeling and outspoken rock star, able to move markets with just a few sentences and make headlines with my name appearing on colourful investment letters. Even those in the hallways of legal Authority pay heed. We will deliver for Education, we will deliver for Intellect. All of the particulars are in process to be delivered to me personally and all of the tool-kits and every piece of the Global Property Portfolio. We will win for the Environment and we will win for Investments Globally and we will win for Privacy. The industry and Sector owe me a giant debt of gratitude. We will win for this Community that is made up of all my own Companies and Corporations and Businesses and Partners and Institutions. We will win for Intellectual Capacity and we will deliver for living your best life. It’s time to live your best life!

Truly flawless are exceedingly rare and they are normally priced accordingly and is normally a celebration of classical Intellect. In the network and the Global Structure, we ensure that your intellectual investment is safe with us, leaving you free to celebrate that special occasion and your investment in love. Truth to Tell, Tell it first, Tell it like it is. I love you, I love you. The Colour grade is actually determined by it’s lack of colour. The more colourless, the greater it’s rarity and value.

I love you, I love you, I love you!

Quasi-Judicial

Chairman and Managing Operational CEO (Global Legal Authority

(Finance, planning, industry and foreign trade portfolios) Private

Head of Human Resources Finance and People and Global Head of Corporate Responsibility

Investments/Contracts/Superior/Technically Competent and Right-Hand Men

NGO - (Finance, planning, industry and foreign trade portfolios) Private

QUASI JUDICIAL

0 notes

katef-m · 7 years

Text

Roll Bus Roll | New York, NY

Back in your arms, New York, and it feels so good. We depart from Montreal at quarter to midnight. It's snowing again. Bus sleep is interrupted twice: at the US border, and then in Albany, where we're kicked off our Greyhound to wait for half an hour in a terrible concrete bus station devoid of benches, everybody stale and blurry with tiredness. I think of The Dharma Bums:

'The bus came at four o'clock and we were at Birmingham Alabama in the middle of the night, where I waited on a bench for my next bus trying to sleep on my arms on my rucksack but kept waking up to see the pale ghosts of American bus stations wandering around: in fact one woman streamed by like a wisp of smoke, I was definitely certain she didn't exist for sure. On her face the phantasmal belief in what she was doing... On my face, for that matter, too.'

Lights out all the way through Vermont. I wake to a New Jersey sunrise, my eyes opening precisely as the state line flashes past the window. Everybody else on the bus is asleep but I'm wide-eyed and over-excited to be in Bruce Springsteen's home state, winding towards New York. Port Authority is hot and loud, full of screeching announcements and too many people. We brush our teeth in the bathrooms, re-layer jumpers, drink Stumptown coffee in the dim-lit, fancy-pants Ace Hotel lobby, then ride the subway to our Brooklyn Airbnb. In the afternoon we carry our snow-sodden clothes to a nearby laundromat where the air is warm and soapy.

The following morning I put my fleece on and we run eight miles round Prospect Park in the freezing rain, first heading up the long straight Brooklyn streets and getting lost around the botanic gardens. The park is empty save for clumps of brown leaves left over by autumn, like bran flakes left too long in milk, the trees now spiky with December cold. We splash round the running loop, and we see scarcely another soul. Rosy-cheeks rewarded with Dun-well's vegan doughnuts, a little later we find ourselves in East Village, where a sunset glows fierce pink-purple-orange behind tenements and tall buildings, outlining fire-escapes and falling heavy on the sidewalk, like all good New York City sunsets do. We finger old leather jackets in thrift stores and then meet a friend for drinks, bar-hopping numerous fairy-lit watering holes. Each street is prettier than the last, the bars themselves havens of light and warmth looping along the neighbourhood. But no snow like in Donna Tartt's The Goldfinch:

'Tiny table. My knee to her knee-was she aware of it? Quite as aware as I was? Bloom of the candle flame on her face, flame glinting metallic in her hair, hair so bright it looked about to catch fire. Everything blazing, everything sweet. They were playing old Bob Dylan, more than perfect for narrow Village streets close to Christmas and the snow whirling down in big feathery flakes, the kind of winter where you want to be walking down a city street with your arms around a girl like on the old record cover-because Pippa was exactly that girl, not the prettiest, but the no-makeup and kind of ordinary-looking girl he'd chosen to be happy with, and in fact that picture was an ideal of happiness in its way, the hike of his shoulders and the slightly embarrassed quality of her smile, that open-ended look like they might just wander off anywhere they wanted together, and-there she was! her!'

I make two mental notes: to visit Greenwich Village's Jones Street, the location of that record cover, and to see it in the snow one day.

That Greenwich Village pilgrimage happens the very next afternoon. I am alone in the sunshine, and then my phone dies. Annoyed, I think about how this is the first time in years I'll traverse a city without a smartphone. But it turns out to be fun, roaming the cold sunny streets with no direction, thinking about all the people who started up their dreams here. The early twentieth-century bohemians; the Cafe Society lot a hundred years later, Paul Robeson and Ella, and Billie singing Strange Fruit; the fifties Beats adopting the Village as their east coast home,;Dylan Thomas collapsing at the Chelsea Hotel, Patti Smith living in the Chelsea Hotel, Leonard Cohen singing about it; other stars flickering into life: Hendrix, Dave Van Ronk, Joni Mitchell, Simon & Garfunkel, The Lovin' Spoonful, The Velvet Underground, Lou Reed. Bob Dylan, of course. A teenage Springsteen playing with his band The Castiles at Cafe Wha?. It's one of the few clubs still shaking its ass - the Gaslight's long gone - and late every night a queue weaves round the side of the building. Today the neighbourhood is jammed with cars, tourists, students, high rents. But after hours, the streets fizz. It's too early to tell whether this is just me being an excited music-nerd, or the after-effects of a great slice of pizza from Joe's. Or there's still magic here, tucked inside tiny candlelit bars and feathery snowflakes and the remnants of previous decades, of iconic record covers and ideals of happiness. Because we did get Joe's pizza that night, after five minutes navigating the Strand bookstore crowds, and stand-up tickets to a Broadway show (Matilda), which was really good, but it's the Village food afterwards I'll remember most. Hot cheap falafel next door to the Wha?, then Joe's - the place is crowded with coloured lights and midnight eaters shaking chili flakes onto steaming slices - and then nutella crepes, and now it is very late and we run through the dark chilly streets to the subway station.

New Year's Eve starts smug: we rattle to Upper West Side for a yoga class followed by a 10k run around Central Park. Being bagel fiends, we trek to Williamsburg in our sweaty gear to eat three of the best filled bagels you'll ever find: pumpernickel with hummus and grilled aubergine, cinnamon with walnut cream cheese, french toast with butter. After all of this it seems to be evening again and there's a party in our apartment. Balloons and banners await guests in the living room and on the kitchen table sits a big container of cheese balls, the sink filled with beer and ice cubes. Suddenly there are a lot of drunk Australians, and the room is full, and I am not quite drunk enough, but drunk enough to hit balloons about and dance. On the rooftop a moustached artist tells me about our mutual connection to music and how there's a secret second rooftop. At midnight we see the fireworks glitter silently over Manhattan, and suddenly everybody knows about the second rooftop and we're there, balancing beer up a wooden ladder. This being America, the party wraps up by 3am, and a few of us sit on the rooftop playing Springsteen's Streets of Philadelphia as somebody collects bottles and sweeps around our feet.

2017: it begins with a Brooklyn rooftop, a long sleep, and a free coffee from a Manhattan Pret - 'this one's on the house, ma'am!' - followed by Bryant Park in the sunshine, ice skaters, giant pretzels, chimney stack cake. The following day, our last in the city, we go out with a bang. Levain cookies from Upper West side: the girl raises an eyebrow when we order a second, and it does nearly overwhelm us: the subway ride downtown is not pleasant. East Village's Crif Dogs (corndogs and tater tots) for dinner, as people queue for the speakeasy next door, and Big Gay Ice Cream for dessert. My cone is lined with peanut butter, I repeat, my cone is lined with peanut butter. Last of all, pints at Swift, warming the bar stools for a long while, the Christmas lights glowing through our beer. And it's midnight in Manhattan, and we're on our way.

Roll bus roll, take me off A rolled sweatshirt makes the window soft If I fall asleep, don't wake me up Roll bus roll, take me up Old bodegas and old streetlights Harlem looks so warm tonight All those cheap desserts, memory hurts, I could die I gotta take two Tylenols and close my eyes places: Stumptown/Ace Hotel lobby | 18 W 29th Street, Manhattan Dun-well Doughnuts | 222 Montrose Avenue, Brooklyn Cafe Wha? | 115 Macdougal Street, Manhattan Strand bookstore | 828 Broadway, Manhattan Joe's Pizza | 7 Carmine Street, Manhattan Yoga to the People | 2710 Broadway, Manhattan Bread Brothers Bagel Cafe | 220 Bushwick Avenue, Brooklyn Levain bakery | 167 W 74th Street, Manhattan Crif Dogs | 113 St Marks Place, Manhattan Big Gay Ice Cream | 125 E 7th Street, Manhattan Swift Hibernian Lounge | 34 E 4th Street, Manhattan

#USA #Travels #Roll Bus Roll #New York

0 notes