#third ave. el

[newyorkthegoldenage]

The entrance to the 23rd Street station of the Third Avenue El, 1950.

Photo: Arnold Eagle via Christie's

[nellaplettblog]

[stanmahana1971blog]

[kennahjune]

Teen Dad

Quite surprised there’s not a lot of these AUs considering how much Steve apparently sleeps around but anywho.

Teen Dad Steve who finds out one of the girls he’d slept with pre-Nancy is pregnant and he damn well intends on helping out however he can.

Turns out; helping means taking his son (his SON) and having full custody because the mom, no matter how much she wants to be involved, can’t take care of him.

Steve’s alright for the first 6 months of little Louie Harrington’s life.

But then his parents come home and shit hits the fan.

Which— fair enough. He was only 17 and already had a whole ass son, they were gonna freak out.

But kicking him AND aforementioned son out? With no where to go? No money? Barely a job?

That’s just fucked up.

But Steve makes do, and lives out of his car for no more than a month before finally landing his hands on a cheap trailer in Forest Hills.

He and Louie move in and sure, it’s rough. But he’s got a nice paying job at the Diner and yeah maybe he has to skip some classes to get extra money but it’s fine. It pays his bills and rent and that’s all that really matters.

It’s fine.

And then the second wave of Upside Down fuckery hits, and Steve’s suddenly in the hospital with a grade 4 concussion (whatever that means) and his top priority is to make sure someone is with Louie.

Enter Claudia Henderson, Dustin’s mom.

She takes care of Louie for as long as Steve is in the hospital and then some when Steve can’t be left unsupervised in case his head worsens.

And that’s how the Party is introduced to little Louie (as they all call him).

Steve’s stunned to find out that Mike and Lucas are so good with little kids, but the two of them love stopping by the Henderson’s (and later on the trailer) to see little Louie and offer to babysit for him whenever.

The other kids take a little bit of time to warm up to Louie (and the fact that Steve’s actually a parent) but when they do Steve never ceases to have at least one of them over.

And with all the racket brings in the attention of nosy neighbors.

Steve is well accustomed to nosy neighbors. Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln next door to his parents were always looking to snitch on him for something or other.

But Miss Bottomette and her grandchildren Noah and Casey were sweethearts. Steve didn’t mind having them over for dinner or going over there. Miss Bottomette was the one to teach him how to actually put his cooking skills to work.

Linda and Tom, a newly married couple down the road, were quite eccentric but that’s what made them charming. Steve found their dog, Dasher, quite the sweetheart.

And even Mr. Knowles, the grouchy old man next door to Miss Bottomette, seemed to take a liking to Steve and Louie.

It wasn’t long before the story behind the new boy in 2718 New Bird Ave was revealed: Teen Dad Kicked Out.

Then the whole town knew. And while most people were nice about it, even supportive of how he had taken a step into his child’s life, there were always those people who sneered.

Steve ignored them, loving the life he was working on making for himself and Louie in the trailer park.

The only neighbors he never seemed to meet, despite the looming presence, were the Munsons, right across the street.

Steve knew about the Munsons. Well— he knew about Eddie Munson; drug dealer who was on his second run of senior year. Steve actually shared a few classes with him.

He’d yet to meet the mysterious Wayne Munson, but that was to be expected with work schedules.

And then Steve was graduating, and his parents didn’t show up.

But that was totally fine. Cause the kids, Claudia, Joyce— even Hopper with El— were there. They held up little baby Louie while Steve walked the stage.

He’d heard rumors of Eddie Munson having to retake senior year for a third time— but he didn’t dwell on it for too long. Because sure, he missed more than his fair share of classes and scraped by with a C+ average.

But he did it.

And then summer hit, Dustin left for camp, and the mall opened up.

Steve picked up a job at Scoops Ahoy, cutting back on his hours at the Diner but still staying there because the money was needed and the tips were lovely.

And he meets Robin Buckley, and actually talks to Eddie Munson every once in a while when he stops in with his band, and lets the kids sneak into the movies because he’ll be damned if he robs them of a normal summer.

And then Dustin comes back and their reunion is short-lived because Russians are hellbent on torching non-existent information out of Steve and he’s busy getting his third concussion and then there’s a fucking flesh monster and Billy and Hopper for protecting them and—

It’s not a good night.

But then he’s rushed to the hospital and he tries to call Miss Bottomette only for the call to refuse to go through and shitfuckgoddammit.

Because what about Louie?

Miss Bottomette said she’d be alright watching Louie until Steve got home, but Steve wasn’t able to go home until someone was able to make time to take him home.

Usually, he’d lean on Hopper for this stuff, since his parents were out of the question. But—

But Hoppers dead.

So he’s stuck at the hospital for another day or two until finally, Claudia comes to pick him up.

He’s with Dustin in the backseat of the car, anxiously bouncing his leg and biting at his fingers and nails until Dustin gives in and just holds his hand. Robin’s there to, having been able to leave after the first night but coming with Claudia to pick him up. Steve’s relieved to have them both close by, even if his hands reach for Erica subconsciously.

His trailer’s empty when he gets home, and Miss Bottomette isn’t answering the door.

Steve’s on the brink of a full blown breakdown before Mr. Knowles— bless his heart— points them across the street.

The Munsons apparently have his son and have for a bit now since Miss Bottomette had a minor seizure and couldn’t be left alone with Louie. Mr. Knowles assured Steve that she and the kids were fine and staying with him for the moment.

Steve wasted no time afterwards sprinting to the Munsons and knocking on the door. Dustin and Robin are close behind him, Claudia waiting patiently in the driveway.

The door is answered by a gruff looking old man that’s taller than Dustin but slightly shorter than both Robin and Steve.

“You Harrington?”

Steve nods so fast he faintly wonders if that’s how bobble heads feels.

They’re let in in no time and the old man— the infamous Wayne Munson— calls out of Eddie.

Eddie Munson emerges a moment later with little Louie in his arms, bouncing softly on his feet to keep the baby calm.

Steve is in front of him in a second, scooping Louie gently out of his arms and into his own.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Dustin’s rubbing his arms and Robin his back. Claudia is talking to Wayne, explaining what had happened (or the cover story version at least) and Eddie is hanging back a few feet from the three of them.

Robin takes little Louie in her arms and shoos Steve to the couch to calm down.

“Let him meet his auntie, Steve. You take a minute to breathe now, yeah?”

Steve was led to the couch with a soft hand on his shoulder from Eddie Munson, and they sat side by side while Steve worked on easing his breathing and to stop fucking crying.

Eddie’s shushing him and after a moment (and a clearly pointed cleared throat from Robin) Eddie wraps his arms around Steve’s shaking figure.

They leave the Munsons’ trailer is promises of new babysitters and a new friendship.

And then the fuckery that’s 1986 happens.

.

First Part:

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Announcing the Picks and Shovels book tour

This week only, Barnes and Noble is offering 25% off pre-orders of my forthcoming novel Picks and Shovels.

My next novel, Picks and Shovels, is officially out in the US and Canada on Feb 17, and I'm about to leave on a 20+ city book-tour, which means there's a nonzero chance I'll be in a city near you between now and the end of the spring!

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865908/picksandshovels

Picks and Shovels is a standalone novel starring Martin Hench – my hard-charging, two-fisted, high-tech forensic accountant – in his very first adventure, in the early 1980s. It's a story about the Weird PC era, when no one was really certain what shape PCs should be, who should make them, who should buy them, and what they're for. It features a commercial war between two very different PC companies.

The first one, Fidelity Computing, is a predatory multi-level marketing faith scam, run by a Mormon bishop, a Catholic priest, and an orthodox rabbi. Fidelity recruits people to exploit members of their faith communities by selling them third-rate PCs that are designed as rip-off lock-ins, forcing you to buy special floppies for their drives, special paper for their printers, and to use software that is incompatible with everything else in the world.

The second PC company is Computing Freedom, a rebel alliance of three former Fidelity Computing sales-managers: an orthodox woman who's been rejected by her family after coming out as queer; a Mormon woman who's rejected the Church over its opposition to the Equal Rights Amendment, and a nun who's quit her order to join the Liberation Theology movement in the struggle for human rights in America's dirty wars.

In the middle of it all is Martin Hench, coming of age in San Francisco during the PC bubble, going to Dead Kennedys shows, getting radicalized by ACT UP!, and falling in love – all while serving as CFO and consigliere to Computing Freedom, as a trade war turns into a shooting war, and they have to flee for their lives.

The book's had fantastic early reviews, with endorsements from computer historians like Steven Levy (Hackers), Claire Evans (Broad-Band), John Markoff (What the Doormouse Said) and Dan'l Lewin (CEO of the Computer History Museum). Stephen Fry raved that he "hugely enjoyed" the "note perfect," "superb" story.

And I'm about to leave on tour! I have nineteen confirmed dates, and two nearly confirmed dates, and there's more to come! I hope you'll consider joining me at one of these events. I've got a bunch of fantastic conversation partners joining me onstage and online, and the bookstores that are hosting me are some of my favorite indie booksellers in the world.

BOSTON (Feb 14): Boskone, 4PM, Westin Boston Seaport District

BOSTON (Feb 14): Brookline Booksmith with KEN LIU, 7PM, 279 Harvard Street, Brookline

VIRTUAL (Feb 15): YANIS VAROUFAKIS, sponsored by Jacobin and hosted by David Moscrop, 10AM Pacific, 1PM Eastern, 6PM UK, 7PM CET

MENLO PARK (Feb 17): Kepler’s Books with CHARLIE JANE ANDERS, 7PM, 1010 El Camino Real

LOS ANGELES (Feb 18): Diesel Bookstore with WIL WHEATON, 630PM, 225 26th Street, Santa Monica

SEATTLE (Feb 19): Third Place Books with DAN SAVAGE, 7PM, 17171 Bothell Way NW Lake Forest Park

TORONTO (Feb 23): Another Story, 630PM, 315 Roncesvalles Ave

NYC (Feb 26): The Strand with JOHN HODGMAN, 7PM, 828 Broadway

PENN STATE (Feb 27): Kern Auditorium, 7PM, 112 Kern Building

DOYLESTOWN (Mar 1): Doylestown Bookshop, 12PM, 16 S Main St

BALTIMORE (Mar 2): Red Emma’s, 2PM, 630PM, 3128 Greenmount Ave

DC (Mar 4): Cleveland Park Library with MATT STOLLER, 630PM, 3310 Connecticut Ave NW

RICHMOND (Mar 5): Fountain Bookstore with LEE VINSEL, 6PM, 1312 E Cary St

AUSTIN (Mar 10): First Light Books, 7PM, 4300 Speedway/43rd

BURBANK (Mar 13): Dark Delicacies, 6PM, 822 N. Hollywood Way

SAN DIEGO (Mar 24): Mysterious Galaxy, 7PM, 3555 Rosecrans

BELFAST (Mar 24) (remote): Imagine! Festival with ALAN MEBAN, 7PM UK

CHICAGO, Apr 2: Exile in Bookville with PETER SAGAL, 7PM, 410 S Michigan Ave, 2nd floor

BLOOMINGTON, Apr 4: Morgenstern Books, 6PM, 642 N Madison St

PDX, Jun 20 (TBC): Powell’s Books (date and time to be confirmed)

I'm also finalizing plans for one or two dates in NEW ZEALAND at the end of April, as well as a ATLANTA date, likely on March 26.

I really hope you'll come out and say hello. I know these are tough times. Hanging out with nice people who care about the same stuff as you is a genuine tonic.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/06/picks-and-shovels-tour/#19-cities-plus-plus

[joeinct]

Third Ave. EL Window, Photo by Arnold Eagle, 1936

[paolo-streito-1264]

Arnold Eagle. Third Ave. EL, 14th Street, 1936.

[manhattanstepbystep]

Streets of El Barrio: Third Ave between East 110th Street and East 109th Street in Spanish Harlem, upper Manhattan

[garrickc]

@frnoialles & Garrick —New York City, Brooklyn, 1954.

Sometimes it's better to be feared, than to ever be loved.

The air reeks of carcinogens and diesel. Burnt rubber bleeds black on the tarmac, shadowing the ground in tread-printed streaks. Purnell-Hooley did good in making the streets last a little longer. Ain't bad to run a track now that there's no cobblestones and dirt to contend with. God rest his soul.

It's all about the streets in this city. And if anyone went wandering between Copacobana on 51st and El Morocco on Broadway, there's undoubtedly something there to lure. Patiently waiting for the snatch.

Garrick waves exhaust smoke out of his face, then inhales from the dying end of a bone. Manhatten's come by to blow a little gas up Brooklyn's ass. They want Third Avenue wearing their badge, and it's currently in Sanguinous territory. For the commoners, better known as the Stingray's turf.

Third Avenue has Jackals spilling everywhere. They're wearing embroidered leather jackets and packing lumps in their pants. Manhattan aren't a subtle bunch of racketeers; they'd like to know who's wearing their colours. Jackal's stand out. But it's both Ray's and Jack's forming blockades at each end of the Avenue with Kaisers and Siatas.

"Hey, boss."

Garrick's head tilts towards the mechanic who'd been setting up the line. He can already tell from the tone that one of his own doesn't have good news. Nemo's scrubbing at oiled hands with a dirty rag, and shifting his gaze between Garrick and Frankie, like they might sting at any moment.

"We gotta problem." Nemo's a clown. They already know that. All cugine and nothing else. He takes his sweet time getting to the damn point. "Your broad is gonna botta de sango, if she keeps at it down there."

'Course she is. "Says she's looking for Ray, and I done told her that she don't wanna be lookin' for that kind of trouble—"

Garrick's hand is across Nemos's mouth like a strike, silencing him. He can feel Frankie's eyes in the side of his head. But she can comment about his broad later. Nemo's got a mouth that runs, and he better be careful with it if he wants to keep a tongue.

"Who else knows?"

"About your hoowah?" The derogatory has eyes black like a shark. It comes with all teeth and a sudden desire to feed.

"What did you call her?" It's rhetorical. Because Nemo can't answer when all his teeth crack on the sidewalk. It's a blunted kindness when Garrick's tone loses its playfulness. "Scram, Nemo." If he knows what's best for him, he knows to zip it.

Lara shouldn't be chasing a man in this street or giving an earful at the blockade, but he doesn't want her on any other. Leered at by the unsavoury who've all come out to see who might dominate Third Ave. He pushes off the flip-top he and Francoise are resting against and whirls on his sister in crime before she might get a word in edgeways; she talks more than he does.

"Don't look at me like that, Frankie." It's not her name, in these parts. But he's not all about calling her Scylla. The Rays can call her that all they like. "Ain't nothing bad about Lara."

Which is why she isn't perched with the greasers and the mob as it is. She's all fine-tuned and nice. A real mama's girl, and he's not a man mama's like to let their daughters dance with.

Brooklyns always got a small to it — asphalts got more blood in it, than the hospitals. With time, you got used to the hum of something wrong beneath your feet. It was no open ocean — there was no breeze in her hair and no tales of sirens and other evil sea creatures laced tired mouths and ears in the middle of the night. Stars looked better from the boat, too. Scattered across the dark sky, like prayers someone actually heard. Brooklyns never gonna know the beauty of a star laced sky. There was lipstick on her neck, a smudge of dark velvet she didn't bother to wipe away. Let it linger, let it stain like a bruise — no, better: a kiss from a woman who knew how to take what she wanted and didn't ask. Bold and beautiful, a wildfire in human skin. The kind of woman who didn't flinch when she looked into Frankie's eyes. Who didn't run when the teeth came out. Flames were still there flickering in dark hues — where all words ans thoughts turned into smoke. These days nothing stayed long on her mind. Nothing stuck. Except her. They didn't say it out loud. Not if they liked their tongues. But they all knew. The Rays, Garrick, stupid Nemo. Even The Jackals if they stared too long. They were thinking it — that she's gone soft. That that stupid smile on her face wasn't a threat. It was worse. The kind of smile you wear when you're in love. A cigarette hung loosely between full lips, while she watched Garrick pretend he's got patience. He didn't. Not really. Then Nemo opened his dumbass mouth. And Garrick's hand snapped across his face like a guillotine. He got what was coming for him. Frankie couldn't stop the vampire. She knew that look — he was about thirty seconds from painting the sidewalk with Nemo's face. Pretty sure that was a tooth that flew past and smacked her on the strappy heel. She glanced down at it, pearl-white and wet, and laughter tore from her, bright and bubbly and so out of place it almost sounded sweet. "Impulse control, peach." she cooed, smoke lacing every syllable. "Come on—we can’t start pulling out tongues every time someone’s being a little shit." But her grin said she wanted to.Hell, she might even help. How much has she really seen of Lara, anyway? Pretty face. Skirt a little too tight, like she wanted someone to notice. Frankie didn't mind the view, or the style. That human girl was a soft thing. A curious thing. The kind that didn't know what the world could do to her. She was waiting to be devoured, wasn't she? Dark side always did look sexy and mysterious but death wasn't all that. "You really like her, then, mm? She's a real firecracker." And then, with a little sugarcoat of mockery: "You told her yet? That your heart’s got no thump-thump, lovebug?"

Of course he hasn't. Because if he had, Lara would be standing beside him and she'd be speaking her own damn defenses. She is a firecracker, and she's all spark in the few months they've been gunpowder and matches. Frankie knows that the same way she understands Garrick's temprament when challenging the disrespect of his own. Ray or not, there isn't room for talking smack about those he wants to associate with. Lara Rivkin has a nice townhouse, with a nice family and even nicer prospects. She might not be like them, but they're no better or worse for it. Garrick knows the difference between equality and taking stands on other sides of the fence.

It's a grumble, "Did it look like I pulled out his tongue?" Nemo needs it for when he talks to the right people. He knows an engine like he knows himself in the mirror, knows just where to put his hand to get something ticking just right. His sister's seen him do worse than a shattered jaw on a sidewalk. There's bigger fish to fry out in Brooklyn than Nemo and his loose lips.

Garrick braces on the flip top, hands squeezing the edge of the door, nails digging into the soft interior: "And she doesn't need know squat. But that doesn't make her a hoowah, she's better than that."

And if she's at the blockade, he should probably go see her.

But he can hear the engines roaring behind him, readying on their marks. Third Avenue is at stake and the Rays need a driver. He can't skip because Garrick trusts two people; himself, and the woman next to him.

It's a trade-off of responsibilites. Frankie can have this one. She'll have them keep Third Ave. He knows she doesn't like to lose (and there's always hell to pay, when she does), but he's got a girl to go pluck off the sidelines.

"Get behind the wheel, hot shot." They've got time, but he needs her taking something a little seriously. Impulse control, doll. Yet Garrick can't help but know: "Isn't yours watching out here somewhere? How'd she take it?"

No thump-thump, and teeth sunken into pale flesh.

Garrick's imagined it a dozen times. The way he'd tell her. What she'd taste like, spread out beneath him. Would she scream, when she saw his fangs? Would she notice, if allowed too close the cold of his skin, and ask about the absence of breath? There's envy there, in amongst his wondering — Frankie's got her girl, whether she's compelled to her side or not, she knows. But even before the mob, or the turf war, there's a curse in his blood that's more ancient that the city. Perhaps even older than the sea. How can he tell a woman, with a life, that she enjoys time with the dead? How can he tell her that by doing so, she'll only end up the same. Buried, drowned, lifeless, in the fray of bloodshed.

He can't run The Stingrays, if his mind's on her. That's the bottom line.

And they need Third Avenue, to do business with Queens, and Manhattan.

Lara didn't belong in his world. There was no shiny throne for her to sit on. No fancy closet where she could leave her things, in the small two bedroom apartment of his life. Not even a drawer. She remembered saying it to Nemo, one night at the bar —half drunk, half honest: He was going to break her. A pretty, little thing like that? She'd crack like porcelain. Or she'd break him instead. Either way, it was going to be beautiful. Frankie, herself, had shoved beautiful gowns under the bed, to make room for leather pants and t-shirts twice her size. She couldn't wear satin to a street war. If Lara was going to be a part of Garrick's world, she better pick something she wouldn't cry about if it got stained. He had to make a decision. If he had not made one, yet. She liked to believe she'd be the first to know, if he did. Let her in, or lock her out — Frankie had made her choice, but her girl was a scoundrel. A liar, and a thief, and the kind of beautiful Frankie couldn't leave untouched. Especially at night, when the moon hung low in the sky and those blue eyes lit up like fireworks, at the blood on Frankie's lips. The keys felt hot in her palm. She flipped them once, twice— some kind of ritual. Her thumb brushed over the keychain: a rusted tag from that one night in Queens, when the cops were too slow and the getaway was clean. First time they ever figured they could build an empire from the wreckage. Brown gaze dropped on the car, and that seat — her kind of throne. Not solid gold, not velvet-lined. It didn’t glitter, didn’t gleam. It burned. Hot like coal. Not many could withstand the heat. She slid inside, one leg in, then the other — "Mine's waiting for me at home, when I'm out here, or gone late at night, getting bloody. You think Lara can do that?" Frankie didn't wait for an answer. One wasn't needed. "'Cause let me tell you something, peach— mine doesn't flinch at how still my heart is, when she lays down on my chest. She doesn't ask to know, more than I've told her. Just helps me undress and lights me a smoke. Now that's love." One hand draped over the wheel, the other tapping ash out the cracked window, as she leaned her back into the seat. "You trust me with the streets. Maybe you should trust her with the rest of you." a beat, "Go get your pretty girl, G." The engine revved, letting her feel the growl in her bones. She got a real hard-on proving people right.

The difference here, between their girls is that Garrick doesn't want Lara to be waiting up for him. He wants her beside him. She ain't a housewife, but she could be his missus. What he's not sure Frankie sees, is that he's seen what a woman in power can do, from pirates, sailors, queens, diplomats and what they're capable of when the door is closed to them. They'll kick the hinges off and bleed more than any man ever would. The distinction is that they'll fight for a cause with all their might, a man will expect to be given a reason to. Garrick will always even the playing field; Lara could belong beside him, as much as Frankie or Nemo.

Can Lara do bloody? He wants nothing more for her to have an ear to his chest, and find peace in the quiet. That's the cost, because it'll never beat. She'll have to meet him in the solace, or they'll never thrum in tandem.

And what does Frankie know about love?

(What does Garrick?)

They haven't got time to beat around the bush. She needs to go line up, and he has to make sure Lara isn't making trouble. (Though, undeniably, he'd like to see it)

It's not about trusting her. Garrick trusts she can keep her head on, when it gets fast. Thinks she knows a little more than she lets on about the type she brushes shoulders with. But to trust her with the truth?

"What if she ain't like you and me?"

What if she runs? Once he gives her a branch to cling onto. Maybe it's too soon, he's still learning what she's about. And she's learning Ray, like he hasn't got a history beyond the city. He can't let her go if she knows. She'll blow the entire operation. "Maybe the only street she's meant for is Wall Street, and I ain't touchin' those suits unless it's with my teeth."

Yet the idea gives him agita. Garrick steps back from the car, when Frankie gets it heated, and he takes it as his cue, backing up to let her have room to manuever round to the starting line.

He does have a girl to see.

"Skedaddle." a beat, "Knock 'em dead."

With Frankie, that's got a whole different meaning.

"Ain't nobody like you and me, sugar. That's the point." she laughed. And why the hell would he want someone like them anyway? That was the thing about her and Garrick — they were carved from the same crooked branch. No Lara, no Mary, no Sunday school sweetheart could wedge their way in between that. "But if she ain't built for this world, that don't meant she can't make a new one. Maybe she don't got fangs yet, but maybe she's got fire somewhere else. And you—" Frankie shot him a look over her shoulder, sharp enough to nick an artery, "—you ain't scared of fire, are you, G?" With a wink, she was gone. Tires kissing that asphalt hard, leaving dark trails of bruises behind.

END.

[onefootin1941]

The Third Ave El in NYC, by Evelyn Hofer.

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Rare color photo of the Third Avenue El in 1955, the year it was demolished. Chromogenic print.

Photo: Elliott Erwitt via Christie's

[terristarstrike]

Meet The Jotu-Trio:

Terrina Ave-Lo: The sharp-witted and adventurous leader of the group, a 57-foot-tall, 18-year-old Jotuzon/human hybrid from El-Doe, who is able to sizeshift herself down to human level. She came to Earth in the hopes that it would be the only place where she could be free to explore the world and learn about humans. When it comes to adventuring, Terrina is very frivolous and mischievous and constantly needs her girlfriend Bailynn (whom she frequently calls her lovebug) to keep her in check.

Terrina is a mixed-race Afro-Puerto Rican who is proud of her newly discovered Latin culture on her human father's side. At school, she's the beloved Queen Bee with a heart of gold and a popular cheerleader to boot. Despite being happier on Earth, she still struggles with anxiety over her hybrid nature and secretly fears that she might not belong anywhere else, but with the help of her friend group, she becomes inspired to use her bloodline to be a living bridge between worlds.

Bailynn Lo-Shanta: Smart, calculated, and ambitious, Bailynn is the "Lisa Simpson" figure of the group. She's a biracial straight-A student and a massive UFO fanatic who was born displaced in the body of a human, but after learning the truth about her heritage, she transformed herself into her true form: a 55-foot-tall Jotuzon! Like Terrina, she is also able to sizeshift herself to giant size or human size.

Bailynn remains deeply connected to her human father, from his New Orleans upbringing to his Paranormal Journal that was passed down after his unfortunate death. Despite being the team mom, she has her moments of gleeful fangirling, especially when she's learning about her true Jotuzon culture. She's still figuring out where she belongs in the universe, but her love for her friends and her Californian hometown is forever unbreakable.

Jack El-Benn: Jack is the curious and fun-loving third wheel to the lovey-dovey couple of Terrina and Bailynn. He has been Terrina's best friend during childhood, and he is the most fascinated with the humans who live beyond El-Doe, even owning a secret library dedicated to the Earthlings, all to themself.

Jack is a bookworm who often gets the wrong idea about human treasures and can be easily distracted by lights or glitter, but they always love to infodump to Terrina about their love for the humans' internet. He's still figuring himself out as a nonbinary, transmasc Jotuzon, but he's always got Terri and Bailynn to support them. His biggest dream is for the Jotuzons to establish peace with the humans so that he can finally make his library accessible to the public.

[henrysglock]

Lock Him Up And Throw Away The Key

There's something to be said for the wording (words in the words show as usual):

Virginia: Promise me you'll lock him up and throw away the key. Brenner: Understood. Virginia: The Principal’s girl, Patricia Newby.

Patty is equated, here, to the key that could free “Henry” from being locked up. She's literally thrown away in the scene with Brenner, and she was the last thing keeping Henry from falling to the Shadow. She was quite literally a key/the thing keeping him free.

This kind of wording often comes up in relation to the supernatural plot (and I'm sure there are more I can't remember off the top of my head). Joyce loses her keys in ST1 when Will goes missing. Mike speculates that closing the gate would kill Will in ST2, implying that Will is the key that needs to be thrown away in order for the gate to close/the Mindflayer to be locked up. Will is equated to keys. The Russian machine is the "Key", and it holds a gate open, and it takes two keys to close it/lock it. Joyce turns both those keys, equating her specifically to keys. Vecna needed someone (El) to “open the door”, equating El to the Russian “Key”. El is also heavily paralleled to Patty, and they have a number of duplicate lines between the two of them (I have a post drafted about that, it's in the works). El is, then, a key. Scott Clarke, in the pitch, is described as the key to solving the mystery of Montauk, and Alexei, one of the designers of the Russian "Key" is described as a "Russian Scott Clarke". Scott also has the key to the AV room in ST1, which he gives to Mike...which ends in El contacting Will in the void.

Something shrimpresting to me is that the key thing seems to come in sets of three. Two keys, two man rule, two man crew, sure. However. There’s always a secret third guy.

In TFS, Patty's accident took three despite the wings requiring a two-man crew. It took "Henry" unlocking one side, Brenner unlocking the other…and Virginia selling Patty out at all. Patty wouldn’t have had an accident if it wasn’t for Virginia. Virginia’s the secret third guy here.

It took three to close the gate in season 2: Mike in the tunnels, El at the gate, and Joyce to take Will out of the equation as that key. El and Will are the two focal points/the two "keys". Mike, despite the fact that he's not supposed to be there, is integral. He's the secret third guy.

In season 3, Murray, Hop, and Joyce argue about whether the Key is a two or three person job. It ends up requiring all three of them, despite there only being two keys. At above-ground Stargate, it took Mike's planning, El's powers, and Joyce's keys to take down the fleshflayer. Joyce wasn’t meant to be there, but she was integral to completing the mission. Joyce is the secret third guy this time.

In season 4, it took three to knock Vecna down, even if they weren't totally successful: El in the Mind Lair, Nancy in the UD, and Murray with the blowtorch in Russia. El was the late addition, she's the secret third guy. ST4 failed because Nancy's plan was rushed/full of pitfalls, and El's mental/emotional strength wasn't bolstered during the piggyback. Dustin makes specific references to needing both Mike irt the UD and Will irt the Mind Lair, and he was right. Mike's the planner/strategizer; They needed him in Hawkins. Mike would have been in Hawkins, were it not for the vacation. Will has the connection to One/the Mindflayer; it should have been him there with El, rather than Mike (hell, Will is the one who drove the monologue. There's a reason why Hopper said "Getting to Mike, that's the key" irt making mileven break up...). It failed because the keys were in the wrong places.

Will and El are said to be main characters next season…our two keys. Will is a key multiple times on a mental basis, and El is a key in relation to powers...Which means there's and integral secret third guy. And the guy? That’s Mike, baby!

This becomes interesting when we consider Will’s on-film Henry parallels, El’s Patty parallels, Mike’s Scott parallels…plus the boy "Henry" attacked in Nevada and the little black haired boy who sits next to Henry in the “Henry is 7” birthday video. Secret third guy.

It also becomes interesting when we consider this weird “three outcomes, two timelines” deal. Secret third guy.

All this to say...A Henry, Patty, Scott trio as compared to the Will, El, Mike trio irt Edward/Vecna. Come home to me <3

(Also, an aside: In the video, even Brenner sounds taken aback by Virginia's lack of care towards "Henry". He interrupts her to reassure her they'll take good care of him, and she comes in with the "I don't care about that, just make sure I never have to see him again" steel chair. Goddamn.)

[klausinamarink]

One Kid Gone, Another Up and Vanished (part 7)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 next: Part 8

spoilers but a phone call gets through!

“You’re a thousand percent sure?”

Mike groans as he checks down the school halls, “Yes, Lucas. How many times do I gotta tell you that?”

“Well, maybe until I’m positive that we’re not having a collective auditory hallucination or the weirdo isn’t tricking us.” Lucas crosses his arms. Beside Dustin, El mutters “auditory hallucination” to herself with furrowed eyebrows.

“You guys hear that?!” Dustin exclaims too loudly, earning equally loud shushes. “Sorry, but El just said a scientific word without mispronouncing it! She really does have superpowers…”

“Not now, Dustin.” Mike hushes as they finally get to the AV club. He unlocks the door and lets everyone inside after peeking in. He guides El to sit in front of the radio while Lucas and Dustin turn it on.

Dustin won’t lie - he’s super excited to see El use her powers for the radio. He couldn’t believe it when she made Will’s voice come out. Will! Alive and singing!

But he’s still confused over Mike’s news of Will being with someone named Eddie. Eddie who? is their biggest question but El can’t say because she doesn’t know his last name or how to describe him.

“He’s a friend.” She keeps telling them.

Dustin prays it’s not Eddie Tremblay from fifth grade. The little sucker doesn’t deserve to be Will’s new friend after his football landed on their rocket project last month.

“Aaaand we’re in!” He announces, hopping behind El. Mike and Lucas squish against him even though they clearly have much more space.

El closes her eyes and listens to the whining static. Then the static changes through channels, voices quickly overlapping until they get more comprehensive. Then the voices get compressed into six, four, two-

“-Control to Major Tom..”

Dustin shoots his hand forward and grabs one of the speakers. But so does Lucas and Mike and now they’re slapping each other’s hands until Lucas finally takes it and yells, “Will, can you read us? Over!”

“‘Your circuit’s dead, there’s something wrong..’”

At the sound of the second person, Dustin’s first thought is oh thank God, it’s not Tremblay. Then his second thought is hm, this Eddie guy sounds kinda cool. Then his third thought is oh my god, we gotta talk to Will!

“Will! Do you copy? Over!”

“Will, where are you?”

“You feeling a bit better so far?”

“Tell Eddie we’re saying hi! Who is he? Over!”

“I’m getting cold again..”

“Me too. C’mon here.”

“Will! We’re right here!”

“How the hell are they not hearing us?”

“I wish I could go home…”

“So do I…”

El gives out a painful gasp and the radio explodes into flames. Dustin manages to extinguish it before the rest of the room catches, but the fire alarm goes off.

They all stare at the now-ruined transmitter, their only chance of connecting with Will and his mysterious new friend.

—

Eddie’s definitely missing.

It’s a fact that Jeff grows more sure of every day since Wayne Munson had asked him for Eddie’s secretive hideouts.

He keeps trying to ignore the seed of dread in his stomach, but it’s impossible now with the slightly somber atmosphere in the school after the morning announcement of Will Byers’ death. The fact that Eddie hasn’t shown up for classes or in the cafeteria again today isn’t helping either.

“If Munson’s still gonna be on his bender, he should’ve at least cancelled this week’s session.”

Jeff takes a half-open Skittles bag from Maya’s tray and throws it at Evan, making the two members jump. Maya because those are her Skittles and Evan because the bag hits his chest making more pieces fly out on the table.

“Eddie’s not on a bender.” Jeff hisses at Evan. Across him, Frankie is giving him one of his Don’t-Make-This-Any-Worse looks.

Evan huffs and crosses his arms, “Oh, yeah? Then where the hell is he?”

“Definitely not on a bender of any kind!”

“Gee thanks, that clears things up.”

Jeff’s about to snap back, but Frankie discreetly kicks his leg with a warning glare. It might be a good call because Jeff doesn’t know what to say next. Another defence of Eddie, for sure, but nothing to quench the rest of the club’s antsy-ness.

“Maybe he’s gone to a concert. Like hitchhiked to Indy or Chicago?” Maya asks after picking up her spilled candy.

“But he has a van?” Daniel, the senior member of Hellfire and their current drummer, frowns pointedly.

“What concert could’ve he gone to? Is there even any band playing in this bum state?” Evan raises his eyebrows.

“I dunno, Dio?”

“They’re touring in the UK right now.” Frankie says. Jeff shoots him a bewildered look that’s the equivalent to screaming are you kidding me? Frankie gives him a Play-Along-With-It look.

“Well, that settles it.” Evan raps his knuckles on the table. “Munson’s saved a fucking ticket to the goddamned Iron Lady’s territory and is breeding chicks in Dio’s mosh pit as we speak.”

Jeff stands up, no longer feeling hungry. He throws his half-eaten sandwich at Evan. The other boy gives out a disgusted shriek as the mayonnaise hits and stains his shirt. “Dude! What-”

“Shame on you.” Jeff keeps his voice even, just quiet enough for only Hellfire to hear him. Maybe it would somehow reach Eddie wherever the hell he is right now. “The only good thing about Eddie being absent is that he isn’t ripping the skins off of you and your characters right now. Especially you, Evan.”

He stares Evan down, who visibly gulps. “Eddie took you in the club’s open arms because he saw you were a loner who needed the right people to hang out with or you would’ve been one of the bullies. And this is how you thank him?”

He looks at the rest of the members and points at them accusingly. “When Eddie comes back from whatever he’s doing, I hope that rest of y’all feel guilty for thinking he doesn’t care. Because he absolutely does.” Then he grabs his bag and leaves the cafeteria without a second thought.

Outside is chilly as usual and the breeze helps relax Jeff’s nerves. For a while at least.

He stands at the parking lot, trying to think what he should do when he hears someone running over. He looks up and groans.

“Frankie, leave me alone, man.”

“So you haven’t heard anything from Eddie?” Frankie’s voice isn’t accusing but his look might’ve been.

“No. Not since the band practice days ago.” Jeff walks away but Frankie still follows him. “Then his uncle came and asked if I knew any places Eddie frequents. I told you guys that already.”

“Doesn’t stop Evan’s stupid theories.” Frankie mutters.

“You should’ve shut him up!”

“Are you kidding? You did better than what I could’ve done.”

“Words are stronger than death looks.”

Frankie snorts. He goes quiet as they reach the end of the school parking lot. Then he says, “Are you going to search for Eddie?”

Jeff stops. Turns and stares at him. “Uh, yeah? I mean, from what he said, Wayne’s probably already doing that. So, I dunno, I’m probably gonna do the bare minimum. Like where am I going to look, dude?”

Frankie doesn’t answer. His face is strangely pale and looking at something behind Jeff. He follows his friend’s phase and feels the dread well up in his mouth when he sees a poster on a nearby telephone pole.

He doesn’t need a closer look to recognize the black and white photo of Eddie from two months ago grinning at him or the large word MISSING written in Sharpie above it.

He tries very hard not to notice that it’s stapled right below Will Byers’ already wrinkled poster.

It’s a very strong feeling to see your best friend’s missing poster a few days after you last saw him alive.

Jeff forces to tear his eyes away from Eddie’s captured monochrome cheeriness. “Know what? Fuck it. Let’s find him. Wanna start at the woods?”

—

There’s something about singing quietly in the nightscape hell mirror version of your bedroom that makes Eddie’s fingers twitch to jolt it down somewhere.

After the meltdown at the house, Will had grew more quiet. Eddie had rocked him until Will complained of motion sickness and then Eddie had held him even when they slept.

After piggybacking the kid and singing “Should I Stay Or Should I Go?” (at least until Eddie admitted death by earworms and convinced a change to “Space Oddity”) on the way back to Forest Hills, Will seemed to be back in his original spirits. Still quiet but no longer on the verge of tears next to Eddie. Although his coughs started to sound more wet and shook his small frame like a leaf.

Eddie prays to god that he can speak to Wayne this time. He hopes his uncle to come up with a cooler code system than Mrs. Byers and maybe get them out somehow.

But the trailer is quiet, save for Will’s whistled breathing as he sleeps in Eddie’s arms, the old itchy quilt cocooning them both. He has to stay up. Keep a lookout for the demogorgon in this hell land and for Wayne in the real world. But he feels so tired. If he can rest his eyes for just a moment…

The sound of muffled crying wakes him up.

—

The longer Wayne stares at the posters, the bigger the impulse to rip them up grows.

After Hopper left, he had went back inside and started on making the Missing posters for Eddie. The hardest part of it had been trying to find the right photo of his nephew and he had held back tears at how much Eddie had grown. How happier he looks.

He had printed copies at the library, keeping his head down from curious and pitying eyes. Christi Waldon was nice enough not to charge him for the fees.

Then he started putting the posters up and Wayne had felt like he was making a mistake.

Nobody never said anything how difficult it is to go around town again, putting a poster with your child’s face silently begging strangers who may disliked them to find them, and to do all of this without the police helping.

Wayne had printed 100 copies. He only managed to put up 18 of them before it became too much and hurried home.

Now there’s a pile of 82 posters with Eddie’s face staring up at him on the table. Wayne can’t bring himself to rip them up no matter what his mind demands it. He has a new superstition that if he does, Eddie will never be found alive.

He checks the time. Seeing it’s only after six, he sighs heavily and takes out his cigarette. He’s briefly overcome with the memory of catching a fourteen year old Eddie trying to smoke and how his smart cookie of a nephew swallowed the lit cigarette, immediately threw up, and sobbed while Wayne had to sit down so he wouldn’t break his own ass from laughing so far. After they’d both calmed down, Wayne showed him how to smoke properly and said-

He said…

What did he say?

Something erupts from his mouth. He clamps a hand over, suddenly worrying that he just got sick. But there’s no taste of bile. Only wet salt. He takes his hand off and, ah. He’s crying.

Wayne gives a wet laugh. Then it gasps into another sob. He covers his mouth again, unable to hold the tears back.

Above him, the lights flicker.

It feels almost comforting.

Wayne sniffs, watching as the bulbs hang on to its dear life of electricity. Then one of the lamps next to the couch start flickering as well. Slow and rhythmic.

The sadness does go away, but it makes Wayne feel the back of his neck hairs stand up.

—

Eddie drops his hand from the lights, stomping over to the phone. “Fuck this, now’s the chance.”

Will glances at him from where he’s crouching by the lights, still tired from being jostled awake so soon, “Eddie?”

He turns to him and says, “Little Byers the Vanished, how does one make a landline in the Vale of Shadows?”

“You, uh, just pick it up-”

Eddie does exactly that.

“Wait! It won’t even last-!”

—

The phone rings with a shrill.

Wayne snaps his head over to it. He’s breathing slowly, watching the landline like it’s his childhood spider.

The atmosphere in his trailer feels suddenly colder. As if there are ghosts present. Waiting.

The phone rings and rings until it gets to voicemail, his gruff message for the last decade. “You’ve reached the Munsons. Leave a message after the beep.”

There’s nothing after the beep.

Wayne looks at the lights again. The ceiling light has stopped but ones over the kitchen and door are flickering this time.

The phone rings again.

He stands up slowly, walking over to the phone. It rings louder to his ears now. He tries to ignore the sudden sense of a presence behind and beside him as he picks the phone up and holds it to his ear.

He hears static as if the caller has a bad connection.

He clears his throat and speaks, “Wayne Munson speakin’.”

The static crackles with some kind of harsh breathing. It’s loud to make Wayne cringe away and hang up-

“..Wayne..”

He freezes. The anxiety vanishes in an instant. “..Eddie?” He chokes out.

“..Wayne!”

“Oh my lord…” Wayne clutches the phone closer. “You’re alive, right? Eddie! Tell me where are you!”

“..I’m-”

The phone bursts into literal shock. He drops it with a yell and it clatters to the ground, dead.

That was him. That was Eddie’s voice.

Breathing raggedly, Wayne’s gaze snaps up to the lamps flashing maniacally. The air around him feels desperate and sinks down upon him. Anxiety comes back as quick as it comes, squashing on the brief spot of hope he felt.

“Nah, fuck this.” He mutters as he swipes his keys and runs out of the door. He can’t deal with more ghosts at this hour.

—

“Nonono—NO!”

Eddie slams his hands against the lights too hard. The pulsing glass bulbs nearly crack under the pressure.

None of it stops the sound of the truck engine starting.

“Wayne, it’s me! Can’t you hear me?!” Eddie’s throat is already dry from screaming, but he doesn’t care about it. “UNCLE WAYNE! JUST STOP AND LISTEN TO ME!”

He runs outside to the ever barren yard. He tries not to think about Wayne leaving just like how his dad did in his very last visit. How he had tried to chase after his dad’s car until Wayne stopped him. How he had been a crying mess while Wayne told him that both of them will stay together from now on.

“WAYNE, PLEASE! YOU PROMISED TO STAY!”

The truck drives away, farther and farther. If Eddie can catch him-

His lungs constrict themselves again. He stumbles, scraping his knees and palms on the ground. He coughs, gulping in too many shaky breaths that almost tastes like glass shards. He calls out-

“Come back! Come back!”

It comes out as a hoarse whisper.

His throat hurts.

The truck disappears. The sounds of the trailers’ muted everyday life and his own painful wheezing replace it.

Eddie is vaguely aware of Will shuffling up next to him and wrapping his arms around his shaking shoulders.

-

Taglist: @unclewaynemunson @steves-strapcollection @hellion-child @sidekick-hero @mmmmwaffles94 @demolitionjetstar @hbyrde36 @princessstevemunson @sirsnacksalot @tartarusknight @lyriclight @kodaik97 @plsdontdrinkmylavalamp @bookbinderbitch @gutterflower77 @soaringornithopter @angeldreamsoffanfic @panicatthediaz @renaissan-vvitch @manda-panda-monium @newtstabber @little-trash-ghost

[sealedintime]

Third Ave. EL, 14th Street, Photo by Arnold Eagle, 1936

#vintage #photos #old #history #sealedintime #historical #nostalgic

[joeinct]

Third Ave. EL, 14th Street, Photo by Arnold Eagle, 1936