Post by snowwhitey on Aug 6, 2011 17:56:08 GMT -5
There was something beautiful about watching your childhood dream become a reality. Slowly, or at least slowly to worker bee Miles, his club was looking more less like a storage space, and more like... well, like a club. The oak floors were polished and gleaming, the little round two persons tables shined like new pennies. The bar was made of solid cherry wood, and smelled beautiful, being freshly made, despite the antiqued look. Some of the walls were purely brick. They had a city edge to them, a shotty basement feel that a speakeasy was meant to have. The others were a warm cream, without a stain or flaw, having been painted only yesterday. Today Miles would hang the decor.
It was meant to look unplanned, a little messy, but chic. There were old, framed, pictures of the greats: Peggy Lee, Ray Charles, Nat Cole King, Nina Simone. Others of the actors of the era: Jobyna Ralston, Bridgette Helm, Douglas Fairbanks. Others were aged advertisements for the Jazz clubs of yesteryear, their colors faded from time, with ladies in flappers dancing with gents in suits, while a shadowed band played in the back ground, or the like. Then other posters, framed as the ads were, that were particularly hard to find. European Absinthe ads, with it's allusive green fairy, and the old Moulin Rouge posters, drawn by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. Beautiful, whether because of the blanched colors or in spite of, Miles could not even tell. His pride and joy of the decoration though were the Prohibition memorabilia. An almost tongue and cheek way to stick it to the system, though that system had long since past.
It wasn't about getting drunk.
It was about rebellion and freedom.
Grinning at his handy work, Miles decided the time had come for a short break. His body ached, and so much had been accomplished. But there was still so very much to do. Grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler he had handy, he couldn't but be filled with a sense of pride. His club.
Sevens.
On the old piano, which stood on the stage, sat his trumpet. It was an old thing, but polished like new, and gleamed in the stage light. On the outside of the bottle Miles grasped in his hand, his fingers twitched, mimicking the movements of play. Yes, just a break. One short song, then back to work.
Grinning, Miles Quincy climbed the stage, which was still in need of a good sweep, mop, and shine. And he sat on the piano bench, and held his trumpet, the warm stage light beating down on his bald, chocolate, brown, head. His broad shoulders were basically exposed, from the black a-shirt that he wore on his torso. Simple blue jeans, held up by a belt, and work boots. All spattered in pant and sweat, though were clean besides the days grime. It was not his usual style of dress. Miles was a fan of suits, or at the very least a nice shirt, vest, and tie. He had an eye for the timeless, and was a fan of beautiful things.
Holding up the trumpet, Miles pressed it lightly to his lips, letting out an almost ethereal, mournful, tune. It filled the club hall, echoing on the walls. In front of him, Miles imagined, as the the music escaped the horn. He imagined the club full, people drinking and being merry. A way to reach out to a world, that he had for many years felt so very isolated from. To share with that world his passions, let them feel what he felt when he heard the music or tasted the food. A moment to be enjoyed between strangers.
What more could be asked for?
It was meant to look unplanned, a little messy, but chic. There were old, framed, pictures of the greats: Peggy Lee, Ray Charles, Nat Cole King, Nina Simone. Others of the actors of the era: Jobyna Ralston, Bridgette Helm, Douglas Fairbanks. Others were aged advertisements for the Jazz clubs of yesteryear, their colors faded from time, with ladies in flappers dancing with gents in suits, while a shadowed band played in the back ground, or the like. Then other posters, framed as the ads were, that were particularly hard to find. European Absinthe ads, with it's allusive green fairy, and the old Moulin Rouge posters, drawn by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. Beautiful, whether because of the blanched colors or in spite of, Miles could not even tell. His pride and joy of the decoration though were the Prohibition memorabilia. An almost tongue and cheek way to stick it to the system, though that system had long since past.
It wasn't about getting drunk.
It was about rebellion and freedom.
Grinning at his handy work, Miles decided the time had come for a short break. His body ached, and so much had been accomplished. But there was still so very much to do. Grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler he had handy, he couldn't but be filled with a sense of pride. His club.
Sevens.
On the old piano, which stood on the stage, sat his trumpet. It was an old thing, but polished like new, and gleamed in the stage light. On the outside of the bottle Miles grasped in his hand, his fingers twitched, mimicking the movements of play. Yes, just a break. One short song, then back to work.
Grinning, Miles Quincy climbed the stage, which was still in need of a good sweep, mop, and shine. And he sat on the piano bench, and held his trumpet, the warm stage light beating down on his bald, chocolate, brown, head. His broad shoulders were basically exposed, from the black a-shirt that he wore on his torso. Simple blue jeans, held up by a belt, and work boots. All spattered in pant and sweat, though were clean besides the days grime. It was not his usual style of dress. Miles was a fan of suits, or at the very least a nice shirt, vest, and tie. He had an eye for the timeless, and was a fan of beautiful things.
Holding up the trumpet, Miles pressed it lightly to his lips, letting out an almost ethereal, mournful, tune. It filled the club hall, echoing on the walls. In front of him, Miles imagined, as the the music escaped the horn. He imagined the club full, people drinking and being merry. A way to reach out to a world, that he had for many years felt so very isolated from. To share with that world his passions, let them feel what he felt when he heard the music or tasted the food. A moment to be enjoyed between strangers.
What more could be asked for?
