Sentinel of the Dead Tracks
Mar. 21st, 2013 02:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonFile it: Big E has me back on the clock patrolling for Heartbreak Hotel Security. First time since we worked Spring Street many moons, trials and adventures ago. Big E is an ex-cop, you won't spot it in the seal bark laugh or the spark in his eyes when he does. But it's there in the walk, in the voice, in the body language that spells it out country simple- 'Here is a man who won't throw the first punch, but sure as hell will deliver the last.' But while he may be an ex-cop he's a peace officer eternal. The peace officer is different from the cop. Cops use their authority to enforce the law amongst the populace, peace officers though are more concerned with ensuring their protection.
Me? I try to be a peace officer usually but tonight was different. Tonight I wanted to be a cop. Not a turn-in-your-badge-and-gun kinda cop, nor a John Woo undercover killing machine, but that one who's too old for this shit or so he reminds himself as he continues to inexplicably survive gun fights, explosions, car chases or all three at once. Why not? Heartbreak Hotel Security has all the other tropes on the roll call. There's Big E as the Sarge, there's the two ex-army muscle with an OTP don't fuck with me country kind of charm, and I'll be damned if we didn't even have ourselves an eager rookie on his first night at the job. Not nervous, but energetic, also ex-army. In fact I'm the only squid in the bunch. You know...in case complicated knots need to be tied or should the auxiliary engineering of a battleship require maintenance.
The gigs for the Terminus Film Festival down at the Goat Farm. Big E stations me to man a swath of dead railroad tracks running behind the Farm's courtyard. It's easy access for any asshole who wants to sneak in and a good place to have covered when working a sizable crowd. It's roughly sixty strides long (I counted) and mine alone to defend for the next five to six hours. My only company - two all white stray kittens scampering about the patrol.
Here's the layout. All that remains of the tracks are the rails. Grass grows perfectly between them. Above a half a shot of moon and a sprinkle of argent stars. To the west, from at least the bathtub filled with dirt and potted with flowers, is the entrance from the lot. Here's where a potential asshole can make the slip. North is shielded by a rusted tin shed, with corrugated walls dilapidated and swallowed with kudzu. To the east, is another entrance point over by the some apartments they have in the area. This is problematic for me, as there are plenty of residents that access the area there regularly. Folks walk their dogs here. South is a downward hill that trails of too a cliff with a steep drop. If I didn't do anything else tonight, I at least kept this scene from ending in tragedy:
"No, no, bro, it's okay." Biff Wittgendouche the III bellows at me as I approach him, "I like live here and shit, y'know."
"Sir, I'm going to need you to stop right there, please." I pick up my pace and wave him back. Biff ignores me and continues to stumble downwards.
"I said 'Stop'!' I shout and storm the remaining distance.
Biff's unimpressed but he stops in his tracks, beer sloshing over his fist. Watch that fist, Jack, you know too well a drunk's the most dangerous opponent you can face. Biff calls me out when I get up close. Biff tells me I have no call telling him where and where he can't go since he pays his bills here. I nod as he tells me I'm not a real cop and I nod when he repeats his claim to residency. Only when he's done do I point out to him the simple fact that he was about to stroll off a cliff. A good one story fall to courtyard, right behind the Warhorse Cafe. Instant kill? No way. Broken limbs definitely and more than a maybe on someone getting sued.
Biff blinks as I remind him that his residency does get him into the event for free and though I'm sorry for the inconvenience he's going to have to walk the extra minute or two around the tracks. He complies. That's just two hours in.
What's odd is looking down at the Warhorse. The last time I was here at the Farm, it was to read a piece for Naked City. This was last December. The Mayan Apocalypse only days away and the Magpie as well flying in for the holidays. He had a piece read by the Viceroy. With Teddy Bear manning the stage with Madame Giovanna Ricochet and Sura and Marian Nett in the audience it was like an old Collective reunion. Remember feeling dressed up. Remember the Tall Cowboy went on before me. Remember I was in the toilet when they finally called my name. Remember Sura yelling if I washed my hands from out in the crowd when I took the mic. Plenty of laughs, mine with them. It was the one time I didn't feel nervous up there. Or maybe I should say a different kind of nervous. As if the man I was reading about could hear me that night.
I don't know how I did, really. That's on whoever was there and who cares really? Because that's how it goes. One night you're up in a DJ booth taking requests, another you're taking IDs. One night you're doing blow off a beautiful woman's nipple in a bathroom, the next you're scrubbing it clean. And yeah, one night you stand on a stage proud before your peers delivering your art as if the world really will end soon only to return again to herd drunks from cliffs at a film fest. Well either way it's an experience. So along the dead tracks I march attentive, flashlight in hand and music in the air.
All in all just another shift at Heartbreak Hotel Security.
10-4. Over and out.
Me? I try to be a peace officer usually but tonight was different. Tonight I wanted to be a cop. Not a turn-in-your-badge-and-gun kinda cop, nor a John Woo undercover killing machine, but that one who's too old for this shit or so he reminds himself as he continues to inexplicably survive gun fights, explosions, car chases or all three at once. Why not? Heartbreak Hotel Security has all the other tropes on the roll call. There's Big E as the Sarge, there's the two ex-army muscle with an OTP don't fuck with me country kind of charm, and I'll be damned if we didn't even have ourselves an eager rookie on his first night at the job. Not nervous, but energetic, also ex-army. In fact I'm the only squid in the bunch. You know...in case complicated knots need to be tied or should the auxiliary engineering of a battleship require maintenance.
The gigs for the Terminus Film Festival down at the Goat Farm. Big E stations me to man a swath of dead railroad tracks running behind the Farm's courtyard. It's easy access for any asshole who wants to sneak in and a good place to have covered when working a sizable crowd. It's roughly sixty strides long (I counted) and mine alone to defend for the next five to six hours. My only company - two all white stray kittens scampering about the patrol.
Here's the layout. All that remains of the tracks are the rails. Grass grows perfectly between them. Above a half a shot of moon and a sprinkle of argent stars. To the west, from at least the bathtub filled with dirt and potted with flowers, is the entrance from the lot. Here's where a potential asshole can make the slip. North is shielded by a rusted tin shed, with corrugated walls dilapidated and swallowed with kudzu. To the east, is another entrance point over by the some apartments they have in the area. This is problematic for me, as there are plenty of residents that access the area there regularly. Folks walk their dogs here. South is a downward hill that trails of too a cliff with a steep drop. If I didn't do anything else tonight, I at least kept this scene from ending in tragedy:
"No, no, bro, it's okay." Biff Wittgendouche the III bellows at me as I approach him, "I like live here and shit, y'know."
"Sir, I'm going to need you to stop right there, please." I pick up my pace and wave him back. Biff ignores me and continues to stumble downwards.
"I said 'Stop'!' I shout and storm the remaining distance.
Biff's unimpressed but he stops in his tracks, beer sloshing over his fist. Watch that fist, Jack, you know too well a drunk's the most dangerous opponent you can face. Biff calls me out when I get up close. Biff tells me I have no call telling him where and where he can't go since he pays his bills here. I nod as he tells me I'm not a real cop and I nod when he repeats his claim to residency. Only when he's done do I point out to him the simple fact that he was about to stroll off a cliff. A good one story fall to courtyard, right behind the Warhorse Cafe. Instant kill? No way. Broken limbs definitely and more than a maybe on someone getting sued.
Biff blinks as I remind him that his residency does get him into the event for free and though I'm sorry for the inconvenience he's going to have to walk the extra minute or two around the tracks. He complies. That's just two hours in.
What's odd is looking down at the Warhorse. The last time I was here at the Farm, it was to read a piece for Naked City. This was last December. The Mayan Apocalypse only days away and the Magpie as well flying in for the holidays. He had a piece read by the Viceroy. With Teddy Bear manning the stage with Madame Giovanna Ricochet and Sura and Marian Nett in the audience it was like an old Collective reunion. Remember feeling dressed up. Remember the Tall Cowboy went on before me. Remember I was in the toilet when they finally called my name. Remember Sura yelling if I washed my hands from out in the crowd when I took the mic. Plenty of laughs, mine with them. It was the one time I didn't feel nervous up there. Or maybe I should say a different kind of nervous. As if the man I was reading about could hear me that night.
I don't know how I did, really. That's on whoever was there and who cares really? Because that's how it goes. One night you're up in a DJ booth taking requests, another you're taking IDs. One night you're doing blow off a beautiful woman's nipple in a bathroom, the next you're scrubbing it clean. And yeah, one night you stand on a stage proud before your peers delivering your art as if the world really will end soon only to return again to herd drunks from cliffs at a film fest. Well either way it's an experience. So along the dead tracks I march attentive, flashlight in hand and music in the air.
All in all just another shift at Heartbreak Hotel Security.
10-4. Over and out.