Bass Clef Club
Bass Clef is a fair sized Jazz club with the lighting dimmed so that the booths and tables along the back and side walls of the cafe area are slightly shadowed and more private. Eight booths line the bricked walls, four on each side of the club. To get up into the booths there is a single step so that they are not on the same level as the rest of the floor. The walls are decorated with posters from past and upcoming events and entertainers. Several cafe-style tables have been set up in the center of the club with two to four chairs surrounding each. Closer to the bar there are taller tables, being close to forty-four inches in height so that someone could stand next to it and rest their elbows upon them as they leaned in against them.
Across from the large wooden door that is the entrance, there is a very short stage comprised of black marble. In the center of the stage is a grand piano, and enough room for the remainder of the jazz-band to set up. The stage is normally lit up with a spotlight, making it the most illuminated area in the entire club.
Settled on the right wall is the bar. The lights around the bar don't seem to be as dim as those in the rest of the club, but the lighting is still very low in order to keep the atmosphere of the rest of the establishment. Behind the bar the wall is done up in aqua-colored tile before the shelving for the various types of beverages; including soda. A door behind the bar presumably leads to the kitchen and storage areas.
Steve is plainly a little drunk, so he doesn't handle the conversation as delicately as he might when sober. "No more questions, man. All I know is that if I had to get up daily three hundred and sixty-five /thousand/ times, I'd eat a damn bullet. Or whatever it is you guys have to do." He leans back, smiling, and waves a hand, picking up his new glass as though he just noticed it there. "I mean, you can ask /me/ questions if you want, but I doubt I know anything you don't already know, so it's probably pointless." He and Michael are sitting across from one another at a booth while a passable singer belts out some blues and jazz.
Trey wanders the club, drawing closer to the pair in the booth with no particular intent. He's dressed casually, in newish jeans and a blue button down shirt that is closely fitted under a light sport jacket in a darker blue hue. He's carrying a drink that is an unfortunate shade of hot pink, with a lime wedge floating the icy liquid of the highball glass and his expression is one of polite, if vague amusement.
Michael looks at Steve his tone actually becoming cold now. "We don't talk about such matters." He shrugs his shoulder at the man. "There are doubtless many things you know that I don't, it's simply a matter of finding out what… I could ask you for instance to tell me about making TV shows, or ask what the weather was like at noon." He finishes his second blood with a sigh. "Unfortunately I'm not really concerned, very little interests me these days, and I must be attending to some business, hopefully we'll speak again."
Steve's brows climb as he realizes he's exhausted the vampire's patience. "Oh. Uh…okay," he says, looking down into his glass with some small embarrassment. "See ya round, then." Looking up, he offers a smile to conceal the awkwardness of the situation and nods, then leans back as Michael gets up and leaves. He turns his head to look at the singer.
Trey continues to look around and notes Michael getting up from his table. He represses a faint shiver at the sight of the blood bottle, apparently recognizing it and then gives Steve a closer look as though thinking 'I wonder if they -both- are?' After a second he does a double take and one eyebrow arches in surprise and curiosity. After a moment of hesitation, he comes a little closer, studying the man's features in the dim light for a long moment before asking, in a voice that seems habitually to be a bit soft and have an icy, precision to it, "Pardon me. Are you, ah, Steve Hawk?"
Steve is just having a big sip of his Crown and Coke when Trey approaches, but he looks up and swallows when he's addressed. "Yeah, I am," he answers quietly. "But, uh…do me a favor, though. If you're gonna recognize me, have a seat with me, okay?" He nods to the opposite end of the table, newly vacated. He puts his glass down and sits up a bit so that he's not quite so slouchy. There's four-legged cane standing up next to his seat.
Trey nods and says, "Reasonable." He sits down, that violently pink drink going on the table and he slides away Michael's empty blood bottle with the back of one hand, moving it towards the back of the table and out of the way. After a moment he says, "I'm sorry for bothering you while you're out. I …enjoyed your show. When I was a child." His expression is one of mild pleasure, curiosity and a hint of surprise, almost transparently easy to read.
Steve eyes the blood bottle when Trey slides it away. "I hope they pick that up quick," he murmurs, then focuses on Trey once again. He smiles. "Hey, that's great," he says, although his smile is a little ragged around the edges. He has probably been approached this way more than once. "I don't mind," he says. "After all, I was just sitting here drinking by myself. Makes me feel kinda old, though," he says, eyeing Trey a moment to figure out how he could've mathematically been a child when the show was on. "I'll buy you a drink if you want," he offers.
Trey considers the social gaffe for a moment, as usual, recognizing it -after- he's made it. "Ah, well, perhaps 'child' is overstating it." He pauses a moment and says, "And that would be nice of you, thanks. I'm drinking Cape Cods. I find the bitterness and acidity an interesting counterpoint to the vodka." He eyes the glass a moment and then adds, dubiously, "However, I'm fairly sure that color doesn't occur in nature."
Steve looks at the glass. "Okay," Steve says, nodding. "If you tell me what the hell is in a Cape Cod, I'll get one for you." He grins. "I mean, personally, I find more vodka an interesting counterpoint to vodka. But that's me. So," he says, leaning back a bit again as he looks Trey over. "How come you liked the show?" Normally he might not feel like talking about the show, but he seems to have enough liquor in him to make it bearable. "And be honest, because believe me, I've heard like every possible answer."
Trey returns that grin a bit hesitantly, as though surprised at the easy-going demeanor of the man and says, "Ah, vodka and unsweetened cranberry juice with the juice of one lime wedge squeezed in. All over ice." He pauses and says, "Hm. I found the notion of a secret identity terribly compelling. And the idea of having a hidden life that was more, ah, adventurous than my own was very appealing to me. Also, tearing apart the moral homilies for logical inconsistency was fun." After a second of thought he adds, "Also, I enjoyed your performance. It was, within the limits of the show, believable and engaging."
Steve motions to a waitress and orders a Cape Cod for Trey, then points at the bottle of blood, frowning. "And can you get rid of that…stuff?" he asks. She takes it away quickly. Then Steve is back to Trey with a smile. "Well, I'm glad it's not anything freaky," he answers, bobbing his head. "And, uh…thanks. I mean, it was just a kids' show, but…I tried pretty hard." That said, he shrugs and sips his drink. "You already know my name, so what's yours?"
Trey arches an eyebrow and asks, "Freaky?" And then he holds out a hand, "Sorry. Trey Fontane. I'm pleased to meet you." As the waitress takes the empty blood bottle away, he tilts his head towards her and asks, inquiringly, "Since you're drinking alcohol and, ah, don't appear to have any of the usual signs, I'm guessing that you're, um, not…."
"People say weird stuff to me all the time," Steve says. "Guys your age usually tell me they used to get high and watch the show." He reaches out and grabs Trey's hand, giving it a shake. "What?" he asks, and then catches on. "/Oh/. No. Definitely not. Actually, that guy was a friend of a friend and he's the first one I've even /met/."
Trey shakes his head and says, "To my knowledge, I've never gotten high in my life. So … no." He can't help but give an icy little smile at Steve's reaction to the implied vampire question, apparently what passes for a full-on laugh for him. "I was curious. It would be, perhaps, understandable. But I've had limited dealings with vampires thus far and wanted to make sure I wasn't stumbling on some point of etiquette." He pauses again and then adds, "That one did seem to conform to a lot of the stereotypes. Dapper. Imposing. That sort of thing."
Steve grins and shrugs. "He's super old, apparently. I don't know if I'm supposed to tell people or whatever, but he seems pretty open about it," he says. Trey's Cape Cod arrives. "He's weird, though. I don't really get him. Sometimes he's really nice about questions and then sometimes he gets pissed off." He shrugs. "Whatever. But yeah, also a lot of people tell me they were into the show for the, uh…costumes." Aside from Steve's famous yellow and white spandex suit, there were also other spandex-clad males and females from time to time against whom he did battle. "So I usually brace for the worst when somebody tells me they liked the show."
Trey thanks the waitress and then takes a sip of his new drink, apparently finding it satisfying. He tilts his head and says, "Well, I think expecting a certain amount of cultural disparity is probably reasonable given that he is A) non-human, in the objective sense. B) A product of a culture that was probably extremely different than our own and C) Possesed of a frame of reference based on decades or perhaps centuries of experience rather than years. Without some kind of common cultural referent, even speaking the same language isn't terribly helpful in determining what his emotional and conversational stressors would be." He adds, thoughtfully, "Though with enough research and an approximate dating and origin fix, you could probably put together an idea of the social factors that went into shaping his early, human personality. That still leaves the 'non-human' part, though. It would be a fascinating exercise." And then, belatedly, "Ah. Yes. Well, I understand the costumes are genre appropriate, but, ah, not my particular cup of tea, as it were."
Steve looks a little pained when Trey spits out that monologue, giving a little uncomfortable smile. "Man, you're…really breaking out the SAT words, huh?" he observes. "I guess you, uh…stayed in school or whatever." Definitely outclassed in the department of serious socio-anthropological discussion, Steve sits back and sips on his drink. "I didn't like the costumes, either, man, but some people really do. Like…/really/ do," he adds, lifting a brow and giving a significant, slightly creeped-out nod.
Trey blinks and then takes a drink, covering a faint blush as he realizes he's been lecturing again. He clears his throat and says, "Ah, sorry. And yea, I'm going for a career as a literary conservator, so still grinding away at the academic wheel, so to speak. I tend to be pedantic. Hazard of living mostly in one's head." His eyebrows both arch as he considers the implications of 'really' liking spandex and then says, "AH! Oh. Oh my." He looks genuinely amused for a moment. "That must be a little disconcerting."
Steve rolls his lips together uncertainly. He may or may not know what 'pedantic' means. The rest he can figure out, but he seems to have a hard time coming up with an appropriate response. So he just answers the simpler part, smiling. "Yeah, it's totally weird," he says. "I mean, it's usually not a big problem on the street, but it makes going to the gym kind of a hazard, you know?" He swallows some more liquor.
Trey watches Steve's reactions for a moment, his expression going a bit vague as he backtracks in the conversation, looking for the branch that provoked an element of social unease for future reference. After a moment he shrugs and says, "Ah, it's not that big a deal. Academia doesn't really -mean- anything outside of academic circles, to most people. And practical knowledge trumps the vast majority of it." His expression is a bit watchful as he tries to gauge if this attempt to rectify the situation is helpful and then segues into the other topic. "And, I can imagine. Happily, I'm pretty much invisible in the gym, myself. But then again, I'm not famous or in your condition, in terms of fitness."
Steve lifts his brows and shrugs. "I'm not knocking school," he points out. "I mean, it's important to go as far as you can, if that's what you want, I guess." But it's easier for him to talk about a topic he knows a little better. He looks Trey over and shrugs again, this time the motion slightly impeded by the glass he's lifting to his lips. "Seems like you keep up, anyway," he says. "And I can't do as much as I used to with my knee busted up."
Trey nods and says, "It's the norm, isn't it? People of a certain age are expected to keep a minimum level of fitness. Also, studies have shown that men who appear physically fit or attractive tend to achieve higher in work and school environments." A faint grin and then, "Also, I sit around and type or talk most of the time. It's required maintenance." He takes another sip of his drink and glances towards the cane, wincing slightly before looking back to Steve. "Unfortunate. But you seem to be coping well." There isn't even a hint of sympathy or pity in his voice, though. Apparently he's decided that it would be insulting.
Steve tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, looking curiously at Trey. "Man, you really /are/ in your head, aren't you?" he asks. It doesn't sound like mockery or criticism. Rather, Steve seems interested by a specimen so different from himself. "But anyway, gotta keep your body up at least half as good as your books, huh?"
Trey nods and says, "I'm extremely internalized. The product of an excess of extroverts in my early environment. If you'll forgive the burst of alliteration. Sorry if it's a bit off-putting. I've never quite mastered the knack of casual, as opposed to information-rich, conversation." He nods to the last statement and says, "Exactly. A sharp mind is useless if you're too tired to focus, too weak to put in the hours needed on a project, etc." Again, there is a momentary pause while he examines conversational niceties and says, "But that's a lot of talking about me. What are you up to these days?"
Steve nods a little, since he didn't actually notice the alliteration in the first place. He drains his drink. "Well, I just moved back here after my recovery. I'm sort of between things, but I'm getting a new agent. What I really want to do now is read the news, you know? So if you know anybody on the local news…"
Trey ponders that one a moment and then shakes his head. "Not me, personally, but my brother Ivan may very well have contacts in that field. He's, ah, in politics. And media. And the juncture of the two. Some kind of public relations field that I haven't really ever been able to get a grasp on." He shrugs and says, "I'd be happy to see if Ivan has any interest in facilitating contacts for you. Of course, he'd almost certainly expect something in return. Probably in the form of something political."
Steve smiles and shrugs. "Well, I don't know what I could offer him, but…ask him anyway and we'll see what we can work out. Let me give you my card." He passes over a plain white business card with his name, phone number, and profession ('Actor') listed on it. "That'd be awesome."
Trey takes the card and looks it over carefully before tucking it in the inside pocket of his sport coat. "I'll do that." He takes another sip of his drink and then glances at his watch. "And it looks like I've just about used up my socialization time for the evening." He uses the words 'socialization time' without even a hint of humor or irony. Looking back to Steve, he smiles faintly again and says, "It really has been a pleasure meeting you. It certainly made the evening more interesting than I thought it was going to be."
Steve lifts his eyebrows a little at the kid's nerdiness, but he smiles and puts hia hand out again for another shake. "My pleasure, man. See you around, I hope. Good luck with the books and stuff." He leans back a litle, apparently content to stay here after Trey departs.
