02-06-2018, 12:00 PM
Beto watched as Jet walked in. There was no flamboyance in it, which he rather appreciated. At least his status as an adored musician hadn't gone to his head. The people who began to believe in their own hype were a pathetic lot.
Of course, he still dressed the part, with his hair displaying the carefree wildness associated with that lifestyle. Still, it could be that his appearance was merely a reflection of the same spirit that made him pursue such a career.
Idle speculation- and of no import. Another symptom of the boredom and monotony he felt. Like it remotely mattered in the slightest.
Still, he was glad of the interruption. And for his directness. The politicking was taking a toll on his energy. It was only finite, for all. His 'relationships', such as they were, were suffering. The calculated flirting, the faux jocularity, the feigned interest in trivial subjects.
Ennui had settled around his shoulders like a gloomy cloud.
"Good to see you, Jet."
He looked at the dropped letter. Unceremonious, perhaps, but indicative of Jet's mood. It didn't offend him though. He lifted it up and read. A woman's handwritten note, according to the words. Not that he could tell much, if anything, from handwriting. The sentences short. Establishing identity. Giving of circumstances. Asking for help. The brevity and directness were themselves an indicator, as if it was simply too hard to give more than the merest outline. The words seemed desperate, a plea.
A cousin? If so, not on his side of the family. Part of Jet's family came from China.
He felt tiredness wash over him. Being Hispanic, Beto had enough immediate family to sap his energy. The endless cousins and aunts and uncles. Quinceañeras, bodas, birthday parties. He begged off as often as was permissible, avoided holding too many babies or dancing too often. Avoided answers about his romantic entanglements, the questions about when he would settle down and get married, have kids, etc. The having to query others about their lives, to pretend to be interested. He was always exhausted at the end from the performance.
He did not drink. Losing control was not an option for him. But....when he got home he often understood why someone might. Just to relax. He, though, would sit his his apartment in his chair in the dark, let his mind churn and churn until it quieted, imagined himself outside looking up at the stars, let himself fall into that black inky night between the twinkling lights, fall to god himself (if it wasn't already him) and just be at one with the deathly silence.
Another part of family to deal with. The tiredness threatened to overwhelm him. His immediate reaction was to say no. But he found the words did not pass his lips. He looked a the letter again. Saw the stamp of the facility- The Guardian. He'd never heard of it. But he noted the address. CCD DI.
The words seemed to come to glow, to come to life and he felt something- something?- in his heart stir. A hunger. A way out. An escape.
A slow smile spread on his lips and he looked up into Jet's eyes. "Perhaps I may know someone. I would have to go with you, of course. I have no legal standing in the CCD. This would be a personal favor, and one I'd have to call in in person. Is that acceptable?"
Of course, he still dressed the part, with his hair displaying the carefree wildness associated with that lifestyle. Still, it could be that his appearance was merely a reflection of the same spirit that made him pursue such a career.
Idle speculation- and of no import. Another symptom of the boredom and monotony he felt. Like it remotely mattered in the slightest.
Still, he was glad of the interruption. And for his directness. The politicking was taking a toll on his energy. It was only finite, for all. His 'relationships', such as they were, were suffering. The calculated flirting, the faux jocularity, the feigned interest in trivial subjects.
Ennui had settled around his shoulders like a gloomy cloud.
"Good to see you, Jet."
He looked at the dropped letter. Unceremonious, perhaps, but indicative of Jet's mood. It didn't offend him though. He lifted it up and read. A woman's handwritten note, according to the words. Not that he could tell much, if anything, from handwriting. The sentences short. Establishing identity. Giving of circumstances. Asking for help. The brevity and directness were themselves an indicator, as if it was simply too hard to give more than the merest outline. The words seemed desperate, a plea.
A cousin? If so, not on his side of the family. Part of Jet's family came from China.
He felt tiredness wash over him. Being Hispanic, Beto had enough immediate family to sap his energy. The endless cousins and aunts and uncles. Quinceañeras, bodas, birthday parties. He begged off as often as was permissible, avoided holding too many babies or dancing too often. Avoided answers about his romantic entanglements, the questions about when he would settle down and get married, have kids, etc. The having to query others about their lives, to pretend to be interested. He was always exhausted at the end from the performance.
He did not drink. Losing control was not an option for him. But....when he got home he often understood why someone might. Just to relax. He, though, would sit his his apartment in his chair in the dark, let his mind churn and churn until it quieted, imagined himself outside looking up at the stars, let himself fall into that black inky night between the twinkling lights, fall to god himself (if it wasn't already him) and just be at one with the deathly silence.
Another part of family to deal with. The tiredness threatened to overwhelm him. His immediate reaction was to say no. But he found the words did not pass his lips. He looked a the letter again. Saw the stamp of the facility- The Guardian. He'd never heard of it. But he noted the address. CCD DI.
The words seemed to come to glow, to come to life and he felt something- something?- in his heart stir. A hunger. A way out. An escape.
A slow smile spread on his lips and he looked up into Jet's eyes. "Perhaps I may know someone. I would have to go with you, of course. I have no legal standing in the CCD. This would be a personal favor, and one I'd have to call in in person. Is that acceptable?"