Log: Hot Dogs and Roses - October 2, 2004

(Scene in progress: Hell, having met Dorian on the Boardwalk promenade, has offered to buy him a couple of hotdogs since he's hungry.)

Dorian rubs his stomach absently with one hand. "Um, not really. But I'm doing good. It's nice out here, like usual. I don't know what song you're talking about, though." The poor boy is now just struggling to keep up.

Hell, seeing his bewilderment, slows down some. "Are you hungry? There's a good hotdog stand right there and Costanza sells the best ever hotdogs," she offers. "Don't worry about the song. I've just got this odd urge to burst into it, is all."

"Oh," Dorian responds, "Ok. Yeah, hotdogs sound good. I like hotdogs."

Hell tugs Dorian over to where a motherly-looking lady in the distance is getting ready to pack up her wares for the night. It's not a long jog, really. "Costanza!" she calls, grinning. "I need some of your marvellous hotdogs. Maybe three or four?"

Costanza is a regal-looking older woman with a headful of the most wonderfully fantastical dreadlocks beaded through with all -kinds- of pretty beads. She glances up at the approaching pair and shakes her head, tut-tutting. "Miz Rose, don't tell me yo' ain't been eatin' agin --Oh, ah seen yo' b'fore!" she exclaims to Dorian with a broad smile. "Yo' som'times out hey-re."

Dorian stands close to Hell, giving the hot dog lady a slightly timid wave. "Hi," he says in a small voice.

Hell, gothic black as ever with a long-stemmed terracotta rose stuck behind her ear, is standing beside Dorian at a hotdog stand. The owner, a regal-looking older woman with a headful of the most wonderfully fantastical dreadlocks beaded through with all -kinds- of pretty beads, is busy addressing some vigorous comment towards Dorian. "...Well, yo' don't hev' t'look so skeered," she says with a chuckle. "Food's what'cho want, Miz Rose? Shor' thang, yo' jus' wait a while now."

Hot dogs? Now, that sounds like a particularly good idea. And who should come striding up the boardwalk's wooden expanse than the seemingly permanently hungry Timothy, on his way to get a hot dog on this fine spring evening. He's humming a little, a hint of a jazzy tune that implies a brass accompaniment, and in his hand is a long-stemmed thorny rose, the stem coiled about his fingertips, daring the thorns to pierce him it would seem.

Dorian nods quietly to the hot dog lady, still looking slightly intimidated. "So, um," he asks Hell, "What should be on them? I can never make up my mind."

"Maaaaaaaaama!" wails a child over the way somewhere, in that desperate 'I DON'T WANNA GOHOMENOW MOMMY!' tone of voice. Costanza just shakes her head, causing a cacophony of beads. "Po' momma," is all she says sagely, and gives Dorian a bright smile. "Well, yo' have relish an' mustard an' ketchup an' if yo' want sauerkraut ah kin do thet too."

Hell just grins. "I...usually just have plain sauerkraut," she says apologetically. "I don't think that's to everyone's taste really." She hasn't noticed Timothy yet, and she's humming to herself again, a random, meandering little tune.

Dorian rubs his forehead at the array of choices before finally nodding to Hell. "No, that's fine. I'll just have that."

A father and a little girl of no more than about five years old pass by. The little girl, who's currently all sticky with candy floss and the remnants of a sadly dilapidated stick of it, is looking all over the place with that typical child-like curiousity and wide eyes. "Oooh da FLOWER!" she exclaims suddenly and points at Timothy's rose. "An'...daaaa, looook, that man's haaaaair!" Dorian's dreads have excited attention, apparently.

Costanza raises an eyebrow to make sure that's exactly what Dorian wants, then begins to prepare the order. "Ah'll put a bratwurs' in f'yo' too. Tastes a lot better," she advises. The savoury smells are really, really good.

Timothy's light step carries him toward Hell, and throwing caution to the wind, the blonde boy tries to surprise her by drawing up behind her and waving the hand with the rose about at the very corner of her peripheral vision. His tone's bemused, definitely teasing as he asks the golden-haired woman, "One would think you have enough hot dogging in your life already to have to be out purchasing one. Unless it's a weiner you're after."

Dorian reaches up to make sure his hair is still there and normal. He nods to Costanza to reassure her and turns to face the new voice, smiling slightly at the sight of Timothy. "Oh. Hi there."

Dorian's hair is just too fascinating for that little girl because she suddenly bounces free of her long-suffering pa and bounds up to Dorian. "Is your hair -real-? Or is it carpet?" she asks in awe. "Mine doesn't do nothing like that!"

Hell's already turned her head quickly as yet another rose suddenly appears side-sight. "And what makes you think it's for -me-?" she asks Timothy, mock-primming up her mouth. "I hate to disappoint you; we're ordering food for Dorian here. What, are you offering to stuff and sausage my life to replace the hotdogs? Please, don't make promises you can't keep, Mr. Roxbrugh."

Dorian blinks down at the little girl, distracted from Hell and Timothy's conversation. "Um, it's real. I think. It just kinda does it on its own. I'm pretty sure it's not carpet."

The little girl's eyes grow biiiiiiiig. "Wow," she breathes in awe. "That's -cool-. I wish MINE did that. Do you -water- it to make it do that?" Her candy-floss waves dangerously close to everyone's clothes. Her pa has by now trotted up with a sigh. "Missie, stop bothering the nice mister here," he says wearily.

Costanza, meanwhile, is grinning as she gussies up Dorian's first hotdog and then starts preparing Number Two. When she catches sight of Timothy, her smile broadens. "I've seen yo' b'fore too, yo' th'one with th'flowers all th'time," she declares. "What'cho want sugar? --Here, honey, yo' tak' this an' eat it firs', yo' look lik' yo' could do wit' a good meal." And she hands the first hotdog over to Dorian.

Dorian gives the father a brief and slightly wary glance before looking back to the girl. "No, it just kinda does it. I don't really know why." He takes the dog gratefully, closing his eyes with joy as he bites in.

The father rubs his eyes; he's a balding, somewhat paunchy but still strong-looking man who's got the appearance of someone stuck against his will in a mouldering office like the grave. Accountant, perhaps, or worse still, a lawyer. "Come along now Missie," he repeats and this time grasps his daughter's wrist firmly with an apologetic look at Dorian. "I'm so sorry, sir. She always wanders off and asks the most impertinent questions."

"My dear Hellebore, my greatest concern is ensuring that you have enough succulent pieces of meat in your life," Timothy answers the blonde woman with a prim adjustment of his hair. Deftly, the young lad offers Hell the long-stemmed rose. "I suppose a trade of a beautiful flower for a piece of meat is a fair enough trade. Here. For the fairest of them all," he says. Now his attention's drawn to Dorian, and he grins broadly. "Hey again. You never came by. Don't feel like you're imposing on me. Next couple of days aren't good for me, but my door's open," says he. Looking to Hell, he explains himself: "Jeanette's dropping by tomorrow."

Dorian waves to the little girl before turning to Timothy with a mouthful of hot dog. He starts to mumble something before chewing, swallowing, and trying again. "Oh. I just didn't want to be a bother, you know."

Hell meanwhile has dug around in her pocket for some loose change which she hands over to Costanza with a smile and a most speakingly thankful expression in her blue eyes. "Thank you, Costanza, you're the -best-," she offers. At Timothy's offering - upon which the little girl almost pops her jaw squealing 'FLOWERS!' at the top of her lungs as she's dragged off, and Costanza begins grinning even more broadly than ever, she dips her head with something approaching regalness and, heaven forbid, dignity. "I should be insulted, all this mention of meat mixed up with the prettiest flowers the world has to offer. It just isn't quite the -thing- you know. Roses and hotdogs however succulent, just don't go together unless they're given a good dose of condiments and conditioning, you know?"

Costanza hands over three more gigantic hotdogs in a plastic bag to Dorian. "Enjoy, honey," she tells him. "Don'tcho' eat too fas' now or yo'll hurt later."

Dorian takes the bag, looking in with his eyes wide. He smiles gratefully to both Costanza and Hell before continuing his eating.

"It's a combination that I... relish?" Timothy puns awfully, his eyebrow slightly raised, and a vulpinish smile upon his thin lips. "And it's good to see you again, though you jab me with your thorns as always with such talk. There's nothing better than roses and hot dogs. In fact, I'd rather like a hot dog now, if you please, Costanza?" -- he's been around here before, it seems. "So, I'm working on a song. It's taking a while to finish."

Well. It seems Dorian has competition for his eating too because right up there is a seagull who's eyeballing his food. It circles, yawping and peering down with beady seagull eyes. Because, food, you see. Hell, on the other hand, doesn't turn a hair at the eggsecrable --ahem, EXEcrable -- pun. "Well hopefully with Jeanette by you'll be able to finish it," she notes sagely. "I never jab, m'dear. I merely point. Out, as you can see. And roses and hotdogs are...are..." There a rather odd look on her face all at once as if someone's just given her a dose of helium in her stomach.

Costanza laughs, making a gesture at Timothy as if flapping a bedsheet. "G'wan yo' now, ah know whatcho' lik'. Thet's a purdy flower yo' jus' gave Miz Rose too." She gets down to preparing the order briskly.

Dorian glances up, noticing the seagull. He holds his hot dog protectively as he eats it, apparently not in a mood to share with the bird. "Who's Jeanette?" he asks the pair after swallowing another mouthful.

"Jeanette is..." -- Timothy pauses, as if attempting to figure out how to explain this. "Heh. I don't even think Jeanette knows who Jeanette is some days. She's a relative of mine. Drops by once in a while. You might see her out here every once in a while, she's a blonde girl who sort of favors me. Costanza knows her, I think."

Constanza might have replied, but this is suddenly interrupted by singing. Mainly, Hell singing. She's got her hand over her mouth as if she's going to burp but she's singing anyways and it's jazz, and it's sassy and she's blinking and it...would be funny if it wasn't quite so --well it is funny.

"High in the sky
Sweet as pie
Hotdogs and roses
Float by like noses
On people I see walkin' by..."

And there's an acute pause in which she says, blankly, "Oh dear god I'm singing about hotdogs."

Dorian blinks at Hell, giving her an understandably odd look. "Well, it's not a bad song."

<FAE> Hell's definitely singing jazz. There's that shimmy-trumpet slide and brass, and sticks and drums and double-bass plucking away. It's reminiscent of Dizzy Gillespie, Earl Klugh, Billie Holiday, and the whole tradition of jazz singers thrown into one. And Hell's -expression-, insofar as she can hide it behind her hand, is blank panic for all of a moment.

Timothy looks surprised at first. Maybe a bit nervous or horrified, but looking toward Costanza and Dorian, Tim seems calm enough. He nods his head in time with the music, tapping his feet very slowly.

Hell gives Dorian a brilliant smile. "It was a bet," she says sagely, holding up one finger and looking for a moment like an academic. "And I intend to win it, but I hadn't realized my ahh, subconscious, was going to be such a pain. And since I've started...I may as well finish it, right?" Another bright, thousand-watt smile as she angles a hip, divas a hand, and, to Costanza's hearty rumble of appreciative laughter, two-steps a little and carries right on.

"Dreaaaaaamin' sweet so pretty honey
What's a summer's day without a...
Hotdog and a bunch of roses
And a gin and a tonic and a world of excuses
To enjoy a sweet summer's day
Any old way
You choose...
And it's candy-floss pink
Blue as a wink
The sky's like glass and my butt's all grass but ooooh...
Hotdogs and roses
Kisses and noses
Swingin' summer days comin' my way tonight!"

Dorian scratches his head absently as he listens. "Your butt's all grass?" he asks, sounding slightly confused. He does seem to be enjoying the song, at least.

<FAE> There go the trumpets and the cymbals again, and a wa-wa mute throwing out rings of sound. It's a -pretty- song. Just Dreaming knows what the hell it's going to spill and Hell quite obviously isn't keen for -any- of that to happen.

Timothy crosses his arms, still nodding in time with the music. He even snaps his fingers a-la West Side Story to keep tempo and provide a bit of percussion. Of course, he doesn't join in, just yet, but he seems to be rather fond of the style. Jazz fan, anyone?

Costanza just claps her hands and laughs, and laughs. "Mah stars, honey, yo' never tol' me yo' could sing!" she calls, grinning from ear to ear. The seagull, startled by the sudden commotion, banks on a pinion and lands on a dumpster some distance away.

<FAE> Hell's musical accompaniment seems to be winding down. Thank Dreaming. Who knows what's going to come next. There's a wail of an oboe and the blare of a sax somewhere, and the last few notes make their soulful shiver.

"...Yes. My butt is definitely going to be grass by the time I roll around in it," Hell informs Dorian solemnly after grandstanding a bow at the end of her song and flipping her curls just like a diva. "Haven't you ever had a buttful of sand before on the beach? Well, this is the same thing." She cups a hand over her mouth, almost as if she has a hiccup. "And thank you Costanza, it's one of those things you know? Win a bet, lose a bet, and I like winning."

Timothy claps his hands lightly. "Wow!" he chirps. "That was INCREDIBLE! To just come up with that on the fly? Now that is the true mark of a musician. I'm starting to rethink my calling; maybe I should be the detective and you should be the musician? You should've heard Jeanette's song. Or rather, you shouldn't have," chuckles the boy. "It was kind of twisted."

Dorian applauds briefly as well, though he still seems to be rather confused about the sudden singing. "Well, you've got a real nice voice. But I think I gotta go. It was nice seeing both of you."

"Don't be a stranger, Dorian," Timothy offers up amiably, along with an equally amiable wave of his hand. "Now then. I suppose we should maybe... eat a hot dog, or something? And enjoy yours, Dorian. Come by sometime. I let Jeanette house-sit for me sometimes. She makes great pasta, you'll have to try it and see."

Hell grins somewhat weakly at Timothy. "I'm sure it was. You forget, I know Jeanette." To Dorian she gives a big smile. "Thank you. And it was nice seeing you too! Come look us up sometime. Hotdogs, and...and pasta and...lemon meringue soup. I'll explain sometime." She rubs at her forehead for a moment as if something's bitten her.

Dorian waves, smiling at the pair before turning to wander off down the boardwalk, humming Hell's song to himself.