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Joey Drew Studios was not based in a bustling city, like you might expect of an aspiring animation company. No, it was nestled at the edge of a town somewhere in the middle of America - not small enough to be lost in obscurity, but nothing to write home about. It was exactly the kind of place you’d find people who were settling for a quiet life. The streets were humble, and one of the main streets housed several businesses; corner shops, cafés, and a bar, which was just beginning to come to life in the evening hours.
All dark wood and dimly lit lamp lights, it was a welcome change from the chilly twilight outside. The clinking of glasses and murmuring chatter didn’t have to try to be heard over the jukebox. A faint smell of cigar smoke lingered in the air, almost entirely lost under the scent of alcohol. Only a handful of people were sitting around, most at the bar, exchanging friendly words with the older gentleman mixing their drinks. Norman preferred his isolated booth against the wall.
The carpet might muffle the footsteps, but he still doesn't have to look up to know that someone's appeared beside him. He only did so to see who was bothering him. The man brandishing some dainty looking cocktail is none other than Sammy Lawrence, a short, pale gent. At least, he’s short compared to Norman. He looks more tired than usual, and annoyed to boot, almost scowling at Norman.
“You don’t mind if I join you, right?” Norman grunts something that sounds like a ‘yes’, though there was no doubt in his mind that Sammy would’ve sat down regardless of what he said. ‘ You have a whole pub to yourself and you decide to sit across from me. Fan-fucking-tastic.’
He wouldn’t dare complain out loud, so he inwardly resigned himself to his new companion, while shooting a sideways glance at the other drink; vibrant, fruity red, in a tall glass with a slice of lime to top it off. Sammy noticed, if the defensive look on his face was any indication, squeezing the lime into the cocktail with a little more force than necessary. “It’s called a Rosemary sunset,” He explains unprompted. A straw was produced from… Well, somewhere , and dropped in. “More alcoholic than you’d think.”
The projectionist wasn’t one to drink with friends, since he usually used this time to think. Just sitting quietly, sipping through a whiskey with the other patron’s chatter serving as white noise, was more than enough company for him. Though, that was much harder to do when your co-worker keeps eyeing you, expecting you to break the comfortable silence with – shudder – small talk.
It doesn’t take long for Norman to break. “So. How’s....” He pauses just a little too long to feel comfortable. “Life?”
The blond shakes his head bemusedly in tandem with the embarrassed flush Norman feels. Yeah, small talk is something of an enigma for him. There’s a reason he’s gotten so good at skulking around out of sight all day. But thankfully Sammy seems to take pity on him, taking up the conversation on his own. “That accent - you from the south?”
“Nah.” When all it earns him is a raised eyebrow, he reluctantly continues. “Well. Kinda. Mostly got it from my parents. But I spent all my younger years in El Paso.”
“That’s Texas, right?” He nods. Sammy takes another long drink before gesturing to himself. “Hemingford, Nebraska.”
“…Where?”
The musician threw his hands up. “Exactly! No-one’s ever heard of it, all they have is corn, cows, and two-star motels.” Well, at least now his fierce defense of bluegrass made sense now. “Raising chickens isn’t my idea of an exciting career.” The only response he gives is to tilt his head to the side, as if disappointed by the double entendre, with the blond visibly catching on a second later and rolling his eyes.
“So, what you’re saying is, you were literally raised in a barn?” Norman deadpanned. Sammy made as though to argue but shut his mouth after a moment of silence. Got him. “Why move here though? It’s not much better.”
“Oh, believe me, I know this place is a shithole. I’d much rather live somewhere in the big city. And I tried to, as well – moved to Denver soon as I had the chance, but no-one’d hire me as a musician.” He sipped his drink, frowning like he was considering something. “‘S why I’m here now, Joey’s the only one who would take me on.”
“Couldn’t you’ve just, I don’t know, got some other job and kept living somewhere you actually like?” It’s what he would’ve done, if he liked city life. At least it was quiet here; he might have a point about it being boring, but Norman had already gotten his fair share of excitement from those places. He was in no rush for any repeat performances.
Sammy scoffed. “And give up music? Nah.” His tone was getting more bitter by the second, but he showed no signs of bottling up. Evidently alcohol made him chatty. “My parents thought it’d never be more than a hobby, and that ‘ their young boy Samuel would be much better off making a family and settling down’. Damn if I’m not gonna prove ‘em wrong.” Ah, pettiness. That was more like the Sammy he knew.
“You are a damn good musician.” Norman conceded, raising his half-empty glass slightly.
“I’m an amazing musician, I know.”
Over the next twenty or so minutes, they got through two more drinks apiece, letting lighthearted chatter fill the silence now and then. Mostly it was Sammy who spoke up without prompting – Norman far more comfortable only chipping in to answer every so often. The evening was turning out to be more pleasant than expected, given what he'd seen of the music director since joining the studio. Mean... wasn't quite the right word. Snappy, perhaps. Certainly fond of sarcasm, which usually got his feelings across while preserving poise. Everyone who worked with Sammy would be on the receiving end of it at some point or another.
Except Norman, of course. The projectionist knew pissing him off was more hassle than it was worth, like goading a viper.
“Hey, d’you want to try this?” The bright red drink was slid in front of him, glass still damp from condensation. Feeling a little more amiable by now, he nods and leans forward to sip a little. Sammy was right; the summery cocktail held a deceptive punch, with flavours such as strawberry, raspberry and lime all being undercut with vodka. Like, a lot of vodka. Still, it was pretty good.
“It’s pretty good,” He replies eventually, sitting back once he’d tried it. His co-worker nodded sagely, clearly expecting as much. Norman narrowed his eyes. If the drink was that strong, surely Sammy would be utterly wasted by now – but he seemed fine, if a little spacey. Every time he glanced away and back again, they were looking right at him, head leaning on his hands as if he were thinking about something.
“You know your voice sounds like sandpaper, right?” Well that was… unexpected. And it was hard to tell if it was an insult or not; harsh words, but his tone was all innocence. Norman settled with shrugging helplessly. “Because it does. Southern sandpaper. Every time you open your mouth, I’m expecting you to challenge me to a duel at high noon.”
“I came here for a drink, not to get dragged.”
“No, no, I mean it in a nice way. You sound like a world-weary cowboy who only tolerates the presence of his horses.”
The drunken assessment knocks a sudden chuckle out of him. “‘Aint never ridden a horse in my life.” Norman keeps his eyes on his glass, tapping it absently. There was only a sliver of drink left. Maybe he could get more, although it was only a Monday, so perhaps not. He could hear the dull clunk of Sammy putting his cocktail back on the glossy hardwood table. Three vodka heavy drinks would surely spell a disaster of a hangover the next day.
“You should laugh more often.” The compliment catches him by surprise too. Looking up, he sees the blond sitting back with folded arms and a lazy smile on his face. “It’s cute.”
Norman throws back the remaining whiskey just a little too fast and wheezes at the angry burn it leaves in his throat.