milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Jack'd come in, wiping his hands on the thighs of his jeans, to sit himself down at the Bar and order some coffee. Been up working with the horses since early morning, man could use some good coffee, and, as has been previously noted, Bar makes a damn fine cup. And maybe now and again he turns his head to glance over his shoulder at the door, that one he can see and Ennis can't. Could also be some vague notions of getting lunch in his mind, too.

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"'m afraid that's all I know. Not one for country music, unless it's Johnny Cash." He holds out a hand. "Charlie."

"Jack Twist."

He shakes hands, the palm of his hand still warm from where it'd been holding the coffee mug.

"Nice to know you, Charlie. Can't say as I know much a Johnny Cash, and sure don't know much 'bout guitars, either, but it's kinda nice, havin' some music. Seems a lot a folk here sure like to play."

"It passes the time." Of course, the way he's holding his guitar says it does a lot more than that. "And we've got some skilled musicians here.

"Do you play?"

Chuckling down into his coffee, Jack shakes his head.

"Nope. Knew some fellas at rodeos who played, but I ain't never touched a guitar. Just passin' the time, like you said, on the road and the like."

"Rodeo?" He nearly bounces. "With the clowns and the cattle and all that?"

"Sure 'nough."

Jack shoots him a slightly bemused grin.

"Ever been t'one?"

"Haven't--only seen them on the telly. It looks like a grand time, though I've never spent much time around horses and could be entirely wrong about that."

"I used a rodeo," Jack admits, taking a swallow of coffee and setting the mug back down with a gentle thunk.

"Till I got too busted up. Them bulls can sure take your number, tell you what."

He glances over at Charlie, studies him briefly.

"Guess they ain't got rodeos where you're from, huh?" Or when. Or which universe.

Fucking Milliways.

"Nope--the horsey set tend to be rich people and aristocrats--not always the same thing, see--who just showjump or play polo. Or hunt foxes." He makes a face: Oscar Wilde said it best, "the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable."

"England, 2004," he adds, to clarify.

"Ahead a me again," Jack says, ruefully. "'m from Texas. '68," he adds, an afterthought.

"Don't seem all that different. Horses belong to the folk as can afford 'em, mostly, less you can borrow one time to time if you're workin' on a ranch."

"My band--I'm in a band--we played Dallas and Houston a couple times. I think. I remember Dallas, at least.

"I prefer animals of the smaller sort. Cats don't need much room."

"Guess they don't. Can't ride a cat, though," Jack grins.

"Band, huh?" Well, that explains the guitar. "You do alright with that?"

"Perhaps if it were a very big cat," Charlie says with an absolutely straight face.

"Er . . . no, not really, but that's a long and rather uninteresting story. I just play for the playing now."

Charlie gets a skeptical look.

"Friend, you ever see a cat big enough to ride, you ain't gonna want a stick around long enough to give it a try," he says with a grin, and shrugs off the explanation, satisfied with letting it be.

"Best reason to do anything."

"I think so." Quiet smile. Life without music is too terrible to contemplate.

"So you've stopped the rodeo, then? Too busted up, you said?"

Another sip of coffee, and Jack nods, pushes the mug slightly back and forth over the Bar countertop.

"Yeah. Stress fractures in my arm 'n busted leg, couple a cracked vertebrate, plenty a other hits. Was lucky, though. Some a the fellas, they get caught by the bull and they sure ain't coming out a the ring on their own two feet."

Charlie winces. "Sounds awful. So why do it?"

The grin Jack slants over at him is lopsided and boyish and brilliant.

"For money, if you're good enough, but hell, the ride's the fun of it. Ain't nothin' like it, not in the world, hangin' on for the ride."

Hard to explain, those eight long seconds it's just you and the bull, muscle and blood and bone all working together--seeing if your muscle and blood and bone can hang on to that of the bull. It's a rush, it's a high.

"Think I'll stick to motorcycles," Charlie says, grinning. "They don't bite, at least."

"It's the horns 'n hooves you gotta look out for, mostly," Jack laughs.

"Gettin' stomped sure ain't the way you wanna end the ride. Guess motorcycles might be kinda safer, 'f you don't crash 'em."

Charlie twists to the side and pulls up his shirt, to reveal a patchwork of old white scars along his ribs. "And then if you do crash 'em you get these."

Jack whistles, low, and shakes his head.

"Got some nice ones. Hell, I been in plenty a bad rides and plenty a fights, but I ain't crashed yet. Shit, friend. Must a been a hell of a fall."

"I skidded for a bit." He smooths his shirt down. "Was in hospital for . . . two weeks, almost? It's fuzzy."

"Sure 'nough."

Jack studies him, turns back to his coffee and searches in his shirt pocket for the stub of cigarette left over from the other night.

"Laid up long from it?"

"Yeah." He's a little more serious. "We were supposed to be touring and couldn't because of the accident. Lost who knows how much money from cancelled tour dates, and of course the record company didn't like that."