Travis is ready to (collapse) wrote in repose, @ 2020-08-15 14:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, alex white, claire johnson, elias pesquet, travis bodeen, ~plot: clocks |
dark blue clock crew assemble: claire j, elias p, alex w, travis b
Who: Group Dark Blue: Clair, Elias, Alex, Travis.
What: Clock assemblage
Where: The junkyard
When: End of the day.
Warnings/Rating: Drugs mention, and will update as needed.
Not sharing things with them anyways. He'd been raised pretty much the opposite, to keep his head down, mind his own, and never go running his mouth to teachers, or cops, or child services. Being sort of grown hadn't changed him all that much, he was still leery of helping hands and of authority. Made him leery of these people he'd invited over, but hadn't ever met. The junkyard was big, though. Wasn't like he was inviting them over for a cup of coffee or some shit, Travis just wanted the memory. At first he thought maybe they could sell it, but then he;d started thinking on what he really wanted, and what he wanted more than a spot of potential cash, was a memory. So they were going to assemble the clock here, under his oversight, and Travis wasn't going to take no for an answer if anybody started to get cold feet. He was determined to do it.
But he wasn't entirely eager. He'd closed up the junkyard a little early, around 4, but left the main get open. There was a single wooden picnic table in the patch of front grass that existed just before the seemingly endless sprawl of rusted wreckage and tires. The grass formed trails, almost aisles down through the accumulation of old cars and tractor parts, and there seemed like plenty of place to wander on the spread of land that stretched way, way out to the trees.
Up front was a little silver trailer too. There was a piece of paper tapped to the inside of one of the windows, and it said "OFFICE", although it looked more like the kind of trailer than a person might live in. And while it was, really at the moment it was the kind of trailer that a person might hide in. Because the blinds were all down, drawn tight with secrecy, and the lights were all off except for the occasional, spotty flicker of a tv set. If there was any sound, it was from that, the singsong melody of some old cartoon on the tube. Travis sat inside, in the dark, occasionally illuminated by the image of a cartoon cat chasing a cartoon mouse, while he smoked out of a bong. He was listening for the arrival of people on the property, and swore to himself that he wasn't nervous about it, he just wanted to get his mind right first.