Re: [Jester's Court: Cat & Jack]
Jack didn't want a friend to sling him back on the wagon. The wagon was moving, the wagon was present if he wanted to board, but Jack didn't, thanks all the same. And no, he didn't smell of American beer, christ. The whiskey was Scotch, it was neat and it didn't get sold in a vending machine in the Seventies. He sighted that edifice when Cat whistled, low and somehow more male than the ....maleness of the present get-up, angles and curls - but anyway, he sighted it and he laughed. He didn't have quarters or dollars stuffed into his pockets but he did know how to rattle a vending machine. And the audience was likely too stoned to give a shit.
He didn't know Stephanie well enough to know her state of mind. Grief painted it darkly, thick and black and he didn't think Eddie could unroot himself comprehensively enough not to come back, but what did Jack know? Sweet fuck all, from the sound of it. "Was he very unhappy?" If he had been, he hadn't seen it. Had he been meant to? Jack had had a vague idea that Cat and Eddie were tight, the way of old friends and the twists and turns hadn't meant that hit the rocks. Maybe it had.
"Bollocks," he said, to 'epic', and he didn't need Cat to be young, male and obvious to know that was utter shite. Eddie mattered. Always had and he could see that still, clear as day. "Epic. You've acquired a new way of talking along with the outfit," a gesture, to the retro-hipster look. "I never know if you talk the way you, Cat, internal you-talk or whether you talk shite because it fits the look. The outsides, if you talk a certain way to match the outsides," which was probably a little too stoned and a little too candid, but Cat wandered and Jack watched the show, and stubbed the blunt out with the toe of his shoe.
"Very casual. Yes, thanks," and he took the hot-dog, with an utter carelessness for grease, "I do. I gave up years ago, which means I smoke infrequently like a chimney. When did you begin?"