Thread: Foodstamps and boxed wine (spaceghost and myself)

Arthur Artie McCullen was at his favorite cafe with a big pile of notebooks, each one with a different color and some with different types of inks in them, and a cup of piping hot tea sitting next to a chocolate covered pastry of some type. Arthur was an odd looking man, his parentage having a lot to do with it. His father was a JamaicanIrish mix that had come to America to be a nurse after going to school back in his own country and had met up with a nice Bronx dwelling mulatto lady who's mother had been German or British or maybe even Russian. She couldn't quite remember as she had been raised by her father, but his parents had fallen in love pretty quickly and soon he and his siblings had been born. There was a small joke that Artie got the short end of the genetics stick in some ways his hair was a nappy red which looked completely odd and would curl without the right hair products or even sometimes with them, his eyes were a dull brown that looked a lot like a latte in comparison, yet his skin was a nice hazel complexion-but had several freckles on it thanks to his Irish grandfather. He was not completely unlucky as his nose was nice by American white beauty standards and his red hair allowed him to easily 'pass' for Italian mutt should he need to get a job. Since his mother was viewed as white by the Government standards he was as well, so he could sometimes easily skirt past the economic blockades put up for his darker skinned brethren. Yet, as far as that had gotten him was four days a week, and every now and then a fifth day on Sunday, at a local video store that was nestled in between an all night cigar store and a Chinese takeout place that he frequented much too often. The man had the style of Wal-Mart nerd, with his light blue shirt and two day old jean shorts on that had what looked like a few crumbs from his pastry on it and a few old ink stains in various colors that dotted it. He had prescription glasses that were six months overdue to be fixed resting delicately on his nose and framing his eyes. His pockets had at least three types of pens in it with the fourth one in his hand and scribbling something down on the notebook with a black cover on it. His body showed the eating habits of his mother's lust for soul food when he went over to her place and the light paunch of too much lo mien before bed. He was not obese, but he definitely had a rounded figure. He gave a light sigh as he placed the pen into his mouth, contemplating his protagonists' next move as he tried to work on this being the best story made in years. He had grown up reading the works of Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman and wanted to emulate them so much with his story. He had been working on it for the past four years, sometimes even going to a local community college when he scraped up enough money to afford a class or two or could find a way to get his books for free. He knew if he just worked at it he would be selling one of the better fantasy novels that had come out in years. There were too many that emulated Tolkien so much that it was as if they were sucking his cock and so many cliched ones that he wanted to rip his eyes out. Artie knew he wasn't going to make that mistake. Which is why he had so many different ideas. He wanted to incorporate a good number of them...yet...ah. he closed the notebook and rubbed his temples, trying to clear his mind. He had wanted to get out of his apartment, yet this didn't seem to be helping too much. He really hoped he didn't have writer's block, as that set him back so much ages ago. He took a sip from his tea and finally noticed those people around him. It was a snazzy little coffee and tea house, with the main item sold being a sense of indie superiority to those damn Starbucks drones that flitted about their daily lives as if they were bees. A good number were upper class white students, plus a good selection of Asians who disparaged being seen as anime producers even when their cultures made none and the black students who never, ever listened to rap and were going to make something of themselves, talking about their majors in anthropology and sociology and how much they just loved this place because of it's 'urban' feel. In short, they were upper class citizens 'slumming' in a place that was safe enough their sensibilities wouldn't be jarred too much yet gave them the 'cred' they needed with their buddies and pals who wouldn't even be caught dead here. There were some like Arthur, who came for the coffee and other items, and a few who just wandered in to read or catch up on school-work with the free wifi. Today also had several people who were actually here to see the band that was going to play, plus the usual gaggle of misfits who needed to be indie-er than their friends and TOTALLY loved this band that they had never heard of. Arthur shook his head and bit into his snack, sitting back and opening the notebook that had Hello Kitty on it and the Big Lots sticker of .54 cents on the front. He started scribbling in it with a red pen, the ink taking the form of verse, iambic pentameter that was his current poem. He figured he would stay for the band, then head home and feed his raccoon before walking his dog. He had work in the morning and needed to get to bed pretty early.