It was, by most peopleās standards, a lovely summer evening in New York City. A little warm perhaps, and the bits of garbage and dumpster crud littering the sidewalks did not smell any better for the hours of direct contact with the sunlight, but overall a relatively nice evening. The city was out in full force, eager to grasp onto some of the last summer days before school started again and tourists retreated back to their homes with stories to tell and a little less money in their wallets.
Central Park was a popular place to be at this time of day, the daylight promising some modicum of safety and the vast green space almost impossible to resist. Its emerald allure drew in families, tourists, joggers, and, almost as an unwelcome requirement for all large gatherings, a certain percentage of douche bags.
āHey ba-by!ā Shouted Sean OāConnor, bedecked in the khaki shorts and the pastel polo shirt that tended to be the uniform of his ilk. He was stationed at one of the parkās official entrances, leaned up against a light-post. āGive us a smile. Come on, you know you want to.ā The girls walking by (almost all in groups of threes or fours by the time-long tradition of safety in numbers) huffed and hurried along, hoping that he wouldnāt follow. He didnāt, thankfully, instead laughing loudly and imagining how cool his friends would think he was when they finally showed up.
He imagined himself to be rather funny, a ladies man practicing his best pick-up lines before college began again and sorority girls were once more available in droves. And there were plenty of attractive young women to practice on this evening, obligingly wearing the shorts and skirts short enough to survive comfortably in New Yorkās heat.
The laughter broke off into immature chuckles as his new prey approached, this one surprisingly alone. She had thick blonde hair tied up into a messy bun and was wearing a the uniform of one of the local bakeries; black pants and a black button-up, the top unbuttoned enough to hint at a lilac tank-top underneath. A heavy looking purple shoulder-bag was hoisted over one shoulder, and her lips were pulled into a thin frown of exhaustion.
A little skinny for Seanās tastes and perhaps a little tall, especially in those heeled boots, but she did have pretty eyes, dark blue rimmed with only slightly smudged black eyeliner. This is, of course, what prompted him to shout:
āHey, ba-by! How you doing? Come on, donāt be like that. Smile!ā
She stilled, frozen on the sidewalk, which did cause Sean a little pause. Heād only been cat-calling women for a relatively short period of his life, and this was the first time the possibility of confrontation had occurred to him.
āGet bent,ā she retorted, hand flicking up to deliver a sharp one-finger salute. And with it, several things clicked for young Sean OāConnor including the fact that-
āThatās right, asshole. He/Him and they/them pronouns,ā the feminine young man scoffed. āGot a problem?ā
āWell I-ā Sean was trying to rally himself, to save face. This was probably the time to act tough, Sean decided, and rose to his not terribly intimidating height of 5ā9. āYeah, I-ā He stopped again.
The cat-called boy had a pair of sharp and large fabric-cutting scissors in his hand, fished out of the over-sized purple bag during Seanās moment of indecision. He held it languidly, dangling from the index and middle fingers of his left hand, and stared down at Sean, nearly two inches taller than the other man.
āI said, you got a problem, ba-by?ā
Sean was an idiot with poor decision making skills, but he was also an idiot whoād grown up in New York. Sharp metal objects were things to be avoided, especially if the person wielding them was completely furious with you. Crazy came in so many shades that you had no idea who was actually sane around here. So, he made a decision that he knew would haunt him through the upcoming school year but would ultimately save him the greater embarrassment of someone heād cat-called actually beating him up.
āNope. Not at all.ā Sean said quickly as he turned to walk away, as hurried and flustered as the girls heād been harassing all afternoon. āSorry. Have a good evening.ā
~*~*~*~
āThatās what I thought,ā Jules snorted as he slid the scissors back in his bag and continued down the concrete path. There were way too many weirdoes in Central Park for his taste*, but it made for a pleasant enough shortcut back to his apartment before he had to report to the theatre in a few hours. Fifteen minutes of extra rest was well worth the risk, especially during a tech week where he was also workings nine hour shifts at the bakery. He should probably go in early tonight, too, since there were so many d* adjustments to make before dress-rehearsal began.
*Jules himself was one of these weirdoes, but not because he had threatened someone with scissors. That was just practical in a world where deviating from gender normative behavior made life a little too risky to be taking chances. No, Jules was a weirdo because he was Jules, and that meant he was a weirdo with panache.
The leading lady had been more demanding than usual, a relatively new London transplant who thought her voice was worthy of the Broadway treatment despite being in an off-Broadway production of Elisabeth (newsflash: it wasnāt, but nobody asked Jules, which was probably for the best). The dresses were never sparkly enough or soft enough or form-fitting enough. Everything had to be perfect for her big moment. after all, and apparently every moment onstage was her big moment.
Ugh. Kill him now. If he had to hand-stitch one more crystalline bead into that monstrosity of a ball gown, sheād end up more disco ball than star soprano. And while that may be hilarious, he wasnāt sure if his sanity could take it. Or his fingers for that matter.
He checked his hands and grimaced lightly. The electric blue nail polish was already beginning to chip, but such was the life of a theatre student/wardrobe apprentice/baking assistant/God knows what else. Still, even while chipped the paint would do the job of distracting from the calloused fingertips and otherwise rough hands, worn from years of stitching, ironing, sewing, hot gluing- the whole backstage shebang. He liked what he did most days, but heād always been self-conscious of his own appearance. Callouses didnāt exactly go with the image he was trying to project.
It would be easier in a few weeks when heād take a break from his summer bakery job and return to being a full-time student at NYU. And, of course, heād still be continuing his costuming apprenticeship with Madame Belle, a stern Belgian woman who was as acclaimed in the theatre world for her costuming skills as she was feared*. Donāt get him wrong, it would still be havoc on his sleep schedule, but at least he wouldnāt have to exist with dough stuck under his nails, sugar and flour dusting his hair, and the arid heat of the ovens drying out his skin. The things he did to support himself. Well, no one ever said school life or theatre life would be easy. Or life in general.
The landscape was changing now as he continued along one of the many paths snaking through the park, manicured patches of grass expanding into open greenery, trees replacing the usual sky-line of steel and glass. Each step forward brought him one step closer to home. That thought wasnāt an active one, but it wormed its way into his mind regardless and his footsteps began to slow.
*Jules had already lasted longer than even Emmeline Belleās most tenured past assistant by a good three months, although it had been a near thing. Heād almost quit three weeks in after sheād insisted he stay at the costume shop all night to finish a particularly garish suit, which she then threw out the next morning after changing her costume idea in a sudden moment of inspiration. What followed was an intense explosion of pettiness the likes the theatre world had never seen with Jules mercilessly and thoroughly ripping into her new design. Madame Greta threatened to fire him over it but ultimately must have agreed with his critique and respected his ability to stand up to her because she did keep him on and the suit heād put together was used in the production. Pettiness- 1. Demure toadying- 0.
Did he really want to go home right now? He thought about it for a moment and realized that, you know, maybe he didnāt. His parents would be there, which was bad enough. The more important fact was that they would be there with their theatrical protĆ©gĆ©s for one of their weekly acting seminar dinners.
The thought of all of them clustered around their dining room table, giggling and reciting lines from whatever play they were studying this time made him want to gag. The fact that he wanted to gag made him even more frustrated because he was not petty*. He wasnāt bitter because they got to continue on with their acting careers and had his parentsā greatest admiration and joy. No, he was bitter because of the looks they would give him. The false interest in his work, the endless platitudes (oh, he was just such a good actor, when would he be on stage again? ), and the inane pity that so many actors had when they looked at a member of the stage crew. Even his parents were guilty of it.
āPoor dears, they couldnāt make it as actors, so they clung to theatre in any way they could.ā
*This is factually accurate. He wasnāt petty. He was very petty.
Oh, fuck that. He liked his job, thanks very much. He enjoyed working with costumes and there was no denying that he was good at it. Madame Belle had even complimented him yesterday for his work on the Ensembleās looks for the showās first scene. Jules was good right where he was, right on the fast track to professional costume designer. Never mind the fact that his parents could barely hide their disappointment. Never mind the rejection e-mail heād received this afternoon from his most recent audition still sat in his phoneās inbox among scores of others. Never mind, never mind.
So, no. No he would not be going home. He had a change of clothes in his bag, and, Hell, he could take a shower at the theatre when he got there if he felt the need. For now, heād just have to find some relaxation in Central Park. That should be easy enough.
It was not easy enough. There were more people out this evening than heād first imagined, screaming children, posturing teenagers, and ineffective, uninvolved, or drunk adults seemed to cover every square inch of space. So Jules kept walking, through the people, through the mayhem until he finally wandered into the quietest spot thus far. Only a few people were scattered around, and the trees loomed tall overhead. It wasā¦ almost serene. Well, except for the aforementioned people. All young adults or teenagers, clustered in two or three small groups, all talking at once. Some looked out of place, but, Hell, it was New York. You could wear a potato sack and people would hardly bat an eye.
One young woman was demanding to know what was going on, a dog was barking excitedly, and one girl was wandering around in a daze (drugs? Booze? General ditzy behavior?). And yet, somehow this was still the least obnoxious spot in the entire park, so he decided to forgive the surrounding people for causing several scenes at the same time. That didnāt mean he was going to stick too close, however.
He made his way off the concrete path, intent on finding shade under one of the many trees, hopefully without stepping in anything too horrifying. How was he to know that a young woman had appeared in one only a few moments ago? How was he to know that it was the exact wrong (or right, as he would debate with himself years later) place to be? Well, maybe from the way the pearl on his seashell necklace began to grow cold on his chest was an indication. He ignored it, as humans often do when a situation they canāt really explain occurs.
āOkay, this may just be a thought that everyone is having, but what the Hell is going on here?ā Another girl, this time a pretty brunette (and, God, werenāt they all disgustingly pretty? Was this actually a reality TV show heād wandered into?), demanded. Jules resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Right. Like this was weird for New York. This was barely a blip on the radar.
Now, what happened next? That was weird, even for New York.