CHAPTER THREE- THE COLLAPSE OF NORMALCY
Friday 23rd March, 2018- NEW SALEM, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
The Artist had been in the employ of Dan Russell for two months now, working as a bartender at JayJay’s Jazz Bar, Pub & Grill. The steady income provided by their job allowed them to cover their bills, taxes and even set aside some funds for their upcoming art exhibition. Despite Dan’s occasional bouts of demanding behavior and sharp remarks, The Artist couldn't deny that he was the best employer they had ever encountered. In the midst of their daily routine, the sorrow of their parents’ disappearance still lingered in The Artist’s heart. However, Dan’s imposing yet supportive care offered a semblance of solace. He became more than just an employer, he took it upon himself to teach The Artist basic self-defense tactics with firearms, ensuring their safety in a world that seemed increasingly uncertain.
As The Artist served drinks behind the bar, they occasionally found solace in conversations with their colleague, Sarah, the current bartender. Sarah had a kind and empathetic nature, always ready to lend an ear. The Artist felt a sense of camaraderie with her, appreciating her wisdom and insights.
During a quiet moment, The Artist decided to confide in Sarah about the enigmatic encounter with Detective Minnesota. They shared the cryptic allusions made by the detective. The Artist was unsure of how to interpret those hints, but they carried a sense of intrigue. Sarah listened attentively, her eyes filled with understanding. She pondered for a moment before offering her thoughts.
“Sometimes, people are just weird. I’m not going to pretended I know what those words meant, I barely understand my grandparents and I’ve been with them for 30 years”, Sarah said in her typical Southern accent, a common feature she shared with The Artist. “Maybe it was just a marketing gimmick”, she speculated, “Anyway it’s like sittin’ on a porch swing, watchin’ the world go by. This Detective Minnesota sounds like a strange person, but if what they said does help. Trust your intuition and follow the path that feels right to you”.
The Artist nodded, taking in Sarah’s words. They felt a sense of gratitude for her guidance and her willingness to share her insights. In that moment, The Artist realized they hadn’t even known Sarah’s last name, feeling a pang of guilt for their oversight.
“I’m sorry, Sarah. I don’t even know your last name”, The Artist said with a tinge of embarrassment in their voice.
Sarah chuckled, a warm smile gracing her face. “It’s Perkins, Sarah Perkins. But don’t worry about it. We’ve been too caught up in our own worries and conversations. It’s never too late to get to know each other better”, she replied. The Artist and Sarah couldn’t help but join in the laughter. They raised their glasses in a toast, celebrating their friendship.
“Sorry to pry”, Sarah said with a Southern charm, “But how are your folks handling your parents’ disappearance?”. The Artist took a deep breath and responded to Sarah’s inquiry. “I don’t have any other relatives. If you’re wondering about my grandparents, on my Mom’s side of the family both my grandparents passed before I was born. Same with my grandpa on my Dad’s side, he passed before I was born. My grandma died in a car crash in Rouen, which is a city in Normandy, France”, The Artist painfully admitted. “Oh my God I’m so so…”, Sarah replied. “It’s okay”, The Artist said cutting Sarah off, “That was in 1990, I was born in 1993, it’s the same thing. I’ve never really known anyone apart from Dad and Mom”.
“Cousins, Uncles, Aunties?”, Sarah asked. “Nope. No one. Even when we moved to Kanan City back in 2011, I asked Ma and Pa why no relatives of ours visited us. They said they didn’t have any. Dad explained he was an only child like me, and his folks were all he knew. Ma even went to the extent of lying she was an orphan”, The Artist replied. “Lying?”, Sarah inquired. “Yeah. Her stories didn’t add up. One day she would say her parents were in Connecticut. When pressed about it she would say the died before she was born, saying she grew up in an orphanage. And another day she would say she grew up in foster care, but when I asked about her foster family she would say that she was in about ten foster homes. Bad behavior and all that. And when asked about the recent foster family…You get the gist of it. It was confusing, but I could tell she didn’t want to talk about her past too much. I didn’t press her for details because it seemed like a sensitive topic for her”, The Artist replied.
“They always tried to run circles around me when I was young. As I grew older, I realized that my parents kept a lot of secrets from me. They were always very private about their personal lives, and I respected their boundaries. But now that they’ve disappeared, I can’t help but wonder if their past has something to do with it”, The Artist continued.
“Wow. Your folks have always been a strange bunch”, Sarah said with her eyes filled with sympathy and awe, “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you, not having any family around during this time. You’re not alone. We’re here for you, and we’ll do whatever we can to help you find your parents”. “Thank you, Sarah. Your support means a lot to me”, The Artist replied.
As The Artist and Sarah continued their conversation, their laughter was suddenly interrupted by the commanding voice of Dan Russell, their employer and the owner of JayJay’s Jazz Bar, Pub & Grill.
“Hey, I need a word with you!”, Dan called out to The Artist, his tone stern and unwavering. The Artist looked up, a mix of surprise and irritation on their face. They had been enjoying their conversation with Sarah and didn’t appreciate being interrupted. “What’s up Dan?”, The Artist asked, trying to keep their frustration in check. Dan’s gaze hardened as he replied, “I need you to do a nightshift tonight. We’re short-staffed, and I need someone I can rely on”. The Artist felt a surge of annoyance. They had made plans for the evening and were looking forward to some time away from the bar. The sudden change of schedule felt unfair.
“Dan, come on. I’ve been working extra shifts lately. Can’t someone else cover for me this time?”, The Artist pleaded, hoping to reason with their employer. Dan’s face contorted with anger, and his voice grew louder. “I run this place, and I make the decisions. You’re an employee, and you’ll do as I say. No more complaining!”, Dan shouted.
Sarah, sensing the tension, tried to interject. “Dan, maybe we can find another solution. I can stay back and cover the shift instead. It’s not fair to put all the burden…”, she said. Dan cut her off abruptly, his voice sharp. “This is none of your business, Sarah! Stay out of it!”, Dan replied. Feeling defeated and silenced, Sarah lowered her gaze, her expression one of frustration mixed with concern for The Artist.
The Artist sighed, realizing that arguing further with Dan would likely be fruitless. Reluctantly, The Artist acquiesced. “Fine, I’ll do the nightshift, but this isn’t fair, Dan”, The Artist said. Dan smirked, a sense of triumph evident in his eyes. “Good. Be at the Port of New Salem by 7 PM sharp. We’re collecting supplies and delivering them. Don’t be late”, Dan replied. With that, Dan turned away, leaving The Artist and Sarah to exchange disappointed glances. The weight of the unexpected shift hung heavily in the air as they contemplated the disrupted plans and the impending long night ahead.
Resigned to their fate, The Artist bid farewell to Sarah, promising to catch up with her soon. The Artist made their way home, their mind swirling with a mix of frustration and weariness. Once at home, The Artist took a moment to rest and gather themselves. They changed into a more suitable attire for the night shift, preparing for the tasks that awaited them at the Port of New Salem. Deep down, a part of them yearned for the normalcy they had been seeking, the solace of their art, and the unraveling of their parents’ disappearance. But for now, duty called, and they had no choice but to answer it.
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(7:30 PM)
As the evening unfolded, The Artist found themselves on a supply delivery run for JayJay’s Jazz Bar, Pub & Grill. Dan Russell, their employer and companion for the evening, sat behind the wheel as they navigated the bustling streets of New Salem. The clock struck 7:30 (PM), and the city’s French Quarter came alive with the vibrant energy of the night.
Donning their favorite casual outfit, The Artist felt a sense of comfort and familiarity. They wore a short-sleeved green and black plaid shirt, layered with an inner black long-sleeved t-shirt adorned with white accents. Their dark grey denim jeans hugged their legs, paired with their well-worn black and white Chuck 70” canvas high-top Converse shoes. The outfit bore small smudges of different colored paint on its right side, evidence of the countless creative endeavors The Artist had embarked upon. It was an ensemble that had become their signature look, recognized by the street artists of New Salem as a true Hometown Boy or Hometown Girl.
Fleuve Street, the heart of the French Quarter, buzzed with activity as the night came alive. The sound of jazz music spilled out from the bars and clubs, intermingling with the laughter and chatter of revelers. Parades, bar fights and impromptu performances filled the streets, creating an atmosphere of excitement and spontaneity.
As they made their way through the lively scene, The Artist couldn’t help but feel a sense of belonging. The familiar sights and sounds of their hometown embraced them, grounding them in their roots and their artistic spirit. It was on these streets that they had grown and flourished, finding inspiration in the vibrant culture and artistic community that surrounded them. Their delivery duties for JayJay’s brought them to various locations, interacting with fellow artists, musicians and the bohemian souls that called New Salem, home. The Artist felt a deep connection to the city, its people and the artistic energy that flowed through its veins.
As The Artist and Dan Russell made their way back to JayJay’s Jazz Bar, Pub & Grill, the smooth tunes of jazz filled the car, setting the perfect ambiance for a conversation about their shared love for the genre. Dan, with a twinkle in his eye, turned up the volume on the radio, and the unmistakable voice of Louis Armstrong filled the vehicle.
“Ah, Satchmo himself! I can’t get enough of Louis Armstrong. The man was a legend”, The Artist said in excitement. “Absolutely! His trumpet playing and voice were the soul and heart of jazz. Every note was a masterpiece on its own”, Dan replied with enthusiasm.
“You hit the nail on the head. He had the incredible ability to convey emotions through music. But did you know he was also a brilliant scat singer?”, The Artist asked. “No way”, Dan replied in denial, “That man was full of surprises”. “Oh, definitely. In fact, he was one of the pioneers of scat singing. He would improvise with his voice, creating these incredible melodies using nonsense syllables. It was like a musical language all his own”, The Artist said. “Nonsense syllables?”, Dan inquired, “You and your funny words. Did they teach you that in art school?”. “Yeah like, ‘skiddly-bee-bop’ and ‘doo-wop-a-doo’, If you don’t believe me let the legend speak for himself”, The Artist said. And just like magick, Louis Armstrong said the exact same words over the radio. “See”, The Artist said. All Dan could do was hold his arms up in protest, feeling defeated.
“But did you know that Louis Armstrong was an ambassador for jazz and American music?”, The Artist inquired. “Oh really? Tell me more Maestro”, Dan said in eagerness to hear The Artist’s funny words. “Well during the Cold War era, Louis Armstrong traveled extensively, representing the U.S and spreading the art of jazz to audiences around the world. His music was a bridge that connected people from different cultures, bringing them together through the universal language of music”, The Artist said.
“Absolutely”, Dan said, “And you know it’s moments like this when I appreciate being able to share my love for jazz with someone who gets it. It’s rare to find that connection. Sorry for shouting at you and Sarah earlier. Running a business works me up a lot”.
“It’s okay. Our love for jazz and all things jazzy brought us together, and I’m grateful for it. Plus, it’s refreshing to have a conversation about Louis Armstrong that goes beyond ‘What a Wonderful World’ and what not”. “True, true!”, Dan chuckled, “Though I must admit that song is a classic for a reason”.
“Oh, no doubt about it. It’s like a warm embrace for the soul. But hey, let’s explore some of his lesser-known gems sometime. I bet there’s a treasure trove of them”, The Artist offered. “I’m up for the challenge”, Dan responded. “Sounds like a plan, Ambassador Satch”, The Artist replied, with Dan chuckling back in response.
As the JayJay’s delivery truck made its way through the bustling streets of New Salem, Dan Russell the ever-vigilant driver, noticed an unusual sensation— a sudden jolt and the sound of oil splashing onto the road. At first, he thought he had hit a speed bump, but upon closer inspection, he realized that the oil pipes connected to the engine had been slashed. The delivery truck began to hiccup and sputter, its once-smooth ride now marred by mechanical issues. Determined to address the problem, Dan took the initiative to park the truck in a secluded area to perform the necessary repairs. Choosing the closest alleyway on Fleuve Street to avoid heavy traffic, he prepared to tackle the issue head-on. He turned to The Artist, his companion for the evening, and beckoned them to step out of the passenger seat.
Armed with a flashlight and a set of tools, The Artist braced themselves for the task ahead. They stepped out into the cold dimly-lit alley, their fingers crossed and goosebumps prickling their skin. The wind howled against their face as they surveyed the scene, aware of the squeaking sounds emanating from nearby street rats.
Lying underneath the 13-Ton delivery truck, The Artist found themselves in an unpleasant and uncomfortable position. Greased-up fingers fumbled with tools, and a torch was wedged between their shoulder and neck, casting flickering shadows on their face. It felt as if they were being buried alive, the weight of the truck pressing down on them, or worse, as if unseen eyes were watching their every move. With determination, The Artist’s hand frantically scrambled for the Brute Force Tape, a reliable ally in their toolbox, while the other clutched a monkey wrench, ready to tackle the damaged oil pipes. Time seemed to slow as they fought against the challenging conditions, their focus solely on rectifying the issue and getting the delivery truck back on the road.
As they worked, a mix of frustration and determination coursed through their veins. The Artist’s mind briefly wandered to their parents’ disappearance, the lingering worry that haunted their thoughts. But in that moment, they pushed those thoughts aside, channeling their energy into the task at hand. They knew that fixing the truck was a small step towards regaining a sense of control in their life.
The wind whispered secrets, and the alley seemed to hold its breath. But The Artist persevered, their skill and expertise guiding them through the repairs. Inch by inch, they tightened the Brute Force Tape around the damaged pipes, their muscles straining against the weight above them. With each twist of the wrench, they felt a sense of accomplishment, a reminder of their resilience in the face of adversity. Finally, as the repairs were completed and the truck’s engine roared back to life, The Artist emerged from beneath the vehicle, a mix of grease and determination on their face. Despite the physical strain and the eerie atmosphere of the alley, they couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. They had faced the challenge head-on, overcoming the uncomfortable and unsettling circumstances.
The signal of a roaring engine and beaming headlights filled the little frantic heart of The Artist with relief. It was a validation of a job well done, a sense of accomplishment for the repairs executed with precision. But as The Artist hesitantly skid away from the truck bed, a cold and uncaring grasp seized them by the head and shoulder, violently yanking them back to a place of sheer terror.
The Artist's surroundings dissolved into a nightmarish realm, cloaked in impenetrable darkness. They strained their eyes, desperate to discern any form or shape, but all they could perceive was the presence of a long and twisted arm. Its surface resembled rotting bark wood, emanating a sickly aura of decay. Another appendage extended from the shadows, violently shaking beneath the very truck bed the Artist had hoped to escape.
Fear surged through The Artist’s veins, constricting their chest, as they realized the full horror of their predicament. There was no escape, no respite from this malevolent force that held them captive. The pain began to blossom, an agonizing chorus of agony, as their body was subjected to relentless torment. Bite marks multiplied across their hands and neck, strange piercings sinking into their abdomen and legs, drilling through flesh and grinding into bone. The pain was mind-numbing, overwhelming, but it paled in comparison to the torrents of blood that stained the darkness.
Amidst the torment, thoughts raced through the Artist's mind, fragmented and desperate. “Is this it?”, The Artist pondered, “Am I going to die here? Mom, Dad…I”. Their voice silenced by the throes of anguish. The realization of imminent death loomed, a haunting specter in the abyss. And with that final thought, The Artist’s consciousness faltered, and everything faded into pitch black oblivion.