2019-07-20 - Ghost Stories

It's a Saturday, later in the afternoon, and the bar is hopping. It's hot out, even if it's raining, but inside the bar it's pretty cool. Cool drinks, cool air from the AC. Declan stands behind the bar, pouring drinks from the tap, focused and mostly quiet while trying to get the perfect foam head on a lager. The tall drink is passed to the man who ordered it before he takes another order from a tourist off the beaten path.

Afternoon on a Saturday is usually when Frankie is at wor, flee...errr...helping tourists down on the Boardwalk. But for reasons unknown to anyone but herself she's decided to escape from the weight of responsibility to head to the Pourhouse. It's probably something as simple as rain killing business for her, really.

When she sweeps through the door she's wearing a long black skirt with a brightly colored silk shawl wrapped around her hips, a t-shirt with a picture of a veve on the front, and enough bangle bracelets to drown someone if they fell into a puddle. The redhead only pauses for a split second before she heads in the direction of the bar with a bounce to her step, "Barkeep! I glass of the good stuff today." Which...probably isn't going to be good at all since all she does is slap a five dollar bill onto the bartop.

Declan glances at Frankie while making that tourist a margarita. It's easy. He's coating the rim with salt and sugar quickly, not doing his best work, before hustling to the mix and pouring. Glug, glug. The tacky glass and pink drink is slid over, and a straw is slung at a distance into the drink. Next, he moves to Frankie, nabs the five, and grabs bottom shelf whiskey and vodka. Both are set on the bar. "Pick your poison. You want anything in it?" he asks. Despite the AC, his forehead is beaded with sweat, and it's begun to affect his perfect hair.

Pick? Frankie gets a choice!? She seems unusually pleased by being given a choice, and she points in the direction of the vodka after a moment, "I'll take that one." She glances around the room, her elbows settling on the bar top before she looks back, "Looks like the rain has been alright for business today."

Declan picks up the vodka bottle, grabs a glass, and watches it carefully as an ounce and a half are poured. As he does, he winks at Frankie. She didn't ask, but he grabs a slice of orange and squeezes it into the drink. A little bit of pulp goes with it. Declan slides it over, along with fifty cents. "It was. Drove a lot of people indoors early. Can't wait for tonight's crowd." The last is said with a brief chuckle.

"Probably a lot of the same people that are here now will be here tonight." Frankie reaches for the glass, then she dips a finger into it to start fishing out the pulp in it. "Killed my business today, which sucks." She flicks her hand, which probably rather rudely sends vodka flying across the bar, "You guys been getting much business from the tourists this summer?"

Declan looks around the bar for a moment, missing the flick. His lips go into a line while he takes in who's there. "Yeah, a few regulars. Hm. Maybe." He turns back and absently wipes the counter. "That sucks. What do you do?" He's probably seen her around, but Declan pretends to be clueless because... it's less awkward. "I don't have a good handle on how much business this place does during every season, this is my first Summer working here, but yeah. It's definitely picked up a lot. Especially on weekends. I guess there are some stories about this place or... people who want something authentic." He shrugs. "Food and bar tourism or whatever."

The question of what she does gets a curious look, then Frankie looks down at what she's wearing before refocusing on him, "I'm a psychic." It's spoken with all the duh a twenty-something can put into their words. She picks up her drink, taking a sip from it before waving a hand, "Should tell stories to the tourist looking for that local charm. Play up the angle."

"Look, I try not to assume anything," Declan says with a bit of a smile and small laugh after her DUH. He holds up his hands before lowering them again. Leaning back against the bar, Declan tilts his head back and forth. "Not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. Does seem a little..." his eyes narrow while he thinks. "Maybe I'll do some research and find some that are close to the truth."

"Doesn't even need to be close to the truth." Which is potentially bad business if some one turns up that knows a thing or two. "It's all about the telling of the stories. Your showmanship." She takes another sip from the drink before leaning towards him, "Tell me a story."

Declan breathes a sigh after Frankie's answer. He wipes at his upper lip, eyes lifting up to the ceiling. "Man. Putting me on the spot here." He bites his lip, tilts his head back and forth a few times, and finally looks back. "Yeah, alright. Okay, here we go:

"Not that long ago there was a psychic who worked the docks. She'd bring tourists in, tell them their fortune, and send them packing with advice to talk to a cute barman off the beaten path." He points to himself. "That'd be me." After a small smirk, he continues, "Then one day a lady came into her storefront. She didn't look quite right. She smelled like the sea, and her skin was too gray. She put two gold coins down on the psychic's table, and that seemed enough for her. Because she was also curious. The psychic turned over her visitor's palms... but saw her own. With extra lines." He indicates his own hands. "She saw a path to a fortune, but it came with a terrible price. When she looked up, her visitor was gone."

"Not bad." Frankie nods at that, setting her glass down so that she can lift her hands up to quietly applaud him, "Ghosts are motherfuckers like that, aren't they?" She wonders, the tone as casual as if she were saying that cats liked knocking things off tables. "So what was the terrible price that the psychic saw in her extra lines?" She lifts a hand up, holding it out towards him, then she points to a line with her other hand.

Declan smirks and laughs a little when Frankie compliments him. "Thanks. Here." He pours her another drink, taking the fifty cents from earlier if it's still there, and spots her the rest out of his own wallet. It's put in the register. "And yeah. They are," is added, a little darkly. He looks down at Frankie's hand and runs one finger across the line. "Problem is, the treasure's cursed. Once she takes it," Declan's finger lifts, "she haunts her own life. But she lives forever." Declan shrugs. "I'm not really great at ghost stories." Except for one.

"Sounds pretty creepy." Frankie drops her hand, leaning forward onto her forearms, "Best thing I've noticed is to ground it in something real...relatable. Like the pirate lady? Everyone loves pirates, so that'll be a sure winner for most folks. Widow's Walk and shit, you know? But then again, I make my money on being as occulty-mysterious as a human can be."

Declan thinks the advice over, nodding a few times. "Sure." He scratches the back of his head, still thinking, before breathing deeply. "I'll hit the history books and records. Find something people can almost believe." Declan pauses for a moment, considering her. "How long have you been a psychic?"

"Whole life." Frankie might be lying, might be spinning the same yard she does for the tourists that come through the shop. Might be dead serious. She states it in such an off-handedly casual manner. "My mom was a psychic, before me...pretty sure we go all the way back, but..." She shrugs her shoulders, lifting her drink, "I don't know any further back than my mom."

"Cool." Declan's shoulders tense, and his hand moves as if to grip something. The glass in front of Frankie slides right into his hand, away from Frankie, but he doesn't seem to notice. He picks it up, washes out the contents that were left, and dries it with a towel. "And good answer. You convinced me." His jaw tenses a little, and his body is pretty rigid while he cleans the glass. "Your mom retired, then?" he glances at her while he asks.

"Something like that." Frankie leans forward onto the bar, her chin settling on her hands as she studies him, noting the tension, "You don't need to worry. I'm not going to tell anyone about Mr. Wubbles when you were ten." The smiles she offers is amused, but friendly.

"It wasn't Mr. Wubbles. And if you did," he sets the clean glass down and walks back over. "They wouldn't believe you. Because no one else did." He winks, despite what he says, and sets the towel down. Non-mentions of mothers get stored for later. "You have a card? If you want, I'll send people your way for some fortunes, if it looks like they might be interested."

"Afraid nothing as fancy as a card. But I can give you my number, or you can just send them down to the Boardwalk. Not to hard to find my shop." Frankie replies, reaching over to make gimmie gestures, "I'll write it down for you, and you can do with it whatever you want."

Declan grabs paper and-- he stops. His cellphone is pulled out and he opens up a new contact, then he slides it over. "I can send them down the boardwalk, sure. I think I know where your place is." While he waits, he looks off at the bar to see who needs refills.

The number gets plugged in, but it's not under Frankie. She just plugs it in under Hot Redhead. Then there is a quick salute before she heads out.