2022-06-23 - Waaaaay East of Eden

It's dark, it's misty, it's an alley somewhere in New York City. Oh, and it's sometime in the 1920s. Can't forget that part, because it's not like being suddenly in a place nearly three-thousand miles from where you were supposed to be was disorienting enough. Let's throw in time travel for good measure. And period clothing. Good times!

Finch managed to pull Ravn out of the Speakeasy and the clutches of the NYPD's raid and now the pair are a few blocks over, recovering. The dark-haired girl, now clad in an art-deco inspired beaded dress and sturdy heels, rests her hands on her knees, bent in half, to catch her breath. "Can't wait to tell my dad about THIS brush with the law. He is gonna laugh his ass off," she mutters.

Once she can breathe again, she straightens, and tries to get her bearings. "At least I went to University in New York. Spent a lot of time visiting Manhattan. I should know the general streets still, though I'm sure what's on them has changed plenty." She steps out of the mouth of the alley and looks at the street signs of the closest intersection. "Bedford and 7th. We're in Greenwich Village," she announces with a grin. "You know what? I think it's only about a 30 minute walk from here to the Empire State Building. We can head up Bedford to Christopher Street and head that way. It won't be open this late, but I'd love to see i t before it was completely drowned out by more modern skyscrapers," she offers to Ravn.

"I only came through New York for a couple of days when I first arrived in the country," Ravn agrees. "Saw 42nd Street, a couple of the museums. Then I felt crowded and headed on west. And I'm pretty certain at least 42nd Street looks very different during prohibition."

He glances about. New York is a lot of things, in 2019 when he came through, or in the 1920s. In either case, 'clean' and 'fresh-smelling' are not among those things. "It looks like we're stuck here? I admit I expected the Dream to end when we ran out. But if we are stuck until some Veil entity thinks we've screwed around enough? Let's go sight-seeing. It's not like they've given us any pointers as to where they want us to be. Is Greenwich Village the kind of boheme place it became later on yet? Because if it is, it's got to have some pretty interesting places to see, people to meet."

This priest's gonna hit the town.

Finch smiles and she starts heading up Bedford. "It was. I think there were a lot of speakeasies, and some vaudeville theaters. In fact...if memory serves from a tour I took on Spring Break my first year at Cornell, Chumley's should be up ahead a few blocks. It was the speakeasy that a bunch of famous authors hung out at. I'm talking Faulkner, Steinbeck, Cummings. Heck even Eugene O'Neill. Should we check it out? It was a blacksmith shop that got converted into the speakeasy in 22. If it's 22 or later, we're golden," she enthuses.

"You had me at Steinbeck." Ravn grins slightly. "He was one of the very first American authors I read."

He strolls along cheerfully -- and at least for the moment, blissfully unaware that several of those writers were never to keen on the Roman Catholic Church and how they perceived it as helping keep the sheep of the working class in check. But then, Ravn does not think of himself as a Roman Catholic priest because he isn't one -- he's not a believer, and if he was, he'd be Lutheran. The Veil has a funny sense of humour, continuing to cast him like that.

He glances back towards the speakeasy that the two of them abandoned (post haste). "It's rare for the Veil to give us no hint whatsoever what's going on, though. There's usually some kind of narrative, at least in my experience."

Finch grimaces a bit. "Yeah, that is unusual. But a lot of unusual has been cropping up lately. I can heal more often again. For so long that had been like I'd been cut off at the knees. Once a day, that was it, when before I could heal as much as I needed to," she explains. She glances over at Ravn and chuckles a little. "You might want to ditch the collar, Padre. I'm pretty sure no speakeasy crowds are going to feel comfy around a priest."

She keeps her eyes on the passing road signs, and waits for Bedford and Barrow to converge.

"Thing is, I'm still going to look like one, just one who took his collar off." Ravn ponders and then nods before reaching up to remove the collar. "Might be they feel easier around somebody who's obviously trying to pretend to not be a preacher, though. Hell, if it saves me from having to actually try to act like one.."

He glances back at Finch and then quirks an eyebrow. "Did you have that crazy dream too? A lot of people did. Not me, but most people I know -- a kangaroo, a courtroom, the Vivisectionist getting her arse kicked?"

Finch nods and wrinkles her nose. "I don't remember much of it, just the kangaroos. Because that had me doing a doubletake. But I'm used to the Veil sending me weird ass dreams. I've been here all my life except for those years I was at Cornell," she explains. She stops as the sign for Barrow appears ahead. "Let's do the courtyard exit. I've always wanted to go through the garden door," she murmurs, turning that way to step into the non-descript, signless courtyard.

"I've only been in town for less than two years and I'm already kind of used to it." Ravn nods his agreement and rummages around his pockets -- oh bless, he does have a small roll of money bills that are probably as contemporary as his clothes. "If it means that the healer types have more mojo, though? I'm for it. My room mate, Kinney, used to worry a lot about healing somebody's broken arm and then realising he should have saved his energy for someone's broken back, you know?"

"Exactly. Now I don't have to be a triage expert as well as a magical surgeon," Finch agrees with a nod of her head.

The courtyard is dark, unlit, but the door is there at the back of it, simple, nondescript. "Are you ready? Fingers crossed history didn't lie to us and this is the place where it all happened," she murmurs with a quirk of a grin.

"As ready as I ever get," Ravn grins back. "Bloody hell, I wish I had a camera here. My girlfriend is going to go boinkers about this."

Beat. "I should probably not talk about girlfriends while wearing this outfit."

Beat. "I need a stiff drink. Let's find out how this works. Do we knock, or do we go in?"

"I think you had to have a business card. Maybe we can find a discarded one." Finch moves around the courtyard, and she crouches down to peer under a hedge. There is a small bit of cardstock, just a corner, but that is all someone skilled in the Mending Art needs. She focuses on the piece of paper and her eyes narrow. A surge of Glimmer sparks around her, unseen but felt by those who know it, and a strange light burns on the torn edge of the card. It begins spreading, until it is the size of a complete business card, and then fades, revealing a Chumley's card in pristine condition. She grins and hands it to Ravn.

"Bloody hell, that's useful." Ravn nods approvingly. It's one of those tricks he has not seen used too many times, and it still impresses him (not counting the fact that the entire house on Oak Three is full of furniture Aidan Kinney has restored in this exact way, but Ravn doesn't see it happening).

He tucks the card into a blazer pocket for easy and casual retrieval. "If Steinbeck is in there I'm going to have to buy him a drink for The Pearl. Never has any one piece of literature made me feel so much like there's no hope for humanity at all. And then The Grapes of Wrath for making me feel like there is no justice in the world, either. Maybe a very, very sour whiskey."

He reaches out to knock on the door. "Here's to hoping we can pass for locals. Or at least for out-of-towners who aren't obviously police spies."

"Pretty sure if the Veil set us here, it will do it's thing and make the locals just accept us as normal," Finch murmurs. If it can keep everyone in Gray Harbor who doesn't Glimmer from freaking out at all the crazy things that happen, this should be a cake walk for the Powers that Be.

A little window in the door slides open and dark eyes peer out through it. "Yeah?" comes a thick Brooklyn accent. The smell of cigarette and cigar smoke wafts out of the tiny egress.

Finch hooks her arm in Ravn's to look like a standard hanger on of someone important coming to the speakeasy and smiles brightly.

"The Veil is pretty damned good at making people believe the unbelievable," Ravn agrees in a murmur. "I'm more worried about whether it wants us to pass for locals, or it wants to land us in hot water. But there's only one way to find out, right?"

He dips into his pocket to procure the pristine calling card. "I have an appointment," he tells the dark eyes in the door. "Unless you're going to tell me I have the wrong address?"

Play the part, walk the walk. He can do this. It's certainly not the first time Ravn has pulled himself together to walk, talk, and carry himself like Somebody Important on a red carpet. It's the first time he does so in a New York City back door, granted.

The dark eyes scan the card briefly, then locks can be heard being released. The door swings open and the smoke is joined by faint jazz. They've clearly dampened the acoustics. How is clear as they walk in. The walls are pasted with newspapers in layers, and a heavy curtain is hung in front of the door into the next space. The dark-eyed bouncer moves to pull it aside and open the door to let Ravn and Finch pass into the party space proper. It's lively, if not terribly glamorous, with square wooden tables, sawdust on the floors for easy cleanup, and a thick layer of smoke dimming the lighting. But the patrons are dressed well, if not as sparkly as they were in the last speakeasy the pair found themselves. Suits and ties, and prim dresses seem more suited here, where one back wall of tables is covered with boards for games of "Go".

There is a long bar on one wall, behind which are all sorts of lovely bottles of illegal booze. Bartenders are dressed in white jackets with white shirts and black bowties, and black trousers. Wooden booths are on one side of the space, with an open area for dancing and a small stage for performers. A Jazz trio are up there now, no one famous, sadly. But among the crowd can be seen some historic faces. Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, and Faulkner can all be picked out amongst the regulars.

Finch's eyes are saucer-like as she looks around. She whispers quietly, "Remind me to thank the Veil for this unexpected trip, even if it's usually an asshole."

"This is more my kind of place," Ravn agrees, just as softly. "I don't play Go but I've always wanted to learn."

Is he looking around for familiar faces? He actually isn't. He has no idea what John Steinbeck actually looked like, besides 'white male'. He's looking around for the trap -- because there's always one with the Veil. Always some hidden not-quite-right, always some way to punch you in the feels. He knows he won't recognise any of these writers, much as he'd probably recognise a substantial part of their work. Maybe it's better this way -- after all, if this is truly time travel, it may not be a good idea to create one of those awful time loops.

"Do we find ourselves a table and watch the show? Or do you see anyone you want to talk to?" Ravn asks -- but his feet are already taking him towards the counter because right now? A straight whiskey and a cigarette sounds like just what the doctor is probably not going to be prescribing in a few decades, but right now? Doctors advertise for Marlboro and Lucky Strike, mate.

Finch follows along with Ravn towards the bar, but she's gawking, clearly, at some of the patrons. "That's John Steinbeck," she murmurs to her friend, and tips her chin towards a mustachioed man with prominent ears and riveting eyes. His short hair is dark blonde or light brown, curling slightly, and his eyes are pale blue. He is dressed in a suit jacket with a simple shirt beneath, looking casual amongst business folk. He has a cigarette in his mouth and he's drinking whiskey from the looks of his glass, as he jots down notes in a moleskin covered book.

Ravn pauses in trying to flag down a bartender to order from upon hearing that. He fails to stop himself from turning to gawk, too -- because Steinbeck was a writer he encouraged very early in life, and a great deal of his take on the moneyed upper class stems from, well, Steinbeck. (Hint: It's not very flattering).

"Spare me from temptation," he murmurs softly. "I really want to go talk to him. But if he's not even written the books I'd want to ask about, that could become problematic."

"He hasn't published anything yet," Finch replies, in a hushed tone of awe and reverence. "Not until 1929. And not anything that sold well til '33 with The Red Pony." She stares at the man and blinks repeatedly as if trying to clear her vision. "I kinda knew he was a good-looking guy from photos in my American Lit book, but he is really honest-to-God handsome. So yeah, spare us both from temptation." She looks to the bartender as one makes their way over. "Two whiskeys, please," she orders. It seems the easiest thing to get and if it's good enough for the author of the Grapes of Wrath, it's sure as hell good enough for them.

"I'm as straight as a ruler and even I can see he's drop dead gorgeous." Ravn tears his gaze off the man who's going to write some of the most inspirational and anger inducing literature of the 20th century -- including the less famous but so very apt The Moon Is Down which will become all but the bible of inspiring the resistance movement of Denmark during German occupation. 1942 is far ahead, though.

He's not going to question the quality of the whiskey. Ravn may fancy himself a bit of a whiskey connoisseur -- but he's laughing in the back of his head, about this. Cheap moonshine, smuggled in in unlabelled bottles, no doubt, and more suitable as drain cleaner. And yet he knows people who would pay a small fortune for a bottle -- in 2022. Simply for the story of it.

Finch takes the glass set in front of her, but she hesitates when it comes to actually drinking from the glass. Not that the glass isn't clean, or the whiskey drink-worthy, more that fear that like in Faerie of folklore, if you eat or drink from the Fae, you are trapped there forevermore. "If I wasn't afraid to blow up history, I'd totally hit on him. I mean, this is probably not even real but...I'm not willing to ruin the future entirely by assuming that."

"It's probably better to be safe than sorry," Ravn murmurs. And then he can't help a small, wry chuckle. "It's not that it's not tempting sometimes. I mean, I'm not about to go kiss John Steinbeck, but I can think of other situations I've been in -- so tempting to take something or talk to somebody. Hell, some of us ended up in Pompeii -- it was very, very hard to walk away, knowing that everyone there was going to die in very short time. Another time recently, I was in ancient Rome, talking to a woman whom I knew was about to be brutally kicked to death by her husband. It's hard, sometimes."

Thinking about it makes him need that whiskey; or perhaps the folklorist in a priest's guise is just less cautious than Finch (in which case, shame on him, he if anyone should know the fae rules). He reaches for it and takes a solid swig; fuck you, Emperor Nero, and fuck what you did to your pregnant wife.

"We can't know whether it's real, though. So let's not sexually assault John Steinbeck, and let's not tell him what an influence he'll have on our teenage boy selves reading in bed in the future." A small crooked grin accompanies that statement. "I wonder if we could get him to sign something, though. Or at least talk to us. It feels so... I feel like a star-struck teenage girl sitting next to whoever this month's teen heartthrob is."

"I wonder if all these things are happening, all these doors into the past people have been walking through...." Finch muses. "If they are tempting us to alter history. I wouldn't put it past the Dark Men to try and get us to unmake ourselves with the butterfly effect," she says quietly. "I suppose we can just sit and chat with him, as long as it's about the weather or something and not anything that might influence him."

"Honestly? I wouldn't even be surprised." Ravn nods slightly and motions at the bartender for a refill. "And people have, a little. I brought an amulet back from Pompeii. Una Irving brought kittens. And hell, I left my violin in Rome. Anyone tell you that Emperor Nero can't have played a fiddle while Rome burned because it wasn't invented yet, tell them to fuck off. He totally did, and it was mine."

Finch blinks at that. "Jesus. Well, let's hope nothing gets altered too dramatically. I don't want to find my way home only to discover Gran and I now live in the trailer park or something." She tips her chin towards Steinbeck. "Let's have a chat with the nice, would barely be legal to drink in our time, wanna be author hm?" She heads towards the man's table.

Ravn drifts after, trying very hard to not look exactly like the star-struck fan he is. He reminds himself that presently, he's older than John Steinbeck. Probably wiser, too. And a member, a titled member of the bourgeoisie that the man hates. Maybe not mention that part. Fortunately, no one would believe him anyway if he said.

"Mind if we join you?" he asks, and tries really hard to not sound like a priest who's just tucked his white collar into his pocket but still totally looks like a (collarless) priest. "Bit crowded up there by the counter."

Here's only here visiting, this titan of literature. He's still wandering in and out of Stanford University in California, trying to figure out what he wants to do with his life. He's been writing poems and stories since he was 14, but only recently has he begun to realize writing is the thing that gives him life. In another year or two he will drop out of Stanford and move to this city for several years to work as a newspaper reporter and construction worker. But right now? He's enjoying this trip, getting a feel for this place where so many writers seek their fame. He is young, he is a touch shy, but there is an intellect in those pale eyes that makes him seem older and wiser than his years.

John Steinbeck looks up from his notes and smiles a little, nodding to the couple. "Sure," he agrees, and the hand with the cigarette gestures to the empty uncomfortable wooden seats at his table. "I'm John. Do you live here in the city?" He watches them closely, looking to pick up on their mannerisms, accents, and speech patterns. He's always been a "magpie" in that regard, collecting such things for future characters.

Finch is too excited to do more than meep out a "thanks!" quietly as she settles into a chair. So many things she wants to ask, but she can feel that hum of Glimmer beneath this adventure and she keeps her mouth shut. Her diary is SO going to have an entry on "I drank with John Steinbeck" though.

Ravn's diary is going to have a page consisting of little hearts with the letters JS in, let's just be honest. He pulls out a chair and plonks down on it -- and upon noticing that expression on the writer-to-be's face, really hopes he is not becoming the future Priest in The Pearl.

Could be worse, of course. But definitely also could be better.

"I'm Ravn," he says, because who's going to decline being on a first name basis with John Steinbeck and besides, giving last names is probably not done a whole lot in a speakeasy like this where no one wants to be easily identified. "We just bailed on a raid elsewhere."

It's a conversation starter. Better than, Oh Em Gee, I read everything you're gonna write.

Oh, her name, yeah she has one of those. "Finch," the brunette squeaks out. If this were animated, she'd have heart eyes. "We're just here on a vacation from," don't say Gray Harbor...don't say Gray Harbor, "Seattle." Yeah, that's less loaded. "You don't sound like you're from around here either."

Steinbeck takes a drag off his cigarette before tapping the ash off. "California. Salinas," he explains. "Just on a vacation myself. Wanted to get a feel for the city. Heard so much about it but wanted to see it with my own eyes." He looks around the room, eyes resting here and there, landing on Fitzgerald. "That fella has a play coming out in November. He wrote some great short stories he put out in a book 'Tales of the Jazz Age'. His wife is usually here with him, but not tonight."

That puts them in 1923, if The Vegetable is slated to hit the stage this year.

😍😍😍😍😍😍😍 --- er, ahem. You're a grifter, Ravn reminds himself. Sure, you're not Perdita Leontes levels of grifter, but you're good enough to not show this guy you're about ready to steal his jacket just to get a souvenir.

He leans back on his chair a bit and sips his whiskey; this is taste he is going to remember fora while, and it will not be for the subtle hints of oak barrels and moonlight over Irish fields. He looks towards Fitzgerald and silently berates himself for not paying better attention back in the day; 20th century American writers really went past pretty unnoticed in his world but for the glorious few -- the ones who touch in on the things that do catch Ravn's attention. Steinbeck, for all his writing being about social realism and injustice, uses familiar tropes and gestalts out of contemporary story telling very well.

Fly casual. "So, you into writing too?"

Finch flits her gaze to F. Scott Fitzgerald for a moment. Hard to miss him with his somewhat wacky hairstyle. In just two years, The Great Gatsby will be published, and everything will change for him. More importantly, New York City in the 20s will be forever defined by his writing and characters. Robert Redford and Leonardo di Caprio will vie to be the definitive Jay Gatsby in film beside the likes of Mia Farrow and Carey Mulligan's respective Daisys.

The sheer weight of future greatness in this crowded, smoky, loud room is astounding.

"You could say that. I'm thinking about becoming a reporter. No better place for that than here in the Big Apple," Steinbeck explains, stubbing out his cigarette and sipping his whiskey. "I dabble in a bit of fiction but nothing that is good enough to publish. Someday, maybe." Maybe indeed, but not until 1929. He has some growing and learning to do yet, the self-proclaimed magpie. "What do you do?" he asks Ravn. he doesn't ask Finch. It's 1923. He's pretty sure she's the man's wife and that's her job.

"Live off my father's money," Ravn murmurs because if he has to go down in literary history, then better as an unnamed NPC in The Great Gatsby in case Fitzgerald is listening in -- than as the priest in The Pearl. "I wanted to become a writer," he tells the younger man. (What the fuck? He's older than John Steinbeck? Mind blown). "But I don't have any talent. I don't have any stories to tell. So I hang around writers instead, try to soak up a bit when they talk shop. Reporter sounds like a good way to go, though? Get you out and meet real people, with real stories."

Back up, back up, don't tell John Steinbeck what to do. Don't accidentally get him into, say, the society pages. The world does not The Grapes of Broadway.

Finch elbows Ravn lightly in the ribs when he starts giving Steinbeck advice. "I study birds," she chirps enthusiastically. Well it is what she was SUPPOSED to do with her life: be an ornithologist. Gray Harbor just insisted she trim trees and be a police dispatcher instead to satisfy its own purposes. "It's a family tradition," she adds.

Steinbeck looks at Ravn and both brows raise when the man mentions his job. "If you still want to be a writer, might I recommend finding your own way, rather than living off family money?" he suggests. "It's hard to tell good stories when you don't live any of your own." Oh if he only knew the stories that would be coming out of this little adventure into the past. His female companion gets a small smile. "With a name like Finch, why am I not surprised your family studies birds?"

Again, if he only knew. Grecian Harpies and family curses, oh my!

Ravn shakes his head. "I don't have any talent. I will study the stories of others, instead. That, I am good at. You write, John. And I promise, I will read, and reflect. Not everybody is cut out to write."

We are never going to talk about the short stories and poems still sitting in a desk drawer in Denmark. The desk is in storage anyway, as Ravn's childhood home is rented out. Or will be, a century from now.

He smiles lightly and refrains from pointing out that his too is a bird name. It's tempting to nudge Finch to tell her story -- but it might just end up inspiring someone who is not supposed to have had a particularly inspiring conversation tonight, and that might not go over so well. The world does also not need The Grapes of Wrath, Ancient Greek Edition.

A bartender makes a gesture at the Jazz trio and the music cuts off. "Time to 86! Everyone out, Cops will be here in fifteen!" Chumley's was the origin of the phrase "86" to nix something. It meant to go out the 86 Bedford Street Door, as the cops would be coming to the Garden Door entrance on Pamela Court. Alas, their time with Steinbeck has come to an end.

"Well it was nice meeting you," the future legendary author notes to the pair. "Have a great trip." He stands, gathers his moleskin notebook, and heads for the door that isn't the one Ravn and Finch entered through. The rest of the patrons are shuffling out as well, as bartenders begin hiding the booze rapidly in spots designed for just that.

Finch sighs as she watches Steinbeck leave. "Add that to the way too short list of best experiences of my life," she murmurs as she gets up to follow the press of others. "We do still have some sightseeing to do."

"My teenage life is fulfilled," Ravn murmurs softly. "Now I can retire to sit on a porch somewhere with my girlfriend and say, John Steinbeck told me what to do with my life. And then do the opposite."

He's still up and ready to go when Finch is, though. Sure, he's got a white collar in his pocket and if the NYC police are Paddy and Ronnie O'Mulligan and O'Malley, they might just let a Catholic priest go -- but it's not worth taking chances, and it's definitely not worth changing that they'll let Finch go. Time to scarper. Or, well, 86.

He still tries to avoid the rush. Surprise elbows and stepped-on feet are a bad thing when you have raging neuropathy.

"Do you think we're really here?" Finch asks, as they step out onto Bedford street, just a young couple exploring the Big Apple way too late at night in the 20s. "Or are we in some...simulation of it Over There? I guess I could try calling Clever Girl. If she shows up we know we're on the other side, right?" she posits. Yeah, a UtahRaptor with mirrored feathers galavanting around Manhattan would definitely let them know it's all a lie. "Do we really want to know it's not real though?"

"It's tempting to just believe it's real. I want to think I actually met Steinbeck." Ravn smiles lightly. "I mean, I could try to open a door too, but we're not in the Other Side Gray Harbor and there's very little way to control where it would go. Maybe home. Maybe somewhere else."

He glances back at the speakeasy and the people flying casual in their attempts to totally just be walking down this street, officer, have a nice evening. "The one thing that always happens, though? There's always some kind of end. You finish the narrative, you've seen the thing, you've done the thing, whatever it is. And then you either step through a door and you're back home, or you wake up back home. So maybe we should just wait it out."

"Maybe. Or maybe this has a...less gentle point to it. Maybe it wants us to do something to alter things, or trap us somewhere in the past. I hope that isn't the case but I don't trust any Veil shenanigans," Finch admits. She strolls at a leisurely pace.