james_bell: (scratch eyebrow)
[personal profile] james_bell
His pencil thudded on the table in time with a beat.

James sat under an umbrella at one of the city’s lunch bistros. The patio had drawn a few customers because the weather was nice. His club sandwich was long ago eaten; only bread crusts and crumbs remained on his plate, which he had shoved to the middle of the table. His Pepsi was half-drunk. Headphones pumped Doug E. Fresh into his ears. Periodically he took them off and wrote in a spiral notebook. James had gotten work as a DJ at a club and he was dreaming up a new mix that fused rap and funk. It might not get played, but it got the juices flowing and he was getting cabin fever at home.

He stopped to read the ads on the side of a city bus. Vidal Sassoon. Siefried and Roy. When it took off, it coughed a cloud of smog into the air. The reddish-brown fumes dissipated and he put down his pencil. James rubbed the legs of his pants and tried to crack his neck.

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