Whizzing by the conurbation existence of Seattle shows the congested streets in which technologically advanced Homo sapiens carry out their jaded daily routines. It is December 13th (a Friday, to be precise) and like all other Friday lunchtimes of the week, the cage releases, freeing the rapt people from their official duties. The sky consists of a cloudy filter plastered on the organic ceiling. Rain will be scheduled to release its baggage onto the already damp sidewalks at approximately one o’ clock this afternoon. From an aerial shot, one can see numerous patterned circles, twirling about, covering their occupants from the nearly fallen rain. The tone of this cultural city is one of grungy excellence combined with the pungent smell of fish lingering in the streets, for the fish market is having a special on all their finest sea food. Depersonalizing this city, it resembles a washed up ant farm, exposing millions of tired workers separating briefly for the one promising moment of relaxation and replenishment: lunch.
One particular corner of downtown Seattle presents a quaint enclave housing a multitude of recreational places; one stands out in particular, the heart of Friday evenings, the escape from reality, the Emerald City Theatre. Its crafty architectural design and opulent appearance accents the boldness this city so consumedly possesses, thus it is finally an appropriate time to venture into the diverse characters that inhabit this particular corner.
The Salesman sits in his rightly booth outside, near the entrance of the Theatre. Each day he sits, selling tickets to the public, advertising the upcoming shows and being ordered to do so especially within the hours of twelve to two pm, for obvious reasons. In his backless stool chair, he is forced to sit upright, stretching out the rolls of his stomach which long for their comfortable position of lying on top of each other when he slouches in his recliner at home. He sports an exasperated look on his face as if the derivative of vegetables contains more excitement than his job. Why is he so miserable, you ask? That’s easy; it’s so apparent on his face. Growing up this young lad practiced a healthy amount of dedication to the art of sculpting. Throughout his tender life, his father influenced him to form objects of art and enlighten the world with the compositional beauty in which this young lad acquired. However, living in a city with such prestige in the department of art, the Salesman found it difficult to sell his work. Already the streets were occupied with too many starving artists, so he gave up, abandoning his true passion and settling for the lackluster occupation he engulfed himself in every day. To this day, he waits for his guardian angel to cast a fortunate spell on him, sending success his way. Of course, he will never let anyone know of this overly spiritual thinking. It may change the way people perceive him, especially the Newsstand Woman, of whom he desperately craves the attention.
The Newsstand Woman plants contentedly near the west side of the Theatre, stationing herself in the sidewalk so people are obligated to bring themselves to a halt and browse. Such a busybody this woman is, with her pinchy nose fashioning tiny little specs that do no great cause. Her hair is worn in a tired bun, locks flying out randomly. A dress resembling an airline attendant’s raiment lays snuggly on her busty figure and plentiful hips. She is by no means obese, only slightly more horizontal than those of the young female lawyers that pass her. Some say she resembles a dumpling and others say she’s a modest oinker. Well an oinker she may very well be for snacks always litter the newsstand counter, along with the magazines and gum and drugstore items at one’s convenience. One distinct trait of this woman is that she feeds off gossip. From her customers she learns the social lives of the citizens of Seattle, extracting all the juicy goods she can possibly attain. However, as much time as she spends focusing on other people’s lives, convinced that she is at the phase of her life where middle age strips her from all possible love interest, she is oblivious to the man in the ticket booth, selling tickets for the Theatre just directly to her southwest. Will he ever have the courage to speak to her? Will she ever stop discussing other people’s lives and focus on her own?
The Paralegal is a regular at the newsstand. Each day during lunch, this young woman walks with such swiftness in her step as she buys the morning paper and purchases a honey bun. Like most people of this city, she follows this routine each week day; one glitch and her day is off (it may be as petty as a honey bun.) Working for the main law office of Seattle, her job entices wrinkles on her forehead adding a weathered layer on her young face. A handsome woman she is; her small mouth and defined jaw line give her an androgynous appearance, alas her flowing brown hair balances out her look quite complimentary. Wearing a stiff suit and moving only when necessary, she extends her arms, receiving the paper from Newsstand Woman. Secretly, she despises the pudgy woman and her endless questions over all the rage cases, however it is in her nature to accept people and their ignorance, and work to settle cases. This woman carries with her an immense history one most likely could not guess upon first judgment. Even I cannot fully tell an accurate representation of what hardships this young woman has endured. So I’ll leave it at that.
One particular corner of downtown Seattle presents a quaint enclave housing a multitude of recreational places; one stands out in particular, the heart of Friday evenings, the escape from reality, the Emerald City Theatre. Its crafty architectural design and opulent appearance accents the boldness this city so consumedly possesses, thus it is finally an appropriate time to venture into the diverse characters that inhabit this particular corner.
The Salesman sits in his rightly booth outside, near the entrance of the Theatre. Each day he sits, selling tickets to the public, advertising the upcoming shows and being ordered to do so especially within the hours of twelve to two pm, for obvious reasons. In his backless stool chair, he is forced to sit upright, stretching out the rolls of his stomach which long for their comfortable position of lying on top of each other when he slouches in his recliner at home. He sports an exasperated look on his face as if the derivative of vegetables contains more excitement than his job. Why is he so miserable, you ask? That’s easy; it’s so apparent on his face. Growing up this young lad practiced a healthy amount of dedication to the art of sculpting. Throughout his tender life, his father influenced him to form objects of art and enlighten the world with the compositional beauty in which this young lad acquired. However, living in a city with such prestige in the department of art, the Salesman found it difficult to sell his work. Already the streets were occupied with too many starving artists, so he gave up, abandoning his true passion and settling for the lackluster occupation he engulfed himself in every day. To this day, he waits for his guardian angel to cast a fortunate spell on him, sending success his way. Of course, he will never let anyone know of this overly spiritual thinking. It may change the way people perceive him, especially the Newsstand Woman, of whom he desperately craves the attention.
The Newsstand Woman plants contentedly near the west side of the Theatre, stationing herself in the sidewalk so people are obligated to bring themselves to a halt and browse. Such a busybody this woman is, with her pinchy nose fashioning tiny little specs that do no great cause. Her hair is worn in a tired bun, locks flying out randomly. A dress resembling an airline attendant’s raiment lays snuggly on her busty figure and plentiful hips. She is by no means obese, only slightly more horizontal than those of the young female lawyers that pass her. Some say she resembles a dumpling and others say she’s a modest oinker. Well an oinker she may very well be for snacks always litter the newsstand counter, along with the magazines and gum and drugstore items at one’s convenience. One distinct trait of this woman is that she feeds off gossip. From her customers she learns the social lives of the citizens of Seattle, extracting all the juicy goods she can possibly attain. However, as much time as she spends focusing on other people’s lives, convinced that she is at the phase of her life where middle age strips her from all possible love interest, she is oblivious to the man in the ticket booth, selling tickets for the Theatre just directly to her southwest. Will he ever have the courage to speak to her? Will she ever stop discussing other people’s lives and focus on her own?
The Paralegal is a regular at the newsstand. Each day during lunch, this young woman walks with such swiftness in her step as she buys the morning paper and purchases a honey bun. Like most people of this city, she follows this routine each week day; one glitch and her day is off (it may be as petty as a honey bun.) Working for the main law office of Seattle, her job entices wrinkles on her forehead adding a weathered layer on her young face. A handsome woman she is; her small mouth and defined jaw line give her an androgynous appearance, alas her flowing brown hair balances out her look quite complimentary. Wearing a stiff suit and moving only when necessary, she extends her arms, receiving the paper from Newsstand Woman. Secretly, she despises the pudgy woman and her endless questions over all the rage cases, however it is in her nature to accept people and their ignorance, and work to settle cases. This woman carries with her an immense history one most likely could not guess upon first judgment. Even I cannot fully tell an accurate representation of what hardships this young woman has endured. So I’ll leave it at that.
Perhaps the most endearing regular on this quaint Seattle corner is the Street Performer. Every day this strapping young man sits along the Theatre brick wall, strumming his guitar and serenading the passing ants. Often his pets accompany him, luring in children and their parents, forcing them to undergo compulsion to applaud his natural talent for music. His attire consists of fingerless gloves, flannel, and corduroy pants, along with the facial hair of a mountain man. His voice is like sand paper rubbing against wood; the grain in his singing voice adds a sense of realistic reverberation to it, almost seizing the idea of beauty subsisting in ugly things. He gives to the world and asks for nothing in return. Refusing money when tossed his way, he simply makes a profit from the applause of his audience. A true altruist he is.
And, this, my friends, is the city of Seattle. Yes, only a portion was highlighted, but this leaves enough room for your imagination to assume what the other sections of Seattle have to bring.
And, this, my friends, is the city of Seattle. Yes, only a portion was highlighted, but this leaves enough room for your imagination to assume what the other sections of Seattle have to bring.
This read like insanity feels. Well written, amigo. Keep up the good work.
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