nadja & mitch, mitcheovaldi.
Some days, it was easy to forget he came from anywhere else; some days, it felt like he’d been living in Boot Hill all his life. Other days… well, other days Mitch would be channel flipping and find the all too familiar image of his home town in a movie on the television. Today was one of those days. He paused on the channel, trying to figure out what about Sitka, Alaska seemed so damned familiar, but then there was that one shot, and there was no denying the pang he felt in his chest; that was home, and it sure as hell wasn’t Sitka, Alaska. Mitch quickly powered off the TV with a shake of his head, a physical manifestation of his need to clear his head, before getting up and heading out.
It wasn’t long before he was at Coyote’s, a beer and an empty shot glass sitting in front of him. Leaving his shot glass behind, he took his beer with him as he went to peruse the jukebox in the corner. He couldn’t begin to estimate the number of quarters he’d dumped into the machine since his arrival, over a year ago. “So what are we feeling? The Cars? Boston? J. Geils Band?” he questioned the person nearest him him as he loaded several quarters into the machine, punching in a few different codes, and then waiting for the other’s opinion as his fingers hovered over the buttons. “I have to admit, though, you look like an ‘Aerosmith is the best Boston classic rock’ type, and I hate to break it to you, you’re wrong,” he remarked, his face and tone taking on more serious notes, though he was hardly being too serious (even if Aerosmith wasn’t exactly his jam). (@boothillstarters)
yote’s wasn’t quite like home. sure, it was rougher around the edges than any other bar in town, but it had a whole different vibe than scavengers had. even nadja knew it was far too much to ask for a decent music scene in a town as small as boot hill. hell, it’d sometimes been to much to ask for a fucking decent scene in vancouver. still, she missed the smell of her old bar. she missed the bathroom walls, which were covered in stickers from all of the punk bands that’d played there--and the few metal bands that weren’t creepily obsessed with norse mythology and thinly veiled racism. she missed the alley behind it where she’d first met that skeeze of a boyfriend who’d cheated on her the month before she’d left. she missed her shitty basement level apartment too.
yote’s wasn’t home, that was true, but at least it was something. and on slow days when she was the only bartender, she could usually get away with bringing along grandpa, the blue heeler she’s sworn she wouldn’t keep. a lazy guy, more bonded with her than his rightful owners, he slept behind the bar at her feet while she watched movies on her phone until business picked up. that is, on the rare occasion the wifi in this town worked for more than two goddamn minutes. gaze following the guy as he headed to the jukebox, she raised a brow. “jesus christ, what are you? the reincarnation of someone’s sad dad?” despite the venom in her words, nadja’s expression was relaxed and she let out a breathy chuckle. “i’m having nightmares where i have to listen to journey on repeat thanks to this place. as he continued to talk classic rock, nadja pulled a face--half disgust and half amusement, crossing her arms over her chest and coming out from behind the bar to check out the selections so he wouldn’t play anything stupid. “aerosmith? you’ve got to be fucking kidding me !” she laughed, waking the dog who came out to see what the fuss was about. “listen, jukebox hero--if you’re going to subject me to your selections, you can’t force me to actually listen to or even discuss aerosmith.”
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