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@itsbenjijackson
Welcome back winter once again
Donât rise to it. It seemed his internal mantra proved fruitless as he tried with vehemence to ignore the dull ache that was beginning to form at the back of his skull. With curses souring the inside of his mouth, Samuel lost his patience and spat words of his frustration. âI said I wanted a black shirt. How is this such an unfathomable concept?â Samuel run aggravated fingers through his hair. âI donât want ebony, or liquorice. Just black.âÂ
To be frankly honest, Benji didn't care for this kind of department store. It seemed to be vaguely endless, winding and endless, with no real clue or signs as to ones actual location in relation to, well, anything else at all. A basket with a new pair of jeans, a jumper and some socks thrown in, he peered somewhat cautiously around each corner that came, trying to spot any semblance of a till section and finally leave. Mistaking the more aggressive tones that cut through the quiet hustle as being directed to him, Benji turned, a crease already forming in his brow. 'I, uh-- aren't those, well, shades of black?'
Adam Young + Personality tests (insp.)
Cancer | Tiger | Oak| Melancholic| Type 9| Sage| INFP | Hufflepuff
its a date || benji and natalie
The slip had, as always, arrived punctually in his mailbox on the day that the appointment was due. Unlike always, however, there was a simple, scribbled address next to four simple numbers, 1930. Usually, there would be a small business card attached, or in the envelope, with a typed and formatted note. Maybe it had been his dad who had written it so hastily, under instruction, and posted it carelessly, or maybe it had been a quick note from a PA. Maybes were maybes, though, and the only certain thing was, really, that he had a psychiatrists appointment at half-seven that evening.
The hours rolled by soon enough, and Benji took the time to get himself together and tidy up a little. The past few weeks had been worse than usual, and he had ended up with his house starting to fall into mess and himself already a mess. It was probably, he thought, a good thing that he was going; for once in his life, he felt that he actually needed the damn chair. It wasnât one that he had been to before, and he wondered absently how his mother seemed to find so many psychiatrists in one town. After the tenth, heâd stopped questioning it, really, but it still got to him sometimes. They had to be limited, people just didnât set up new psychiatrists every Tuesday, didnât just set up shop every week.
Still, with Converse laced, Benji made his way to the shop with his hands buried into the pockets of his hoodie and his head slightly ducked. He didnât need to really be looking, though, to realise that this was certainly not a psychiatrists office. For one, he was not accustomed to the kind of therapists that had nearly entire portions of the outer wall as a glass window. For two, there generally werenât that many tables inside, and, finally, for the real give-away point, psychiatrists offices were not restaurants.
Confused, Benji took a few steps back, until he was stood nearly on the curb, and looked to his paper, slip, up at the illuminated sign, and down again, reading it over. He was definitely at the right place, stood on the right street, but what was in front of him was definitely not a therapist. He was about to turn and leave, go try and find the place he was supposed to be, whenâ of all things!â his name was called.
'Huh?' was the limit of what he could actually say, in a bemused tone, turning to face the owner of the voice. 'I'mâ I'm sorry, who⊠Are you?'
operation: benji evacuation | benji and sam
Sam wrapped his jacket tightly around himself as another wave of cold air slapped him across his face and torso. It was getting colder with each day that passed, reminding Sam that the holidays were right around the corner and he still had to do all the Christmas shopping. With a roll of his eyes, he tried to concentrate at the task at hand, which was even more problematic than playing the role of Santa Claus.Â
It had been a few weeks since Benji had come out of his house and started acting like a complete nutcase. His friend was no longer answering his calls, texts or e-mails, and it was driving Sam crazy. He was worried that Benji was having a major life crisis, which was the most logical scenario, or at least it seemed so to Sam. Who could blame Benjamin though? The guy had always been socially awkward and his parents had made him worse with time.Â
Once he reached Benjaminâs house, Sam knocked three times and patiently waited for his friend to open the door. After five minutes of no reply, he tried again. Sam knew that his friend was home, the music was playing in the back of the house and he could hear someone making noise inside. When no one opened the door, Sam let out an exasperated groan.
This is getting ridiculous, he thought before banging on the door as loud as he could.Â
"Benjamin I know youâre in there you shithead," He said, still banging the door. Sam was determined to get his friend out of his abode and at least force him to breathe fresh air for five minutes. "Let me in, itâs freezing out here."Â
The knocking gave him a headache, the kind that ached dully but throbbed sharply through to his eyes at every new sound. He wasn't hungover, and he wasn't sick, but it had been so quiet for the past few... weeks? Months, even? He hadn't bothered to keep track. With his phone buried somewhere unfindable and out of charge, his phone cords unplugged and laptop long since abandoned, Benji had lost how the days passed. He wasn't eating regularly, or sleeping so much, since there were no real days anymore, wasn't doing very much in the way of entertainment.
He was aware that the usual neat warmth of his home was ebbing away as the interior took into a more chaotic, unfriendly form. Perhaps it wasn't so much of a difference, but dishes in the sink that were undone, books lying around tables and chairs, cushions everywhere and pillows and blankets strewn across various services simply darkened the house to Benji, made it feel less like home. It was just another house to him, now, just another system of rooms, spread across three layers. That irked him, made him want to do something-- but he didn't. He wouldn't. He just... He kind of just couldn't.Â
At the second round of knocking, Benji groaned, a sound large enough to finally disturb the silence that managed to hang even with music playing, and swung himself blearily to his feet, losing his balance and, momentarily his sight as lights danced in front of his eyes. Eyes scrunched shut to try and blink away the noise, he began to shuffle towards the door. It was rooms away, and he was in his pyjamas, and, pausing to straighten a crooked mirror, he realised that he looked a bit of a mess, with dark shadows under his eyes and stubble grazing the distance between his cheekbones and his jaw. At least, he thought dimly, I had a shower, and I'm clean, and these are clean pyjamas.
His full name was used, followed by an expletive. Sam. It had to be, really, because nobody else would come to his house, and nobody else would proceed to shout at him. Close to cursing himself, Benji lifted his head from the door, and began reckoning with his chances of Sam actually kicking his door down, though it wasn't long before he decided that he actually, really, definitely needed to go and open the door. It was unlocked, which made the ordeal slightly easier, but the light in itself was enough to fully illuminate Benji's pale, unkept appearance, and also enough to send him a step backwards, squinting and rubbing at his eyes with the hand that wasn't holding open the door.
'I'm-- Yes,' he said, with a rusty, unused voice, before he cleared his throat and started again. '... Sam? -- Why are you... Why are you here?'
I saw the autumn leavesâŠ
second impressions | tennessee & benji
The boy hummed in agreement, a loud snicker escaping him at Benjiâs following remark, and beckoned at their waitress. âNon-disintegrated foodâs the best kind,â he agreed dryly. âYou could make âem yourself, ya know. It ainât that hard,â suggested Tennessee after a beat. Granted, he didnât know if Benji had any cooking experience, but really, how hard could it be? Get tortillas, put stuff on tortillas, and eatâall it took was three steps. âand I reckon thatâs gotta be way better than takinâ your grandmaâs. For, like, yâr health and everything, âcause burnt food can make you get cancer.â
Once the waitress had made her way over to their table, Tennessee ordered chicken enchiladas along with grilled shrimp tacos, assuming that hisâfriend? acquaintance?âlunch buddy (for lack of a better description) wouldnât have much preference on the matter. In fact, Benji, with his pauses and filler words tucked in between sentences, didnât seem to have much preference on anything. Maybe he was just one of those shy and painfully docile people who needed loads of time to open up.
The lady walked away with their orders. Tennessee drummed his fingers on the table, their twitchy movements giving away the sliver of anxiety he carried everywhere. He disliked silenceâit drowned and engulfed him, even in a setting so mundane and everyday as this. It provided no distraction from whatever occupied his mind. Blinking hard, he attempted to chase away the unwanted thoughts. âYou ainât workinâ at the store today?â he asked abruptly, realizing that Benji was actually out for lunch (and with him of all people in Alexandria, at that). Besides, it was as safe a topic as any, he supposed.
'... I could, but I have never cooked anything with more than three steps successfully,' Benji spoke in return, an eyebrow quirking slightly. 'Though I suppose that is only three steps. Maybe I'll have to try at some point,' he mused thoughtfully. It would be a nice enough change from cheese sandwiches, he thought, especially if he figured out exactly what to eat with the tortillas. He could surely Google it, at least... Maybe he would give cooking a go. When had even be his last attempt? A year ago? Two? The outcome might be different, and it wasn't like he had anything to do. '... I'm not sure that's completely correct, I don't see, I don't see a reason for cells to mutate in that way from eating a little ash. I mean, then again, I'm no biologist. Maybe it is a carcinogenic.'
Thankfully, Tennessee ordered for him, whilst he himself dealt with the ever-fickle Hugo to actually, well, at least seem somewhat capable, rather than him just being antisocial. Or more antisocial than he seemed. Or anything, really. It just saved him having to talk and kept the cat out of the way, so he offered an apologetic smile and just went back to scratching around Hugo's ears, enough to solicit a low, rumbling purr. At least Tennessee would talk for him, it seemed, and offer a fill-in in place of Benji's own words.
'The store. Right,' he said, creasing his brow slightly. He nearly wanted to lie, just say it was his lunch break, but he didn't. He didn't lie, not often. 'I'm just taking a really, really overdue holiday. I haven't had one as long as I've worked there, even part-time, so... I figure I'm allowed all the time I want.' It wasn't a lie, not really, aside from some omission (mostly he just danced around the fact that he'd spent days on his couch) and functioned well for the purpose of conversation. He wouldn't allude to the fact that he'd been looking at leaving soon, either, or even mention anything else. He would stick to safe topics. That was how conversation worked, right? 'Plus, this little-- big-- guy, he needs a little change of environment, I think. It's good for him to get out, but I don't want him out on his own, because... He can be finicky. People might try and pet him, and if he doesn't approve, well... Claws.'
They just donât understand, or theyâre in denial.
Youâre either some sort of philosopher-slash-scientist, or it just goes to show how little I paid attention in my science classes in college. I could tell you all about post-antebellum period or later works of Friedrich Pollock, but donât start asking me about evolution.
Uh, physicist. I have a PhD, it's... Yeah. Pretty much. I payed a lot of attention. Not much of a choice, seeing as school was hell anyway, and the only other option was a boring hell. I'd rather take the science. Gos to show, I guess, because I have absolutely no, no idea what those are. Evolution, it's, it's one of the easier topics, really. It's just natural selection, y'know... Mutations, successful specimens, beneficial genes, factors. Nothing much beyond there.
Consider yourself lucky then. Oh really? Yeah, the whole jinxing thing. Itâs not entirely just superstition; shit really happens!
Don't worry, I... Definitely do. Yup. Seriously, it just... It does! You can't have it not rain after someone says 'it's not raining', that's just, like, it's not how... Jinxing is just a thing. It's a thing that should probably be explained by science but is also probably one of those things that will definitely never be explained fully. Kinda like the creation of the universe... Yeah, there's the Big Bang and everything, but what was before the Big Bang? You can't just have something from nothing, it's not how-- Sorry, sorry. I could probably talk about it all day.
Live Dangerously, Fear Nothing âŁâŁ Stella & Benji
Hands toying nervously with the tips of her dress flowing around her bare thighs, she turned and inspected the surrounding area in the dark, eyes searching for any other sign of lifeâ something to prove they werenât the only two people alone on the street. Apparently they were. When a friendly but cautious voice responded to her, she realized that if the man had wanted to do anything to her by then, he would have tried. Pulling her dress down, she skipped over to the distant bench, not saying a word. Her footsteps echoed a light âclick clickâ on the sidewalk. The Mary-Jane tap shoes she had bought at a store once, despite not being a tap dancer, made her feel more at home in the dark. Plopping down in the seat beside the man, she didnât say a wordâ merely just extended her legs and let her lanky limbs settle down into a state of easy comfort.
Sitting in the dark, she sat for exactly thirty three seconds more before finally uttering a few more words. âNot really. But Iâm not really ever okay. I donât know if thatâs the kind of answer you wanted to the question, or if it was even a question as opposed to a formality, but I didnât have anywhere to be. I donât really have a home. Iâm not homeless, but Iâm also not home. I have an apartment, but that doesnât make it home. You know? Home is one of those weird things where everything inside of you just clicks and slides into place when you find it. I still havenât painted the walls yet. Theyâre still this ugly shade of grey I donât like. They kind of remind of a mixture of funeral homes and hospitals. Like if you put the two together in a blender, and pressed âpureeâ, thatâs the kind of color youâd get. It depresses me, but then again, after the life Iâve lived, everything thatâs ânormalâ depresses me. It depresses me going about the same daily grind. I hate routineâ do you hate routine? Thatâs why Iâm up tonight. So I can break routine. Why are you up?â she asked, her thoughts coming out like a train that just ran off its tracks. Unlike her usual stream of consciousness though, she said each sentence slowly, as though it was just as difficult admitting to herself that she was unhappy with her life in Alexandria as it was to a complete stranger.
"Iâm Stella. We might have met before, you look familiar," she said, swiveling her body on the bench to face him. Scooting a centimeter closer, she squinted in the dark. "I canât really see though. I think I need glasses, or contacts, or super light vision. Or maybe itâs just too dark to see anything. Hi."
One of the first things that registered with him as the girl came closer was that she clicked as she did it. Not 'finger-snapping musical-gang-approaching' type clicking, nor 'stilettos on concrete' clicking, but something else. It wasn't particularly unsettling, but it was curious, and he resolved to try and see if he could work out the answer at some other time. The second thing that registered was that she was actually coming closer. Benji wasn't opposed to this, really, but he was surprised, and if it weren't so dark, she might have seen his brow furrow in some confusion as he turned to glance at her. Who in their right mind would come closer to the guy on his own in the middle of the night, especially when there was nobody else around? Nobody, or somebody who definitely knew that they could handle themselves.Â
Still, he sat quietly next to her until she spoke again, at which he turned to look at her, and then proceeded to fidget around until he was about as comfy as one can get on a wooden bench. After the first few seconds, Benji decided that, as he likely wouldn't get a word in edgeways, he would just sit, and listen, and make various agreeing noises gently until the end, at which point he would make all of his points in a similar order. When this point came, he smiled a little, and he spoke gently, more relaxed and less cautious than he had originally been.
'It was a question, and I don't really think... That there's a wrong answer to that, and at least if you're not okay, you're being truthful, so it's actually-- It's a good answer. You should really buy some paint if you hate them that much, y'know,' he said, the smile coming through in his voice.'I... Hope you feel better soon. We can talk about it, if you want, but I'm a stranger in the middle of the night, so I'm going to guess that's a no. Routine is... That's a difficult question. I don't like it, but I still have to do it, if you get me? Like this. Being awake is, um, routine. Kind of. I have sleeping problems, but I usually forget to take the medication. Or I just don't take it. Tonight I just didn't want it.'
'I'm Benji,' he said simply, like it was one of the few things he was certain of (that was true) and made a movement as though he would wave. 'I think it's probably too dark. I'd offer my glasses otherwise, but they're not helping me with anything, either.'
Looking for a piano | Benji Jackson
Dark eyes got lost onto the ivory keys as he picked up the keys lid, fingertips passing along the white marble surface. For a moment his mind was full of questions, wondering how his dadâs piano would be.
His last adoptive father had lived in New York, in a small house but cozy nonetheless, warmed with love and music every single day he had spent there. So when his dad died, he found it too hard to remain in the place without him, without his presence and colors. Drew left the house behind as he began to travel, not before leaving it in good care of a friend. In need of money to begin his journey the friend had offered him a deal: heâd give him money and he could use the instrument promising responsibility and caution.
  âI miss youâŠâ Drew whispered to himself, that piano had been part of his life and the only treasured object he had as reminder of Matt.
"Hello! Yes, thank you. Iâm Drew" he smiled turning to the man a little startled, he wasnât that tall nor that short, but he was left to look somewhat upwards. "I was looking around here, these are beautiful really. Could you please tell me more about them?" he addressed to the pianos with a movement of his hand, his brown eyes looking at the instruments like a child in Christmas looking to their gifts. Knowing more about the instruments would be interesting and to say the least itâd help him choose one -as well according to his pocket-.
"By the way you have a wonderful shop I dare say, lots of things and pretty antiques." he mused taking a look around.
'Hi, Drew,' was the near-automatic response that came from Benji, who blinked and smiled again. It was just one of those days where he was, frankly, too tired to act anything close to himself, and instead would simply fall back on etiquette and smiles and what his mother had told him to do so long ago, back when he just helped out every evening. Smile, be friendly, and respond, she had been constantly repeating. Respond, respond, respond. He had to stay focused on not detaching again, had to focus on helping this man called Drew.
'Oh-- that's good. You've picked maybe the one area of the store that I definitely learn about. They really are nice instruments, I mean, um... The sound. I personally prefer one of the older ones, over there,' he said, gesturing over to a grand piano carved from a warm brown wood, with elegant carvings pressed into its body. 'She, um, sounds as nice as she looks, honestly. Not quite as sharp as some of the newer brands, like, um, Steinway... I mean, although they do lovely pianos, you really can't get that kind of texture until it's older. That's what I find, anyway. She's nearly as expensive, though... That one's two hundred and fifty thousand, seeing as she's a 'proper' antique, whatever that even means. I keep asking for my mom to bring the price down-- I think she deserves more than to be stuck in a store when I don't have the time to play her like she should be played-- but she's pretty adamant. It's the whole 'profit margin' thing.'
If there was one thing Benji could talk about, it was pianos. Whilst he avoided eye contact with Drew, and hardly paid him any attention, he rambled absently, enthusiastically. 'I mean... Do you, um, have a budget? That'll probably be a big factor... The prices are pretty variable, don't get me wrong, most of them aren't even close to as expensive as that one I was speaking about, at all, but you want to get the best for what you have, etcetera. Do you play professionally?' The question was posed curiously, on little more than a hunch, with a glance down towards the other man. He did seem to be the sort that would play often, judging by the sort of... wonder Benji saw as he looked at the instruments.Â
'You can, uh, test them, if you like. See which sounds you like best. Everyone's different, and whilst it's... Technically not something I'm allowed to do, I prefer to let everyone test instruments. Carefully. Otherwise I'll have to chase it up and everything'll, uh... Well, my mother would certainly make a mess,' was his final statement on the matter. He offered, and then explained, and then explained a little further. Now responding with more energy and less robotic sales-person, Benji smiled more genuinely to match, a smile which actually crinkled up to his own soft brown eyes. He was getting chattier than normal after his talk about the pianos, and whilst his awkwardness and typical shyness still shone through, he actually bothered to answer more than monosyllabically. 'Thank you. I... Do my best. If you see anything particularly hideous, though, I can guarantee that that was a parents' buy. Sometimes they like to pretend that they own and run this place, although they never seem willing to come back and visit it. They probably know I'd leave it to them and go off and do something else if they did.'
Adamâs quality selfies.
second impressions | tennessee & benji
"Thatâs what Iâm aiminâ for," he quipped, if not rather sarcastically, and gave a lighthearted shrug. Do what makes you happy. Of course he wished to do so. Everyone did. Achieving happiness was the greatest motivator and simultaneously the ultimate goal. Thatâs what humans strove for, really. Love, money, power, sexâthey were all nothing but merely means to be happy. But what if one didnât deserve to be happy? What happened then? What would that someone seek? Tennessee was, in many ways, lost in this aspect. As much as art made him less depressed, there always was a daunting voice that loomed over his mind, whispering that he wasnât destined for greatness, that he wasnât destined for anything, that everything he touch would eventually come to ruin because he was a fucked-up, good-for-nothing piece of shit, you are.
However, there existed, albeit faintly, parts of his childhood not splattered with dark reddish colors of shouts and punchesâframes of memories, some continuous and some scattered. His small toes digging into the warm sand of Galveston beach, words of then-unfamiliar language floating in and out of his eardrums. A tiny blond head bobbing up and down, blue eyes intently focused on Abuelitaâs hands moving as she crushed a handful of garlics (ajos, sheâd called them). A, be, ce, de, e, efe, ge, hacheâwas he saying them right? SĂ, chiquito. Two languages in the household, español y inglĂ©s, and when Brandon Archer left and Wyatt came, the nine-year-old boy had stubbornly clung to his second language. As if by fully immersing himself in it and becoming fluent, he would be able to retrieve scraps of his innocence (such an illogical reasoning, that was). Therefore, regardless of the fact that he didnât have a single drop of Hispanic blood in him, Tennessee had always felt connected to the culture.
He liked Dos Amigos, he decided, letting his eyes wander around the restaurant. He liked the ceiling fans lazily going round and round; he liked the soft chatters of patrons; he liked the tangy smell of Mexican spices trailing out of the kitchen area. His gaze traveled back to the cat, his huge front paws resting upon the boyâs legs as if to demand that the human pay attention. With a loud snicker, the Texan reached out to lightly scratch Hugo behind his ears, complying to the animalâs (not so silent) request.
An eyebrow rose. âYou allergic âtuh anything?â asked Tennessee, flipping through the menu, silently reading the names of the dishes. Benji had mentioned that heâd never had Tex-Mex beforeâso nothing too spicy, then. âWell, âm havinâ chicken enchiladas,â he drawled. âYou could get quesadillas. Theyâre⊠well, kinda like sandwiches. Like that, yâsee.â He paused, pointing at the picture of it on the menu. âOr tacos. Everyone loves tacos,â he added in a dry tone. God forbid anyone should think Taco Bell was anywhere near authentic, though.
If Benji picked up on the sarcasm, it only raised his eyebrow in the slightest, though his lips might have twitched slightly as well. Whilst he'd never exactly voiced many of his concerns when he was younger, he'd thought nearly enough the exact same though Tennessee had just verbalized, nearly screamed when he was asked what he wanted to do when he was older. It had felt like he'd said it a thousand times already, that nobody was listening to him, that he just had to be a stuck record every year. Yes, physics. Yes, I'm clever. Actually, I hope I don't get stuck with the shop. Every birthday, every reunion, every chance meeting with a relative had the same questions, and no doubt the kid opposite him was in a similar situation. He probably shouldn't bother him about all that.
Benji watched Hugo carefully, making sure that he wouldn't wander away and cause trouble, or try to snack on anything he shouldn't. It might seem a little creepy that Benji had kind of maybe worked out where the children that were in the restaurant were, but that was simply to know whether or not he was in danger of Hugo going to play with the smaller, more energetic humans. The cat liked children well enough, but big cats had big claws, and sometimes Benji worried that he might get a little too playful, or irritated by a yank of his fur and lash out without meaning to. At the moment, though, the feline was perfectly content to comply to Tennessee's affection, moving his head this way and that to get the scratching where he wanted it and purring loudly.
Trying his best to block out the added sound of the cat along with the majority of the rest of the restaurant noise until it became a zoned out drone in the background (or did he just focus on what wasn't there?). 'Uh, no, I'm not,' he said after a moment, replying to Tennessee, and though that thought was accompanied with 'if I was, I'd be dead from all the cooking experiments my grandmother did', he made sure not to say anything, nearly as though the woman herself was watching from behind a painting. The mere notion had Benji glancing in a reflection briefly, without moving his head at all, just checking. It wasn't that his mother had been abusive, nor that she had been anything aside loving to him, but she'd always had the habit of always being there that was somewhat terrifying. A tall, slender woman with a steely grey-eyed gaze who always wore heels and a suit cut to a perfect silhouette, she had been slightly intimidating to those who crossed her, and sometimes Benji had been awake to hear that. Besides, it never hurt to check.
'Tacos are good,' he noted once he had 'zoned in', was back focusing on the real world instead of squinting slightly at nothing as he thought. 'My grandmother made them once. She couldn't cook, but those were pretty good. At least they weren't disintegrated. That was always an upside with her cooking.'Â
Clever, huh? I donât know where Buck got his name from, but Iâm gonna guess at the Captain America movies or something. I didnât really get to rename himâ or, well, I didnât want to. I dunno, I think it suits him. And, yeah, I probably would too, to be fair. They seem fun to keep, though. You can get them these big cages with tubes and stuff. I dunno, they seem fun but I donât think Iâll ever get one.
I mean, if you want someone to hang about with when you do decide to come out and get some air, you can call on me. Iâm normally just being a loner about town and talking to a camera. Ohâ donât get Facebook. I mean, I have it but donât get it. That thing is just a reason for people to argue over stupid things. That, and Tumblr. If you post an opinion on Tumblr, itâll end up with you getting death threats or something. Ainât too much fun when you just want to say that you enjoy cinnabuns, or something.
In German. Hey, at least you know he's gonna be loyal if you named him after Bucky Barnes... So you didn't name him? Or you did, but you just don't want to, um, rename him? It probably does. As a general rule, I find that people and things grow into their names. They'd just destroy the tubes, seriously. Especially the card ones. Those make a mess.Â
And you say that like it's a certainty. I do get out more than I probably imply, it's just... Usually at two or three in the morning. I keep forgetting to take my sleeping meds, and, um, it's... pretty bad. To say the least. Uh, I literally have... No social media. Like, at all. I don't have any real reason to have any, so I just... Don't. I have an iMac, and all I use it for is to put together sounds and make them, well, sound better. Cinnabons are great, though-- how can you even get an argument out of that?
Looking for a piano | Benji Jackson
Weeks and weeks passed in Alexandria without him having touched a piano. There was a big hole in his heart with every day that passed and he had been away from the so needed companion in his life. He couldât bear it anymore, he had to get one.
Being not so new to the way around Alexandriaâs streets he managed to find an antique store. Yeah, without a stable job for the moment he couldnât even think of getting a whole new one. He had tried a few in some fancy instruments store, but he had not that big amount of money.
Jacksonâs Emporium, it read. Friendly to the eye, calm vibes to the soul, the place seemed just perfect to him and without a doubt he stepped in. Truly Drew began to wander around the hall carefully, with fear of breaking something but with every step he gave his confidence began to grow. A pair of kids had walked past him, if they could move freely around he could too right?
So he did until he found the instruments section, so many beautiful ones just waiting for people to go pick them. His eyes focused in a harmonica in a display cabinet, his head slightly tilting as he remembered the sound of it in his mind. A random melody from his past he used to listen to, so vague, so far away from him yet the strings of his hearts crushed so tightly it hurt. His father used to play it, though the man never let him touch it he muses. The man, the stranger.
Not wanting to think any further nor dwell in sad things he hurried to the piano section, quickly finding himself surrounded by studio and upright pianos. Oh the beauty⊠His fingers slid along the wooden body of an oak upright one that caught his attention. How much had the instrument been through in its life? An old soul, how many songs? For a moment he wondered who had been he former owner of the piano, Drew knew more than anyone how giving up your instrument hurt.Â
 âHello? Somebody around?â
The piano manâs glance seeked for the shopâs attendant, with hopes of taking that antique home.
Benji always kept the store warmly lit and furnished, aimed to make it like a home. It worked, and it reflected his own soul in aspects, as some of the kids who came to study would note. His personal calm, containment seemed to be in the walls, his warmth emanating from the shelves. The store wasn't entirely him, not Benji who was contained almost constantly, awkward and quiet but generally sweet, and it wasn't his discontent, his listless reassignment to his life, but it was the best bits. The warmth. The kindness. It was him, without the awkwardness or the sadness or the purposefully dulled-down emotion, kept to the minimum to avoid the worst of it. It was a home to some, though, some of the students who passed through who went through tough times, the ones who stayed longer than they would've otherwise.
Yet still, it was somewhat of a prison for Benji, who would sit behind his counter day after day for hours and not do anything else. He wasn't quite sure what else he could do, really, although he did wonder sometimes. What would happen if he just left? Stopped sitting in the same chair, went for a job interview, or even got on a plane? Just got on a plane and left. He was probably a nervous flier, though. He hadn't ever tried it, per say, had never been on a plane, but thought he probably wasn't that great at it. Wasn't so good with heights.
Out of curiosity, and perhaps a little bit of intent, he'd started looking at places to go for a trip. Places he wanted to see, or certain things. Libraries, museums and such mostly. He thought maybe of DC, to go and do something stupid and touristy or maybe he'd just bite the bullet and fly out to the UK, to London. He'd heard that there were some amazing museums and libraries there.
But it had to wait, he thought, as he got up and paced through the shelves, his steps unusually quiet for someone of such height (and not of a slim build, either). He was quiet naturally, although sometimes it waws eerie. He really needed to remember to turn on that music to go over the shop; it did take away some aspects of the creepiness of a 6 foot guy asking if you needed any help with anything.
Still, he walked around aimlessly until he heard a call, and then chose to follow that instead, managing to get out his short introduction with little to no awkwawrdness, which got the smile that he stuck onto the end to turn into a grin.
'Hi, I'm Benji. I work here, can I help you?'