Discover Top Posts Tagged with #phoebe hunter

age: 34 years old gender: cis female, she/her hometown: Boston, Massachusetts occupation: bartender allegiance: neutral

( trigger warnings: death, Alzheimer’s Disease )

her mother was an artist. she wove tapestries, intricate and beautiful from afar, but up close they would shake you to your very bones. when Phoebe was young, she would watch her mother sit down in the morning to weave and get up only when her father had finished preparing dinner, and then she would stop for the day, her fingers sore and red, and she would tell Phoebe stories or help her with her homework. one time, when she asked her mother why she wove all day, her mother would say, the stories are going to get out one way or another; I honor them with hard work and they reward me with art that satisfied me. her mother taught her the value of hard work: years of customer service so she could pay for art school, years of making art before she ever set foot in a formal art gallery, Phoebe’s mother was a testament to what determination could get you. but she was also a testament to the tragedy of fate, dying young and leaving behind a loving husband, an eleven year old daughter, and a gallery of works that would never sell. from a young age, though, Phoebe was determined, too, like her mother’s diligent spirit had nestled somewhere in her ribcage and found a new home, Phoebe was willing to do whatever it took to make art. she wanted to create art about the native heritage that had been robbed from her when her mother died, the way it had been robbed from her ancestors by colonial brutality; she wanted to create art about the people who had died and left dangling threads in the family quilt she had inherited on all sides; she wanted to create art about what it meant to be two things at once and still feel like nothing at all; she wanted to create art about how she had made this life for herself.

her father was a kind and generous man who supported her in every way. with his blessing, she moved to New York for art school, got her degree, began painting and sewing and sketching and sculpting anything she could get her hands on. nothing ever came out quite right but she persisted and her father stood behind her every step and stumble of the way. and then her father became another testament to the tragedy of fate, as a kind man who always remembered every face he met was met with early onset Alzheimers. she thought to move back to Boston, but he refused to let her, found himself a nursing home where he knew he’d be okay, where she could visit, and told her to keep making her art, keep making herself happy. but her heart sank, her motivation slipped, and her hands wouldn’t behave as she attempted to shape the world she wanted in her art. opportunities passed and still she had no work to show for two years worth of living, and she realized she needed a real job to support herself now. she told herself it wasn’t giving up. she told herself it was just a detour; she needed to save up money and it was an easy enough job to tide her over until she got herself back on track. but no matter what she told herself, she knew that was the end of things. her sewing machine and her paint brushes and her old sketchbooks went into a storage facility so she wouldn’t have to look at them every day when she came home exhausted, and her closet turned from the colorful wardrobe it had once been to the all-black uniform of a bartender. it wasn’t a bad gig, she didn’t dislike it. but it wasn’t what she’d been working her whole life towards.

the bar became home, for her. too scared to go back and see what had become of her father, too discouraged by the choices she’d made, she settled into a life that didn’t need anything more than the bar and her bed. work, sleep, work again. her mother had thought that hard work could get her anywhere, but she’d proven her mother wrong. she’d resigned herself to this: you can only ever believe in what’s there in front of you, and the immutable fact that it might disappear at any moment. and no god could change that maxim, no miracle could press her to believe again. at least, none that she could imagine.

Conor Hale -- a frequent patron of her bar for almost as long as she’s been there, Phoebe and Conor have grown to become close friends; he is someone she trusts implicitly and someone who can always bring a smile to her face.

Oliver Byrne -- as if her life wasn’t already overrun by men who need her help and advice, in strolled Oliver Byrne, fresh off the boat so to speak and in need of having some sense smacked into him. she doesn’t like talking him through his problems, but at least it gives her a distraction from the daily routine of the bar.