`act your age, not your shoe size.

[ozzy tse bikindi]

It was in the odd hours of the evening, when most of the patrons of Demery’s were trundling out the doors and back to their respective places of residence, that Ozzy got a chance to unwind. On top of chasing around little brats for the better portion of his day as a little league coach, his nightly job at Demery’s was nothing short of exhausting. Sure, the mixing of drinks and fetching of beer seemed like a pretty rudimentary job with little room for complication, but Ozzy’s job extended so much further than just catering to thirsty patrons. As a staple in Lampton urban culture, he had a character to uphold; he was the guy you sought after for good conversation and lively marriement, and while he enjoyed being the center of attention 5 nights out of the week, it took a fair amount of effort to keep everyone entertained and enjoying the atmosphere.

It was nearing 12, and while there were still a handful of people in the establishment, Ozzy was readying to close down for the night. After placing a hefty load of assorted mugs and glasses in the great basin of a sink within the backroom kitchen, Ozzy began to wipe down the tables with a damp rag. Though the day was clinging to him like a heavy wet towel, there was a unexpected bounce in his step as he tidied up the place; a frivolous regard with which he used that rag that suggested he was eager to finish up and go home.

“Oswald, feel like topping me off?” The low, muffled croak of a man at the bar could be heard as he lifted his head from the palm of his wrinkled hand. Ozzy looked up from his tiding with a cocked brow and a slight frown on his pouty lips at the mans request, though didn’t say anything. Noting the sourness with which his bartender was looking at him, the man recoiled a bit, realizing his error, and proceeded to backtrack. “I, er, sorry, um… I meant Ozzy,” he said sheepishly. “Thank you,” Ozzy responded curtly as he proceeded with his work. “And no, I won’t.” The man frowned. “Why not?” “For many reasons.” “Which are?” “Well, for one thing Bob, you’re already very drunk and it’s going to be hard enough getting you back home without another pint on top of it all. Also it’s almost closing time and I’m ready to haul ass back home,” he said with a mildly apologetic smile that seemed to say “well that's the way it goes” all on its own. The man, though obviously disappointed, looked as if he were too tired and too drunk to really act belligerent tonight. “It’s cuz I called you Oswald isn’t it?” Ozzy smirked. “Yes, that too.” The man attempted what could arguablely be considered a childish pout, to which Ozzy responded; “Bob, you’re 62; puppy eyes don’t work anymore.”

Suddenly, and without warning, Prince’s “Kiss” began to play over the speakers and Ozzy’s demeanour suddenly veered from smugness to unadulterated joy. “Oh sweet merciful jesus, YES!” he exclaimed, relishing in the beat of the song as he began to clean and simultaneously dance. It had been a long and arduous day, but ending it with Prince? None of the trials and tribulations of the day seemed to matter now that he was grooving to the beat.

[kennedy paige york]

It wasn’t as though Kennedy was actively looking for a place and a reason to get drunk. No, she had plenty of reasons and knew plenty of places. It was just that she happened to wind up in front of Demery Place and just happened to need a quiet place to make a phone call and considering it was near closing time what other place would suit her needs? That, as simple as it was, would explain why the brunette female pushed her way through the door moments after the Prince song started playing, one finger jammed in her left ear and a cell phone pushed up against her left.

Her mother would have to deal with the fact that it was late and she didn’t feel like crossing town to go see her when the person she was staying with didn’t live very far at all from where she was currently. Besides, it was too good of an excuse not to use. She had been avoiding visiting her mother since she arrived. Mostly because a visit to her mother’s meant her mom wanting to go through all the things Kennedy left behind and most likely talking to the Kings across the street. Ken just didn’t want to put up with that right now. The longer she could avoid it, the better her life was. She would, however, have to visit her mother before Alyson and Finn got married. Who else would dress the queen of indecision?

“I promise, next time. I didn’t realize it had gotten so late. Yes, I love you too. Goodbye.” With an eye roll she hardly noticed herself giving the silver cell in her hand slid closed and found it’s home in her pocket. It had been so long since she had last stepped foot in this building. There were a few times she could recall, before her pregnancy, and then a few times, by herself, after her miscarriage, but the place didn’t look the same. Not entirely, anyway. The music had definitely improved though, Kennedy noticed. There was no Kenny G flavored tune wafting from decrepit speakers in the corners of the room.

Eyes flashed across the room at the excited exclamation toward the song choice whatever radio god decided to play and Kennedy instantly recognized it. Why didn’t she consider Ozzy being here when she walked in the door? She knew he worked here but still found herself pleasantly surprised to see him standing behind the bar doing his quaint little job. Quaint. What an… offensive… word. She was sure Ozzy worked hard and why her mind dubbed his job quaint she wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just Lampton Hill, where everything was quaint or small or inadequate. None of these things were true about Ozzy Bikindi though.

A few wide steps got the girl across the room in no time and she seated herself upon a barstool seats away from Bob, the pub patron who had just been cut off, but still near where Ozzy was standing. “You’ve got to not talk dirty, baby. To impress me you can’t be too flirty, mama.” Hands, palm flat, tapped against the bar top as Kennedy grinned, her spoken lyrics lines ahead of the song. “We could have a good time.” Okay, now she was just butchering it. But what did he expect from a rhythm-less white girl? While Kennedy knew more about music than the average small town nobody, she still had mastered no more than the bob-and-sway when it came to artists like Prince.

Yes, she was that terrible.

“Don’t tell me you’re closed.”

[/justify][/size]