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It even smells different. The edges of the world that bustles around America have alternately softened and sharpened, the shape of things is both old and new and she loves it. She inhales deeply as Dorothy and the Scarecrow jig a a dozen times over behind her. <********' time-travel. No need to ask the year. Way the heck back is all she needs.
There's a fellow on the corner and if he's seen better times he also sees the end of times on the horizon. Giving the man a saucy grin, America assures him, "Oh honey, don't you worry 'bout me. I'll save the world if things comes down to it." Repenting sounded an awful like regret, and that wasn't what she was here for at all.
There's a glimpse of a familiar pair but the girl doesn't follow them. If they arrive in a trickle, there's obviously a reason for it. Maybe a reason that involves a bunch of strangely folks suddenly on the sidewalk. It's reassuring anyway, to catch sight of some of the others.
There's no big sign pointing out where she's gotta go and what she's gotta do, nobody bleeding out in the street, no obvious problem to solve. It starts to sink in that maybe this won't be some harrowing night out dealing with magic stuff. Maybe it'll be a couple days, maybe more. It's easy to fall back on her more traditional priority: The Care and Well-being of America Jones.
Swinging her hips as she walks, singing along as the Archies begin to play, America walks the neighborhood for awhile, just getting a feel for things. There's second takes, but the skirt on her costume is a short one, the neckline low, and she's a girl who moves with a confidence that tells the world at large she's worth a second look. The area grows a little worse around the edges as she walks, steadily drawn to the rougher side of town, eyes on the lookout for...ah...yes, there we go.
Help Wanted.
A dive of a place, quiet but not nearly empty for a Tuesday morning, even better, it's a guy at the bar and guys are easy. America walks past the entry and into a nearby alley. "Alright, hun," she begins quietly as a bluejay lands on the edge of a dumpster to gaze at her. "You stay out here and I'll..."
She pauses as there's no disruption no commentary no observations from Mr. Bitterberry. Cautiously, she reaches for him with her mind and it's just grasping at a void. With sigh, she goes on, "Okay, well that sucks. Maybe we can only use magic from our time?" Floaty power? Nope. Color change? Nada.
"Well you just stay safe, hun." He just looks at her, and she hopes it doesn't mean he's fully wild again. He came back and greeted her after she'd come back from Florida right? He'd missed her then so...
So it wasn't an immediate problem, hopefully,
Pulling out her phone, America turned it on and noted with relief that it worked. 83% battery and she couldn't remember if outlets were the same back in the whatever this decade was. Sixties, Seventies...somewhere in there. No bars, of course. Good thing she'd saved the video.
It's 1969 and America Jones has traveled back in time with her friends and familiar and here she stands, in a Sexy Sailor costume, furtively watching a small pug play its stupid little precious heart out while pinching at her cheeks and crying over how cute the thing was.
See, she's bad at sad crying unless she's really, really sad. Or something makes her ridiculously happy.
A few minutes later and the bar door swung open to reveal a distraught redhead. She looked rough, hair mussed, makeup darkly streaming down her flushed cheeks, wet with tears and eyes shining with more. Her skirt is even higher, neckline even lower and when then bartender's gaze fixes exactly where she wants, the smug little victory doesn't show on her face.
"You're hiring?" Her voice breaks before he can even ask, though the bartender is halfway out to her. He's average height and wide, older with muscle and a mustache and a lot of rings glittering across his knuckles. With eyes continuously dropping to the distraught girl's tits, there's a clear indication that yes, he's probably kind of a sleazebag (the kind with eyes) and she's hoping he's kind of a decent guy too.
America doesn't like lying but maybe it doesn't matter here They won't remember once she's gone, right? That's what Sunday'd said. So it wouldn't hurt anybody for her to tell a Certain Story. It was, in it's way, true. A past truth for the past.
She'd been with her boyfriend, they were on a big trip upstate, she's never been and she liked him so much. She doesn't understand why he started getting so mean and scary, didn't know why the fight got so bad, could never have known he'd just leave her there, in a strange town and state. That he'd be cruel enough to take her wallet out of her purse, leaving her with nothing.
She just needs a job. Just for a couple days, 'til he comes back and picks her up.
It's pathetic, the weight of that familiar certainty. He'll come back for her. Three years ago, it'd taken the a*****e three days to come back. It's pathetic, remembering how grateful she'd been for it, how it felt like an affirmation that he truly cared about her.
Eddie hires her under the table and if, later, she doesn't flirt back, she shows him that she's a good server, can handle drinks and drunks alike. And sometimes looking is nice in and of itself. It's a really short skirt. So he's nice enough to give her work and sleazy enough to keep distracted and eager to show off a little. It's a little perfect, enough that she accepts the suitcase of clothes he comes back from his break with. His ex's, she went all flower child or whatever, left behind most of her clothes to go prance naked in the mud.
He offers a room in the back for her -to sleep in as well, but this she refuses. Says her man would get angry about it, that she has a place she could sleep and clean up in. Doesn't say that it's hard enough to sleep in strange places, that it's worse when those places are being kept by a strange guy who stares at your tits and has the local advantage.
Maybe she should get a hotel with the day's pay and tips, but it's not like she isn't good at this. Isn't great, actually, at finding the odd hideaway places when home wasn't an option. A walk through the area, this time toward the big park on the south east side of town and it's still there, yeah. A bit rougher on one end, where it spills into private property, the forested lots, some with houses, some fairly empty and there.
It looks like a gardener's hut, but if it was, the garden had long since won that war. It takes a little work, to clear the tangle of vines, both living and withered, from the doorway, but eventually America is in and relatively safe from the elements. It's a long stretch of minutes before the quiet catches up with her. There's a faux hawk's cry outside the window and then the girl's practically collapsing onto the work bench.
"Jesus wept. ******** travel."
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