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{RW-2} Dreaming A Reality.; Closed for Restoration.
Topic Started: Dec 13 2010, 09:45 PM (226 Views)
North

Batti il Ferro Finché è Caldo.
Strike While the Iron's Hot.

Operation, Wake Up.
Commence Phase Two.


Total Earnings; 39,726¥ [~$476.00].
Jobs; Neighborhood help. One-night-gig as local bar Bouncer. Handy-man skills in homes around the area - all word of mouth.
Total Expenses; 12,352¥ [~$148]
Expense List; Cat-food bowl, bags of catfood [$30]. 16pc Dinnerware set [$25]. Bottle of scotch [$25]. Assorted handtools [$47].

To-Do; Find Renato. Change Locks. Replace Back Window. Restore power. Find Telephone. Find Furniture. Buy toy for Cat. Cook dinner on own stove. Re-paint.

Dawn of the fifteenth day. 0630 hrs.

It seeps through the slats, the panes, the doors. It hunts, it burns, but finds, it does not; not in it's usual resting place. Through the derelict compound, little by little, it peeked in further; it saw nothing but the patches on the walls; the torn up pub and the empty storage unit. It saw little more in the apartment than an empty bed and a twisting staircase. No; the sun, for all it's searching could not find Ryan on this morning, because he wasn't in. For the first time in ages, he felt comfortable enough in a routine to change it. So then it begged the question; where the bloody hell was Ryan?
Heh'. Three miles down the road.

Winter jogging isn't enjoyed by most. It's cold, it's bitter, it's unforgiving and it makes your chest burn when you inhale that sharp, freezing air into your body as it's heating up. Blood circulates about as well as icicles pumping through your veins. Noses run; hearts pound and let's be real here. There really isn't much to see. Everything covered in white, deadened, glossed over in a film of surreal, cleansing precipitation. And Ryan loved it. He felt alive; happy, and alive. Jacket up tight around him, hat and gloves pulled down tight and losing heat; but to feel, to be out in the morning before even the sun woke up; it was refreshing. He hadn't jogged since he had been in high school. He had RUN, Away, Towards...but never, for pleasure, jogged. All he needed was a hat to come 'round and hit him in the face with the number 1 on it; all he needed was a cell-phone and a call he didn't want.
There's something disgustingly freeing about not having a cell phone. No cares. No worries. No people around, but being lonely was becoming a thing of the past. He had his hobbies. His cat. He had the Community Soup Kitchen and the people there; his Japanese was improving. He had Theodore every so often in the evening, cooking dinner for the two of them. Spending time with the old man was one of his favorite parts of the week. They always had the best stories to tell.

The routine was golden. The sun was golden. The pub he lived in - the place he called home - was now free of holes, dings, or broken windows. Repaired, fixed, replaced. The window was yesterday's mission. There was almost a need to space them out; the days were so packed. Wake, jog, pet cat, CSK. Find a new set of roads and alleys to walk through. He was the phantom of the transportation district. He made friends with the people than worked near the trains. Sat on the roof and watched them come in, take off. Back to the CSK. The random job if someone came to find him at the pub; he told them he spent most of his time there, and got a lot of 'Typical Handyman...' - he'd since changed it to 'I'm renovating the Pub, you can find me there.' - That went over better. People knew his face when he jogged by. He had been in their homes; he had fixed their lighting and their plumbing. He had repaired their creaky hinges. On the rare occasion he replaced a carburetor in someone's Prius; it felt good to get his hands dirty in an engine again. All in all, he was starting to get back to the days before the Accident; before the Hurricane. Life was good, people were crazy; beer was cold and worries were short and far between.

With the pub no longer in a state of disarray, it was time to start turning attention on himself. There was money for food, but he enjoyed the soup kitchen. He still needed some furniture. Problem being, he dare not spend any more money than he had to. He had passed by a beat-down truck earlier in the week he wanted to look at. Well, not look at. Purchase. Legally. It didn't look very expensive, but it was presumably more than he could afford. That left a few things. He could get a phone. Hell, he could get a chair to sit in. Maybe even a couch. Washer, dryer. All that fun stuff. But now was not the time, and nearing 5pm, he stopped outside the door to the local power company, catching his breath.

A handful of bills in his pocket he took a deep breath. He knew the number; he knew the situation. Hopefully, no one else did. When he went in, he bypassed the front desk and headed straight to the bathroom. Hours of morning running can do that to a person but after, he washed up; with hot water. Oh, how he missed hot water. He cleaned his face; some of the color started returning to it and he dried off. There was a quiet confidence as he leaned over the desk, his face slowly smiling at the older woman at the counter. She spoke to him in fluent Japanese. He understood her perfectly.

"What can I do for you hun?"
"I need power turned back on at my place, actually."
She smiled back at him. Someone else who couldn't pay their bills on time. "Alright dear...." She started working something over on her computer. "What's the address?"
"413 Rathdowne Lane."
"Oookay." She continued typing away for a few minutes. Clicked her mouse a few times. And then stopped. She looked at Ryan; and then Ryan's heart stopped. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Not good.
"Renato's old Pub, then?" She smiled at him, knowingly. "I'm glad someone is finally taking it over. Town wasn't the same without it. Or Renato..."
Dun Dun.
"Wait. You knew Renato?"
"Well I knew of him. Worked that pub seven days a week until he left us. Very friendly man. The type of place you wanted to go."
"I can only imagine..." He paused, smoothly. His breath caught in his chest. "Do....Do you know where he is, now? Where I can find him?"
Her eyes softened. Ryan seemed genuinely concerned. He couldn't be squatting. No squatter -wants- to find the previous owner. "Sweetie...he died. Eleven or so months back. He was old...." She sighed, slowly; crossed her fingertips over her chest; catholic? "I'm pretty sure his body was sent back to Italy. Buried at his vineyard. But they kept a headstone for him, here. It's in Hyukuji cemetery." She pursed her lips, as if remembering an old friend... "He was a great man..."
"I know it..."

9000¥ later, Ryan was walking back through the streets, headed back to an old pub with the lights [hopefully] on. He sighed. The search, the hunt, was over; but he felt no accomplishment in achieving that goal. He had hoped Renato just moved back home; hoped he went on to better things. Never before had he felt such an attachment to someone he'd never known, never met; and never would. He felt the presence in the apartment; not like a ghost or an apparition; just the comforting feeling that someone was watching out for your best interests. He felt it every day as his hands used the tools Renato left him; worn down from calloused hands over hard years in labor-induced fields. Damnit. He groaned. If there had only been the chance, that one day, he could have walked into the pub and see Renato there; and he laughed. He could see the old man. See him polishing the bartop with a rag when no one was around just because he loved every stitch of wood in that place. A tired old man who still had the energy to open doors every day and invite people into his home. Just an hour with him would have been enough; but the chance was gone. And he sighed.

The pub was visible from down the block as he neared; soft light splashed out onto the street. His pace quickened. The apartment light was on; and he could hear music. Faint, but barely there. The whole street was dead; the trains were gone. All he saw was Theo's lights on. When he passed he saw the old man in the window. They smiled at eachother; Theodore gave him an accepting nod. Ryan turned into the pub; shut the door behind him. The lights from the ceiling fixtures brought the place to life. The music came from the bar. Putting his jacket down on the bar, he crouched down behind it, searching for the source. Ah, there! He'd never thought much of the wood under the top corner, just under the bar's top. Thought it was structural. He'd never noticed the hinge; and he pulled it open. Inside was the source of the noise; an old record player. He laughed. Pulled it out and set it on top of the bar. Old, italian opera. He closed his eyes and listened to the swell of the violins; the subtle cues and nuances in the performer's voice. Classic. He went to close the hidden-door but a reflection caught his eye.

The last object in the hidden drawer was a framed photograph. Black and white. In it, was an old man, standing in front of the bar he was leaning on now; surrounded by smiles, drinks in the air, and warmth. There was a mischevious glint in the old man's eyes. Spry, happy, face wrinkled but it couldn't hide the sparkle in his personality. He propped the picture up on the bar. Nice to finally put a name to a face. Tonight, he pulled two glasses from underneath; his bottle of scotch followed. One for Ryan; the other, he set in front of the picture. He poured that drink slower than he'd ever done before. There was something odd about it; and then he realized; it was the first time he was pouring drinks behind the bar. His Bar.. Renato's bar. And he smiled, sadly; held his drink up into the air; toasting the spirit of the departed man who though no longer there in body, would always inhabit the bar in spirit.

"This one's for you, old man."
He drank; he drank it all; poured another and looked at it. There was a slow smirk spreading across his face. A curious, detached smirk. His voice was hollow;
"...Yeah. This one's for you."

Total Earnings; 39,726¥ [~$476.00].
Jobs; Neighborhood help. One-night-gig as local bar Bouncer. Handy-man skills in homes around the area - all word of mouth.
Total Expenses; 21,352¥ [~$255]
Expense List; Cat-food bowl, bags of catfood [$30]. 16pc Dinnerware set [$25]. Bottle of scotch [$25]. Assorted handtools [$47]. Turning Power back On. [$107]

To-Do; Find Renato. Change Locks. Replace Back Window. Restore power. Find Telephone. Find Furniture. Buy toy for Cat. Cook dinner on own stove. Re-paint.
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[[From the Author; Listen. I am so bloody tired of Yen Conversions. I don't -care- anymore. T_T If you really want to know the Yen equivalent, google it. Here on out I'm acting in Dollars and cents, baby. You got a problem? Don't read. *Grumbles about Japanese currency*...]]

Day 18.
Total Earnings; ~$476.00
No Change.
Total Expenses; $230.00
Expense List; Another Bottle of scotch [$25].
To-Do; Find Renato. Change Locks. Replace Back Window. Restore power. Find Telephone. Find Furniture. Buy toy for Cat. Cook dinner on own stove. Re-paint.

The Eighteenth Day. 01:27hrs.

That pounding headache, the sensation of chronic stomach pains and vertigo; the cusp of getting sick. How long had it been since Ryan Knox drank with the intentions of getting drunk? Too long; long enough for scotch-out-of-the-bottle to mess with his head after just a few [dozen] shots. There was something devilishly disheartening in the news that the old man he'd never met was dead. He had relocated the record player to his haunt upstairs; he had cranked the volume; the strange brass piece he'd found in the storage next door that never served a purpose, he'd found, was the horn that attached to it; it only made the opera louder. He spent nights, bottle in hand, glass of scotch on the rocks in the other, singing italian classical while the room around him spun. In that three-day drunken stupor he relived it; the prison, the adventures, the otherworlds. He had been someone, once. Once upon a time.
In another life, he had been a hockey team captain. He had carried his team to the national finals; he was scouted to go to Georgetown; ride a full scholarship and practice law; then he'd make the choice; paralegal or NHL. He gained powers; he went to Japan and enrolled in a school to harness and use those powers; he had started his own fight club in the basement. He loved; he lost; he even had a dog. He went to prison for Arson; he talked with the headmaster; he became their 'undercover agent' and went back to prison - on purpose. He spent two years behind bars to find out what was happening to others, just like him, on the inside. Ryan had once been the Apprentice of the Grim Reaper - he learned how to take souls; he had been to Hell; he had tools, weapons; he had a new dog; Cerberus. He smelt of sulfer; he had been to the gates of Heaven and that was the line he walked. Neither Heaven nor Hell would ever be his home; he would walk the line, eternally taking souls to their destination. He learned Omnipresence; he could be in ten places at once.
He had learned he was heir to a throne he'd never heard of; some realm not his own. Kekala - realm of the forgotten Reality Benders; 'cause that's just who he was. He wasn't a student; he was a God. He had seven of his own dimensions to toy with; to play God. He had inadvertently terrorist-bombed Tokyo in a covert mission to save it. And he gave it up, to die - sort of - for people that saw him as a felon; a criminal.
But Renato would have understood. As Theodore understood. As Aurora did. To go from an omnipotent being, to stripped of everything except the memories, dumped, and left for dead was a bittersweet doubledged sword. A fall from Grace. A chance to start over, forget the past, and carve a new path.

It took him three days to get over himself, over the past, over the hangovers, and back on his feet. To let that which did not matter truly slide; stop beating himself up over blonde bombshells and lost causes. Where was St. Jude when you needed him? It was over; time to turn over a new leaf. He had been someone, once. He would be someone again. Just not the same as before. It took two bottles of scotch, a record player, a shabby cat and seventy-two hours for Ryan to find a new reason to go through the daily grind. With that in mind, all he had to do now, was get over the hangover.

Tripped on his boots walkin' down the hall, chuggin' sink water, starin' at the wall. Trying to put the pieces back together again. Who did how? What, where, when? Dehydration makes it all bad; water's supposed to make it go away. He found his way to the shower and took it upon himself to wash all the self-loathing and alcohol down the drain. The pipes no longer ran creaky; no more water spewed forth rustic in color. Since he'd turned the power back on, warm water had returned to him. It was the last time he let himself remember anything. At least, in that somber and melancholy 'remember when' sense of thought. All he had were the memories, and the scars; and Theodore in the back of his head, telling him again 'let the bad times make you strong'. He didn't need power; he didn't need the drama associated. Maybe taking a step out of the limelight would be the best thing for him. Greatness, from small beginnings. Just settle in and live happily. Need not; and he smirked as the shower cut off, because he knew as he stepped out, things wouldn't be the same.
He smirked, because he knew he had his work cut out for him.

It was a ninety minute trip to the hardware store and back; he brought his shopping cart with him. Gallons of assorted colors of paint, rollers, handles, sanding sponges, dropcloths, brushes. Everything a good DIY painter needs. There was little hesitation when he got back inside the doors of the pub. Paint out of the cart in the five-gallon pails - part of him wanted a sprayer; part of him hated the thought of respirators. He propped the doors open with rocks, looking around, eying what was left of the previous paint job. The chips, cracks and fades of the bar; the occasional stain - the patchwork he'd done, white squares randomly throughout the pub, feathered white edges. It was a dustmask and sanding sponge to start the races. Wipe down the walls; smooth out the imperfections. Any ripple, dent, ding or blister vanished within the next hour as he dripped sweat onto the floor.

Dropclothes spread out on the floor; a washout of beige canvas; the backdrop of the midday sun. First, it was the pub; no tape, just skill. the thin layer of mills covered the imperfections. Smooth layers of orange spread out in an even expanse from the door to the back; above the chair-rail. Corner to corner to corner. Brush in the bucket he went back; he took his brush; he cut in the whole room. Chair-rail, corners, cieling-line. He didn't stop until the whole room was covered in the color he'd chosen; the color a few shades removed from what Renato had covered on the walls, however many decades ago. It applied the glaze; he rag-rolled and sponged after it was dry; all the tips he'd learned about faux finishes from the marvelous people working the hardware store. Faux Leather; orange and auburn glaze. He stepped back from it, comfortable and confident in his decisions. With the place clean, it looked ten times better; with the walls covered in paint, no more patches on the walls? It was looking like a home, once again. A little paint works miracles. Paint on his t-shirt, his jeans; paint on his arms, his wrists; but most of it on the walls; hands on his hip and he was proud of what he had accomplished. The rustic browns, the faded-look of it, in close juxtaposition with the fresh orange, really made both colors pop in a way he couldn't recreate. He decided to leave under the chair-rail untouched.

The stairwell was touched up. But no one cares about the stairwell. Not even a little. So that's the end of that paragraph.

The War Room came next. That's what he'd taken to calling the red-room on the right. The room that incited passion; that made you confident and brazen; the color that made you feel like you could conquer worlds. And he wanted it to be stronger; better, tougher. There was little to touch up. He did what little he had to to refinish the red, but then it was down to business. His fingers wrapped around the tools he had inherited from Renato; the trowel specifically, and he carved that wall up and down with jet-black glaze. Coating, scraping it off. Coating, scraping it off. He covered that whole triangle; wrapped around the windows and door. It took hours. Into the night, even. He forgot all about drinking, and had skipped both lunch and dinner. It wasn't until the walls shined [after the seventh coat] that he was satisfied; red and black smeared the walls in an elegant fashion; wrapping him in a room he would soon come to love as his own office. All he needed was a desk. But that would come later. For now, the folding table he had found on the side of the road would work just fine. Venetian Plaster at it's finest.

It was only after that, he decided to have more fun in the war room... but that's a secret idea I just simply can't get to tell you in this storyline. Sorry!

The next morning, after the soup kitchen, he was back to work. Today it was working through the apartment. Everything was cleaned and recleaned; what he could make shine, he did; yellow gloves and all. It was the first time he had a place to call home and the sense of pride in it's appearance was making him itch. No...no, it wasn't vanity. It wasn't about the aesthetics. It was more the personal pride; that these rooms, these walls, these items, were his, and his alone, and would not suffer the dirty fate they had befallen while Renato lay six feet under. Someone had loved this place once. And someone now loved it again. It was only after the windows, taps, bathroom and spiral staircase were clean did he turn to the panels of wall wrapping around the brick. Sanded, scuffed, prepped, and coated. Mills of vibrant purple smoothed over the walls and just after it dried, he pushed the slate-blue glaze coat over it; not heavy enough to dominate, just enough to cover in places; so the two could work together in harmony. The mixture of cool colors added that soothing feeling of relaxation; it added the regal and mysterious shade to a soothing and spiritual shade of cyan. The color-washing technique made the red in the bricks pop; and the whole room complimented itself. The result, was a well-painted establishment and a very, very satisfied Ryan.

When all was said and done, the leftover supplies, tools, and various knick-knacks were put into the ramshackle shed just behind the pub. He'd been storing things there since he'd first cleaned it out; but found nothing in it of any value or importance; not even a screw. Just mice, used condoms and broken glass. Marvelous. Now, it was clean, with a shelf or two and a workbench. It worked just fine for his tools. Especially with the padlock he'd put on it.

Unfortunately, the rest of the pub had only the old locks, still; and Ryan had no key. It was a situation he would change, work on, in the morning. Right now, it was time for sleep; and a very happy, proud and tired Ryan crawled into bed, only moments later to hear Cat bounding up the stairs. He took one look around the room, looked at Ryan, sneezed, and curled up on the chair Ryan had grabbed roadside and dragged home - the chair Cat had already had his chew-toy on from earlier. A small, furry toy mouse. Someone needed a toy.

All was well in the Knox Establishment. Not a creature was stirring. Not even a.....

Day 19.
Total Earnings; ~$476.00
No Change.
Total Expenses; $458.00
Expense List; Paint, Supplies, dropclothes, etc.
To-Do; Find Renato. Change Locks. Replace Back Window. Restore power. Find Telephone. Find Furniture.. Buy Furniture. Visit Thrift Store. Buy more clothes. Buy toy for Cat. Cook dinner on own stove. Re-paint.
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Day 22.
Total Earnings; ~$562.00
Various local jobs, in-home jobs.
Total Expenses; $512.00
Expense List; Various food items.
To-Do; Find Renato. Change Locks. Replace Back Window. Restore power. Find Telephone. Find Furniture.. Buy Furniture. Visit Thrift Store. Buy more clothes. Buy toy for Cat. Cook dinner on own stove. Re-paint.

The Twenty-Second Day. 11:37hrs.

Three weeks, he had lived at the pub. Three weeks in which he had accomplished many things. He found a bed. He turned the power on. Repainted. Cleaned up. Things were beginning to shape up. Cups and plates were actually in the drying rack near the sink - he had cooked himself dinner to the symphonic harmonies of italian classical last night. Something about the rise and fall of the violin; the swell of the saxophones, the nuances of the singer - he found it easy listening, singing along, cooking along; he even had a book now, he'd borrowed from Theodore. A small, leatherbound copy of The Prince, by Machiavelli. It wasn't until he brought it back home [he loved saying the word, 'home', in reference to the pub] that he cracked it open, and inside the front cover, was a simple note, scrawled in pen - in Greek.

Signore Ryan,
The worth of a book
Is measured by
What you carry away from it.
~Theodore R. Livas.


With that slow smile burning on his lips, Ryan continued through the pages of the masterwork of literature. It was three hours and change before he took his nose from it; stretching, smiling, tossing it on the bed and rubbing his eyes. It was like an independent masters course in politics and diplomacy in one book. Damn. Didn't he avoid college just for that reason? He had to laugh, though; because he loved it. It was Cat on his lap, sinking his claws into Ryan's thigh that made Ryan budge; out to the pantry closet to fill Cat's bowl with food; to check the fridge and grab a cup of yogurt for himself.

He showered. He pulled on his good shirt [the one he'd gotten from Aurora], that he'd washed in the sink a few days prior. It was becoming blatantly apparent that having only two changes of clothes and one jacket just wouldn't suffice; especially when, every day, working and sweating in them; washing them in the sink with hand-soap. He needed new clothes; he needed a telephone. He needed more furniture. He sighed, smoothly, and opted to finally [after three weeks of the same old], make his way down to the thrift-store. He could find some cheap clothes, maybe a working phone. Maybe a nightstand, an old barstool. Something; anything, to make the place a little more habitable. Then, it was back to the hardware store for new locks. If he was going to live there, the place would have to be his. He had to finalize it. He needed a key; it would make it all official. Back with the leather jacket. Throw on the hat, the gloves. Pet Cat goodbye; and out the door he went.

Little did he know, this, would be the start of an overwhelming discovery.

The hardware store was on his way to the thrift store. He bought his new door locks [four of them, to be precise] and moved on. There wasn't much more to say...

It was old; cast from copper and heavy as hell. Sturdy, adorned around the base with the twelve symbols of the Zodiac - wiping off the dust and grime, revealing some of the original shine through the cracks, dents and marred complexion. It was one of the oldest phones he had ever seen - and he loved it, immediately. It fitted the polished history theme that seemed to pour through the pub's soul. He placed it on the counter, near the clerk, and began pouring through the clothes racks. For a man who, three weeks ago, was homeless; a man who had only two sets of clothes, he was being rather picky - unhappy with his choices. Slacks with poor stitching. Tee-shirts with faded crude sayings, pot-leafs and beer slogans. There wasn't a crisp shirt among them. If it weren't for his complete dissatisfaction, he wouldn't have even looked up when he heard the doorbell go off again.

"I'd like to donate these. They belonged to my late husband."

Ryan looked up to see a well maintained elderly woman, a slow and pleasant smile on her face as she placed a box on the countertop. The clerk grunted at her unceremoniously, pulling clothes from the box and making unparalleled, sorted piles on the counter. It wasn't until a slim-lapel jacket was pulled from the box did Ryan's eyes widen and he found he was making his way towards the counter - rescuing the dinner blazer from the pile. In a flash, he was back on a dancefloor in Italy; he was drinking expensive champagne in New York City and rubbing elbows with dirty people who made life easy. In another life, Ryan cared about nice clothes. Real clothes; clothes that were classy, durable, and fit well; that aged well. He looked from the blazer to the woman; and underneath that thin layer of beard, there was a devilishly charming smile.

"Your husband had taste."
His Japanese was growing more fluent; his grammar had improved. "This is a Devore." He checked the tag. He was correct.

"Oh, yes...Wesley knew his clothes." She smiled pleasantly at Ryan; watching as he held the jacket up to his neck. "Hmm. Try it on." - And he hesitated little, slipping off his leather, and taking the blazer over his long-sleeve. Her smile grew. "That looks nice. If I took it in a bit, it would be perfect."
He had to agree; "Yes, it would."

"I was hoping someone would understand and appreciate these. I didn't want to wait and try getting rid of them piece by piece, selling them. I've got a closet full of his clothes. You're what, a thirty-six, thirty-two?"
"Yes Ma'am. A closet?"
He was enraptured. The clerk, still unamused, was pulling another jacket from the box. Ryan traded his jacket for it, slipping it on. It fit the same as the other one; just a shade off from being his perfect size. The silk interior brushed against his wrists; and he loved it, immediately...
"I remember that jacket. Wesley wore it whenever we went dancing. He always said it made him feel alive."
"I can see why..."
"You must come look at the rest of what he has. I'd rather someone appreciate them, than they collect dust."
"Tell me you don't live far."
"Not at all."

Ryan flashed his most charming smile...

It wasn't until nearly ten at night, Abigail dropped Ryan back off at the pub. Over expensive teas, the two of them had one of the most intellectually stimulating conversations of his life - and no one in the room had a gun. About art, about fashion, about architecture. Just spending a few hours with her made him feel more confident, alive, intelligent and capable. She threw in various other items of Wesley's. A Dovo straight-razor set, a small selection of vintage hats, and a box of her favorite imported italian tea. He promised to keep in touch, having written down her number. When she drove away, smile on both their faces, Ryan brought his boxes up the stairs towards his apartment. Shirts, pants, ties, cuff-links, shined shoes. This man had it all. Whoever Wesley was, he was now in graces as good as Renato was. An old, late man who had, in his death, given Ryan the chance to carry on his life; to make it something better.

Now he had two dead men he didn't want to let down. And many more living persons he still had to be there for. Once all the clothes were hung in the closet; once the razor set lay on his vanity sink, he picked up his screwdriver and went downstairs. In the midnight hour he changed the back-door lock, then the front. It's simple; let me explain. Unscrew existing door mechanism [handle] and it pulls apart. Then, unscrew the latch mechanism [on the side of the door] - pull it out. Do process in reverse with new set. He had a key-ring with four keys on it - back door, front door, apartment and office rooms. It took five minutes per door.

That night, as he locked the doors and set the keys on the counter, he sighed, happily, to himself. Maybe Japan just wasn't so bad after all. It just took a few hurdles for things to start going well. Hell with things repainted, he could make this a nice place to live. All he needed now, was a job. But that, he could worry about in the morning.

Tonight, Ryan slept, with a smile on his face.
And, of course; Cat was there, too.

Day 22.
Total Earnings; ~$562.00
Various local jobs, in-home jobs.
Total Expenses; $557.00
Expense List; Various food items. New locks. Telephone.
To-Do; Find Renato. Change Locks. Replace Back Window. Restore power. Find Telephone. Find Furniture.. Buy Furniture. Visit Thrift Store. Buy more clothes. Buy toy for Cat. Cook dinner on own stove. Re-paint.
Operation, Wake-Up.
Phase Two, Complete.

Batti il Ferro Finché è Caldo.
Strike While the Iron's Hot.
Edited by North, Dec 18 2010, 11:24 PM.
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