1964-08-22 - Simple Bar Scene
Summary: Matt and Harper meet at a bar
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
harper matt-murdock 

There's a loud crack as the billiard balls below soar around chaotically, slamming against the rails and then back into the mix as they carom off of each other. It sounds as though a couple of them fall into the pockets as two large men with facial hair make their way around the pool table, talking about stripes versus solids, and about strategy. It is a low stakes game.

The bikers seem indicative of the many patrons in here tonight. At the end of the bar is little Matty. All grown up now. The tie and the fancy that is slung over the rack doesn't fool anyone. Farrell's and Josie's are where he's been hanging out since he was six years old. He used to come here with his dad after matches, both to celebrate victory and wallow in defeat.

"Another beer, Matt?"

"Yeah, I'll take one."

"Drinkin' alone tonight?"

"'Fraid so," he says, his voice just slightly gravely as his glasses seem to stare at the bar.

The bartender seems to look on at Matt with a bit of worry. He's been in here a lot more than normal recently.

Harper's favorite bartender to poke with sticks isn't on duty tonight, so she's sought out another place to people watch for the evening. Lux is high-class, Sister Margaret's is full of business. But this place looks like a good enough compromise. She doesn't really stand out, aside from the fact that her tight-fitting jeans and polo shirt are a little less feminine than some. The bar is her destination, and she hops up onto a seat not far from Matt once she's scoped the place out. "Hey," she greets the bartender with an easy smile. "What's good?"

"Not the rail stuff," Matt mutters with a grin. "That much I know for sure."

"Shut up, Matty," the bartender says and throws a rag in his direction. He's an older guy, probably in his early 60s, with white hair that's combed straight back. "Well we got some beers on tap, and I make one hell of a greyhound," he says as he shrugs his shoulders. "What kind of drink do you like, missy?"

Harper grins at Matt's muttered words, quirking a playful brow at the bartender. "I'm partial to a good sazerac," she admits, letting the New Orleans slip into her voice, "But I also like a good surprise. Surprise me, whatever you like making." She pushes up from her chair a bit, reaching over the bar to sneak a stir straw when the bartender's back is turned before she looks to Matt. "Regular, I'm guessing?"

The bartender's back remains turned as he mixes up his specialty. Matty, however tilts his head towards Harper and gives a slow nod. "Since I was a kid, yeah." He gives a soft chuckle and his smile cracks the two days of stubble that mark his face. "You know you gave that guy a lot of leeway. You'll be lucky if what you get will be drinkable at all."

"Shut up, Matty," calls the bartender as they both chuckle. "Miss, you like salt on the glass or no?" he calls over his shoulder.

"Sure, why not?" Harper answers the bartender, laughing softly. "It's all right," she adds to Matt. "Most things are drinkable if you want to drink it badly enough. Besides, give a bartender a chance and you never know what you might get to try." She sticks the straw between her teeth, playing with it a bit as she waits. "He hasn't killed you yet, has he?"

"Just my soul," Matt replies with a half-smile. "Matt Murdock."

Finally the Bartender turns around, "I'm Ralph, and this is a salty dog. Vodka, ,…some people make it with gin, but after the Cold War started I thought it'd be funny to use Vodka…It's Vodka and grapefruit juice. Pink, of course. That's Matty's favorite color by the way. Also, I put a slash of juice in there." Ralph slides it over.

"You say that like there's any shame in liking pink, sir," Harper winks to the bartender as she takes the glass. She pops the straw from between her teeth and settles it into the liquid with a stir before taking a sip. "Not bad at all. No matter what he says," she tilts her head toward Matt, smile wry. "Nice to meet you, Matt. I'm Harper," she introduces herself in turn.

"Well, not for you," Ralph says as he chuckles and makes his way down the bar to help other patrons.

"Same, Harper. Tell me," Matt begins. "I don't think you've been in here at any point. At least not when I have. You new to the city?"

"Not terribly," Harper shakes her head to Matt, giving the drink another lazy stir. "I've been in town for a year or so. I like to try out different places, though. Meet new people. Keeps life from getting too boring, you know?" And people from getting to know you or noticing things about you, but that's not the sort of thing you explain to strangers.

"Well welcome to Hell's Kitchen in any event," Matt says as he takes a sip from his beer. "I'm not sure this part of town is ever considered to be boring. Your accent. Deep south, right?"

"Ooh," Harper winces with a laugh, shaking her head once more. "Deep south is a…different sort of place. New Orleans," she corrects. "It may be in the south, but it's not exactly the same. Too many other influences there over the years, making a great big melting pot out of the city. Now, you go an hour or two out and it's the deep south, but. Little different in the city. You, I'm guessing, are born and bred local."

"That's right," Matt responds with a chuckle. "I grew up literally across the street. My dad used to train in the gym two corners down, and I decided to live right here. Why mess with a good thing, right?" He gives an upwards nod, "Why'd you come to New York?"

"Oh, a little bit of this, little bit of that," Harper shrugs, taking another sip of her drink. "Looking for a change of scenery, wanted to get away from the old homestead. More chances for work here," she adds. "Plus the art. I love art, and short of going to Europe, there aren't many places that compare to New York."

"Really," Matt says, taking interest. "Obviously, the only art I get into these days is music." He taps his head near his glasses. "What kind of art do you like?"

Harper smiles ruefully at the indication of the glasses, reaching out to set a hand to his arm in apology. "I'm a fan of all kinds, really. But I'm partial to paintings, preferably in oil. The way it layers is just…The paint itself becomes a true part of the medium, not just the colors, not just what you see in two dimensions. Light and shadow, layers of color. There are some paintings you can stare at for hours until the light changes and suddenly it's a completely different thing."

"It sounds nice," Matt says fondly. He doesn't seem sad in anyway that he can't see it. "Tell me, who would your favorite painter be? Any first, then American."

"Anywhere, I think Van Gogh," Harper muses. "And I get that it's not…cool or counter-culture to go with a classic, but he really does such interesting things with color and texture. American…Not sure, actually. To be honest, I didn't have the education in the arts I would have wanted to really have an informed opinion. Mostly I just know what I like when I see it."

"That's all that really matters, right?" Matt says with a chuckle. "Can't speak to paintings of course. What about music? You have a favorite type of music?"

"Oh, well, that's an easy one," Harper laughs. "Jazz, all the way. Can take the girl out of New Orleans, but you can't take the New Orleans out of the girl. What about you?" she asks, tilting her head as she looks him over. "I think you strike me as more the…classical type," she guesses.

"That hurts my feelings," Matt replies. "Though, I do like classical, I'm a fan of jazz music and some rock and roll." He shrugs his shoulders. "What exactly does a classical type strike like?"

"It's the fingers," Harper notes, reaching over to tap one of hers on his knuckle. "You've got pianist fingers. Although it doesn't look like you take very good care of them," she teases. "So I can see where the jazz would come in. Most jazz is just classical music that got down on its luck and wandered into a dark alley."

Matt chuckles and shakes his head, "You have no idea." He purses his lips and gives a weary sigh. "Unfortunately, Harper, I have to get up early for work tomorrow. If you see me when you're in here next, come on over and say hello. I hope you'll forgive me if I'm unable to pick you out of the crowd." He reaches to his side to pull out his cane. "Tab, Ralphie?"

"Go to hell, Matty."

"Worth a shot," he replies as he digs into his pocket.

Harper chuckles softly at the interplay between the two, reaching for her own drink once more. "Nice to meet you, Matt. I'll keep it in mind if I come through the neighborhood again."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License