Tyler: A Little More Chapter 1

So I think my part of DoubleBook is driven mostly by plot with events happening to and around the protagonist (Eli) so most of the characterization is developed through his reactions to these events.

I get bored with that though so I've been trying add more and more Columbus as I've written (just so you know, I've written a little over 35,000 words totaling 10 chapters out of an outlined 17 chapters but out of those remaining 7 chapters I've written about 3 of them so I'm closing in on something of a finish). I've tried to describe my city the best I can where I can and think this passage is part of that.

Roger and I both posted parts of our opening chapters but I'm not really a big fan of how mine started so I'm going to post a little more of my first chapter. This passage is basically a description of Hound Dogs and Ravari. I'd like to know if anyone else likes it or even thinks it's accurate because, really, I think it's fucking great.

So, without anymore of my really boring prologue bullshit, here is a little more from chapter 1 of DoubleBook.







Ravari was a filthy pizza place with a bar attached at its side like an underdeveloped Siamese twin on a drunken homeless guy and it had been our second home for some time. It was the kind of place that looked like it only had a back door, which, in actuality, it did. It had a very unique aura about it. The carpet inside Ravari looked like it came from Dresden circa 1946 and the walls were covered with flyers for bands and grindhouses and all the other underground shit you can force on a wall. There were makeshift tables in the pizza part of it that had to have been doors in previous lives and the wood chairs were all but a few patrons away from being kindling. Surrounding the bar were simple stools and several surprisingly nice pool tables, which had so much pizza and beer spilled on the felt that all the balls had a permanent greasy sheen to them. The grease inadvertently added an air of sophistication that made the balls look like polished marble; the juxtaposition was irresistible. There was a singular jukebox that supplied all the music in Ravari and offered both Michael Jackson and Gwar and every genre in between. The staff seemed required to have purposefully unkempt hair and tattoos of obscure things like artichokes and portraits of Queen Elizabeth with Shakespearean quotes underneath. Going to Ravari was like going to one of your best friends’ parties where everyone there is inexplicably cooler just by being there but you have to ignore that someone just shit on the coffee table. It was a decent place.

Jude and I found some chairs by the pool tables and appraised the room. There was a table of guys in girl pants and girls with guy haircuts. I know there is some kind of literary device I could use here but I can’t put my finger on it. These kids just threw away all the reality I could hold on to and gave me something M.C Escher wouldn’t understand. But I’m open-minded so I said nothing. Another group of kids clustered some stools together and formed their own section of the bar. They were all wearing khakis and had heavily gelled hair. No one wanted to be in their section of the bar so it was perfect. Then scattered throughout the rest of Ravari were the typical ‘non-conforming’ girls that were always there. They all were basically a mold of each other though none would admit it. Black hair cut at some ridiculous angle with streaks of every other color of the rainbow that couldn’t possibly be natural. A tight black shirt that either had guns and hearts on it or skulls and hearts, it made no difference really. Every so often a girl would try to come in wearing a shirt sporting both guns and skulls but removal was quick because those girls were far to dangerous to be mixed in with the general populous. Loose cannons they were. They all had tight jeans and shoes that couldn’t be found in Columbus, much less Ohio. If you were a girl in Ravari, you probably looked just like the two other girls you came with. These girls never interested me but one man's trash is another’s treasure; more times than not, Jude’s treasure. Who am I to judge? Jude and I rarely shared interest in the same girl, which was nice. It worked on two fronts. Firstly, we never wanted each other’s woman, no hassle. Secondly, it made it that much easier to make fun of each other’s terrible choices in women. A waitress who looked just like all these girls except with a much more extreme haircut with more angles in it and less color came and asked for our drinks.

“Two smashies.” Jude knew the names of all the drinks. A ‘smashy’ was a shot of whiskey with a half glass of Coke. I never understood the Coke part. I never got the point. Our waitress wrote the order and turned to leave. No dice. No smashy for me, “Can I get a double bourbon?” She looked back to acknowledge me and seemed slightly surprised to have three drinks to bring back. She must have been new there.