![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beansideAs mentioned yesterday, this is a work in progress. I plan to make this go somewhere, but buyer beware.
The ceiling in his motel room had seventeen hairline cracks in it. Located between Metairie and New Orleans, it had seen better days. The air conditioning chugged along, not making much of a dent in the thick, swampy heat. Tonight was worse than standard, he’d been told. A thunderstorm was looming, threatening to dump all the moisture it’d picked up from the Gulf. The air had a ozone tinged charge, and it felt like the world was waiting.
Steve had always thought that summer in Brooklyn was the worst, the smell of the docks seeming to hang in the heat, humidity making fabric stick to skin like a second skin.
Louisiana was somehow worse. The heat was impressive, sure. 101 during the heat of the day and not appreciably lower after sunset. But the humidity was almost a tangible thing, like walking into a steamroom.
He loved it. Loved the smell of petrichor and slow decay that seemed to hang over the area. Comparatively, Brooklyn seemed young. He almost seemed young next to the grand old plantations, oak trees dripping Spanish moss.
It was the second inn that they'd checked for a room. In the first, a much nicer place, he'd seen the sideways looks that Sam had gotten, like they weren't sure they wanted an African American in their grand place.
And that made him feel ancient.
Seemed like no matter how advanced the technology had gotten, people never changed. Whether it was 1940’s Europe or 2016 America, a bigot was a bigot was a bigot.
The ceiling in his motel room had seventeen hairline cracks in it. Located between Metairie and New Orleans, it had seen better days. The air conditioning chugged along, not making much of a dent in the thick, swampy heat. Tonight was worse than standard, he’d been told. A thunderstorm was looming, threatening to dump all the moisture it’d picked up from the Gulf. The air had a ozone tinged charge, and it felt like the world was waiting.
Steve had always thought that summer in Brooklyn was the worst, the smell of the docks seeming to hang in the heat, humidity making fabric stick to skin like a second skin.
Louisiana was somehow worse. The heat was impressive, sure. 101 during the heat of the day and not appreciably lower after sunset. But the humidity was almost a tangible thing, like walking into a steamroom.
He loved it. Loved the smell of petrichor and slow decay that seemed to hang over the area. Comparatively, Brooklyn seemed young. He almost seemed young next to the grand old plantations, oak trees dripping Spanish moss.
It was the second inn that they'd checked for a room. In the first, a much nicer place, he'd seen the sideways looks that Sam had gotten, like they weren't sure they wanted an African American in their grand place.
And that made him feel ancient.
Seemed like no matter how advanced the technology had gotten, people never changed. Whether it was 1940’s Europe or 2016 America, a bigot was a bigot was a bigot.
no subject
Date: 2017-05-24 10:34 pm (UTC)More, please.
no subject
Date: 2017-05-25 12:03 pm (UTC)I've been dying to set one there again since I took Jess for her birthday, which was the first time I'd been post Katrina. I fell in love with the city all over again. Scarred, but unbowed, quieter but even more joyful.
It seemed like something Steve could use.
Thank you! Like I said, I feel like my non-action stuff is not as good, so I'm hoping to set a good scene
no subject
Date: 2017-05-24 11:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-05-25 12:06 pm (UTC)I did tweak the fic to make t clear that it was Steve's inner monologue, but I'm glad it worked! Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2017-05-25 01:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-05-25 12:07 pm (UTC)