@CloudyWithAChanceofSpontaneousCreativity
It's a period piece set in London around 1976-ish. 1760 words so far, just a warning to anyone who doesn't feel like reading all that much. I'm looking for help with slang, from both the period and the place, as well as just general feedback or advice!
“You’re such a div,” Frank chastised, shoving his friend lightly with his shoulder and glancing at him worriedly.
“Am not,” Joel protested, huddling under his leather jacket while he rubbed his hands together. He was itching for a cig, but Frank would skin him if he dared try to pull one from the box in his pocket.
The two were sitting on some stairs in front of a closed shop, freezing their butts off and yet unwilling to move to a warmer location. It was inconvenient, sure, but neither of them knew where else to meet.
“You look fully knackered, Joel. When was the last time you slept?” Frank pressed, biting his lip in concern. It was true—the seventeen-year-old had gigantic bags under his eyes, and his usual styled mohawk had succumbed to its naturally curly properties, left to flop across his forehead like a depressed-looking poodle. His clothes were disheveled like they’d been picked off of the floor in a rush earlier that morning, and his shoelaces were untied. Worst of all was the angry bruise along his jaw, evidence to the fight he’d recently picked with his older brother.
Joel shrugged non-committedly. “I snatched a couple of hours last night. It’s not a big deal man—Arthur was being a putz, so I put him in his place.”
Frank sighed, shaking his head slightly. Joel would be the death of him. “Fine.”
The younger boy didn’t say anything, instead choosing to glare at a nearby street lamp.
Frank turned to glance at him, frowning slightly. “I’m not mad at you. You know that, right?”
It was quiet for a second, then Joel sighed. “Yeah, I know, Frank. Just disappointed, I’m sure,” he responded, giving him a tight-lipped smile and staring at a point just past him.
It was in those moments that Frank could most easily see his friend for who he was—not the punk brat he wanted everyone to think he was, but a kid who’d been criticized so much that he felt forced to become what they thought of him. It saddened the older boy.
“I’m not disappointed either, J. Just worried. That’s the third time this month, and I have yet to see ‘the other guy,’” Frank retorted, his fingers stiff from the cold as he made air quotes.
The wannabe punk blinked, then glanced away from his friend, toeing the freezing sludge that had collected on the bottom of the steps. His orange and yellow Nike’s were already ruined, so he figured a little snow couldn’t make them much worse.
“I just want you to be more careful,” the older boy continued softly, reaching for Joel’s hand and firmly tucking it into his leather jacket. Why he thought aesthetic was more important than warmth was beyond Frank.
“A’ight,” Joel consented, standing after a moment and brushing the bits of powdered snow off his jeans. After a moment of hesitation, he met Frank’s gaze, quickly shoving his hands back into his jacket pockets at the look his friend was giving him. “I’ll try,” he added a little more firmly.
The older boy nodded, satisfied with his answer, then stood to join his friend. “That’s all I’m asking. Dog me later, yeah?”
Something about Frank’s expression must’ve been funny to the younger boy because suddenly Joel was fighting to keep the smile off of his face. Failing rather miserably, he gave into the feeling. He ignored the questioning quirk of his friend’s eyebrow and allowed his stance to relax some, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.
“You da mom, Frank,” he said, snickering a little at the words.
His friend rolled his eyes. “Okay, kid,” was his lackluster response, causing Joel to sober up some and sigh.
“Yeah, I’ll dog you,” Joel finally confirmed, his neutral expression morphing into a slight pout. “And I am not a kid.”
“Sure you aren’t.”
“Frank!”
“I’m telling you, man, The Clash is going somewhere!”
“I never said they weren’t,” Frank chuckled, rolling his eyes fondly and leaning over the counter to get a better look at the newest edition to Joel’s wardrobe. “Is that actually what they look like?” he questioned, mostly to get a reaction out of his friend.
He wasn’t disappointed.
“Duh!” Joel exclaimed, feigning offense at the implication that his merchandise wasn’t the real deal. “For a pound, it’d better be,” he amended, hugging himself as if to demonstrate his love for his shirt.
“Christ, is the shirt really worth that?”
“I told you, Frank—they’re going somewhere. And when they get there, this’ll be worth way more than a pound,” Joel said confidently, eyes dancing with excitement.
“Now let’s be honest here, J. You’re never selling that shirt,” Frank told him with a grin, keeping things realistic by his own standards.
He leaned back slightly and watched as a small group of people sat down a few spaces away from him, but he quickly turned his focus back to Joel at the younger boy’s indignant scoff.
“Again, duh. Paul Simonon himself is on here. I’ll sell this shirt over my dead body,” he claimed dramatically, before once again staring at his purchase with newfound awe.
“Which one is Paul, again?” Frank asked, trying to discreetly watch the newcomers while paying attention to his friend. Something about his tone must have given away his distraction, however, since Joel finally tore his gaze from his new shirt to see what was up.
“Bassist…” was his uncharacteristically short response as he craned his neck to see past Frank. “You know them or something?”
The older boy turned his head sharply at Joel’s question, his ears reddening. “Not really,” he hedged, reaching out of habit for the straw wrapper a few inches away from his hand. He hoped his friend would leave it at that—maybe even go back to his ranting over The Clash, or his all-time favorite idol as of a week ago that would, knowing Joel, last only a couple of months.
Joel arched an eyebrow. “You sure?”
Frank was quiet, fidgeting with the paper.
The younger boy let his eyes wander across the group, wondering why his friend was acting the way he was. For God’s sake, the straw wrapper was already in shreds, and it’d only been a few seconds!
His gaze was drawn to one of the girls, her soft laughter barely intelligible over the other sounds of the diner. Frank seemed to notice, too, judging by the way he shot a glance at the person and then looked away just as quickly.
Joel had to bite his tongue from laughing. He was dangerously close to calling the older boy out on what he assumed to be a crush but hesitated at the last second. He didn’t want to embarrass Frank too badly, after all. After a moment of deliberation, he decided to ask him about it later.
Slowly Joel settled back into his seat, sipping thoughtfully at his drink before clearing his throat. “So about Paul Simonon…” he began, not missing the grateful look Frank flashed him.
The younger boy continued to elaborate on his not-so-discreet obsession over The Clash’s objectively talented bassist, pretending not to notice the stolen glances or the way his straw wrapper had disappeared moments after he’d resumed talking.
He would’ve kept going all night if it hadn’t been for the sudden shove that nearly tipped him off his stool. “Hey, mind watching where you’re—”
“Ah, can it,” a man much older than Frank or Joel interrupted, shoving Joel again out of irritation. This time the punk’s elbow knocked into his glass of Cola, spilling it all over his new shirt.
Joel’s face flushed with anger, and before Frank could react, he was already out of his seat. “That’s my shirt, you piece of—”
“Joel,” Frank warned, edging off his stool and placing a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“He ruined my shirt, Frank,” the younger boy fumed, clenching his fists and standing stiff as a board, despite his clear height disadvantage.
“Jesus, kid, just get another shirt,” the man slurred. It was clear to the two teens at this point that he was drunk.
“Joel,” Frank said again, his voice grounding the younger teen. “Ignore him. I can get you another one.”
He took a shuddering breath, forcing himself to relax as he addressed the man. “I understand that you’re currently impaired… sir… But this shirt is my property, and it’s important to me. Seeing as you’ve now damaged it, I’d ask you to kindly give me the money to replace it.”
The man blinked slowly. “Are you calling me drunk? ‘Cause I’m not drunk.”
Joel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “If you say so,” he muttered, just barely loud enough that Frank could hear.
“All the same, sir, he’d like compensation,” Frank interjected, stepping around his friend so that he was slightly shielding him.
The man laughed at this. “Yeah, sure kid. How much did it cost?”
“A pound,” the Joel responded, keeping a straight face.
The merriment dropped from the man’s face in an instant, replaced by a scowl. “Listen here, kids, I don’t appreciate being scammed by a punk and his goody-two shoed friend.” (NOTE: A pound around this time, taking into consideration inflation, is around $18.)
“It’s not a scam,” Frank replied evenly.
The two stared, or rather glared, at each other for a moment, before the man finally reached for his wallet, grumbling as he dug through for the right amount. “Here,” he spat, thrusting the money into Frank’s hand, who promptly turned to give it to Joel.
The man sent a final disapproving glance at the two teens, then abruptly turned and rammed straight into another customer.
Frank winced almost sympathetically, then sat back down with Joel. “Well, that was a disaster. I'm sorry about your shirt.”
The younger boy shrugged. “It’s fine, I guess. At least now I can buy another one.” He sighed, then let a small smile make its way onto his face. “Thanks for helping. I don’t think he would’ve given me the money if it was just me.”
Frank mirrored his friend’s shrug and grinned. “I don’t know why—I thought you handled that very well.”
Joel rolled his eyes. “Yeah? Well, don’t look now, but you have a little someone coming to pay you a visit.”
The older boy’s eyes widened, and he whipped around to come nearly face-to-face with the girl from before. “Oh, uh—Alyssa! Hey,” he stuttered, his hand finding the back of his neck with incredible speed for someone who’d been so confident just a moment before.
And that's all I got so far. It's a work in progress, but I wrote about 1400 words tonight, alone, after three months of three hundred words. Let me know if you have any questions about the story since it'll help me determine what I need to clarify! Also, I'd like to thank you even if you just read this far and don't have any criticism for me!