"The Town"

“THE TOWN”<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o></o>​

PLOTFRAME 04/15/06 –FULL TEXT 05/29/06<o></o>​

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The year is 1953, the place: downtown Chicago, Illinois. In just a moment, we will meet Mr. Henry J. Beemis. Notable facts: Fifty years of age, five foot eleven and one hundred eighty pounds. Employed for the last 20 years with the Greater Chicago Savings & Trust. A weathered though not unpleasant face under a thick head of hair which is finally and rapidly surrendering youthful black to veteran grey. Thicker spectacles, behind which hide kindly if somewhat intense brown eyes. These are eyes that demand order – precision -- in all that falls within their view.<o></o>
Precision is Mr. Henry J. Beemis’s watchword. The word is cousin to others by which Mr. Beemis likewise determines the relative satisfaction of his life; words such as Punctuality, Brevity, Tenacity, Forthrightness and Focus. Words which, taken collectively, others might refer to as: Drab, Dreary or even… Dull. Quite so: forget about the proverbial Jack – all work and no play has made Henry J. Beemis a dull boy, indeed – and that’s just how he likes it. But that’s about to change, and we shall be privileged to front row seating for the show.<o></o>
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The sun had only barely penetrated the downtown skyline when Beemis swung one long leg out of his morning cab and onto the chilly autumn sidewalk, gazing for an instant of perfect serenity to the magnificently solid sculpted granite face of the reliable old Savings & Trust. Passing an immaculately folded $5 bill over the seat to the cabbie, he retrieved his briefcase, stepped out into the gusty chill.
“Nice day, Mr. Beemis!” the cabbie called after him. Beemis, as usual, didn’t answer, already marching for the antiquated wooden doors of the Trust. Nice day, indeed. Checking his watch without breaking stride, he grunted with satisfaction. The sweet smell of blooming spring flowers meant nothing to him; neither did the faintly warming eddies tunneling the surrounding chill as rosegold sunrise swelled flaring reflections in the Trust’s spotless third-story windows.
Crossing the threshold into the expansive lobby, the scent of fresh ink, strong black coffee and meticulously-maintained old leather met him in a welcoming undertow, pulling him further into the excited hush of a dozen conversations.
“Morning, Mr. Beemis!” and a handful of variations thereof sailed past his satisfied ears, to which he nodded prim reply. In all the long two decades of his employment within this hailed old edifice of fiscal responsibility, no supervisor, colleague or subordinate had once received more – in short, it had become a tradition, as expected, time-honored and well-worn as the seamless marble floors, if perhaps no more comfortable.
Beemis reached his office precisely on schedule, stepped inside, and stopped short. His receptionist, a matronly woman in her mid-50s named Darlene Koszinsky, was not in attendance. A frown creased Beemis’s face; he tugged absently at his ear. Surely, there was an explanation for this. He set his briefcase on her desk; perhaps she was in his office proper rather than out here in the foyer. He shut off the overhead lamp in the foyer on his way to check; no need to waste electricity now that the sun was up.
He only ducked into his office, a stripe of full sunlight from the window striping the back of his crisp grey tweed jacket, before straightening and backing away again. No; Darlene wasn’t in there. He started to turn back toward the hallway, wondering what was –
“Beemis!” Alfred Sutherland, Beemis’s immediate superior and a hulking bear of a man well over six foot five and three hundred fifty gelatinous pounds, stood imposingly in his doorway, visibly perturbed. “What’s the big idea, coming in here?”
“But – but – “ Beemis stammered, briefly unsure of precisely what, indeed, the Big Idea was. “This is my office…” he tugged at his ear again before he forced his hand to his side.
“Well, of course it’s your office, Beemis!” Sutherland bellowed good-naturedly. One massive paw straightened his aircraft-carrier sized tie while the other fiddled impatiently with the end of his monstrous black handlebar moustache, while reflected sunlight glinted from his huge bald scalp. “Now that we’ve graduated the obvious, would you care to explain to me just what in the name of Jee-hosephat you think you’re doing in it?”
“Looking for my secretary, sir! She seems to have gone – “
“She’s gone on holiday, Beemis! On holiday is where she’s gone!” Sutherland retrieved a fat Cuban cigar from his pinstriped waistcoat, clipped the end in a flash, and lit the foul-smelling monstrosity.
Beemis shook his head in consternation. “But – “
“And holiday is where you are supposed to be, my boy!” the giant bellowed on merrily. “For twenty long years, I’ve watched you tend to these invoices! Like a Swiss watch, Beemis! Like a cursed machine! This institution does not want machines in these offices, Henry! Our customers do not want machines! No, they want people, Henry! People just like them! Well, perhaps more responsible, certainly, but you make responsibility look stale and unhealthy, my boy!”
Beemis spoke up to offer an apology – for such seemed to be the responsible thing to do –
But Sutherland had gained momentum, and there was no slowing him. “For twenty long years, I’ve waited to see any glimmering of a smile! Just the slightest peep of frivolity! Or joviality! Or…” Sutherland twirled absently at his lip-wig again. “Or… what else rhymes with ‘frivolity’, Beemis?”
“I really couldn’t say, sir.”
“’Course you couldn’t! And that, my boy, is why you are out out out – “ Sutherland had now taken bodily hold of Beemis and fairly spun the smaller man out through the door of the foyer and into the hall, the huge man following with the grace of a ballerina, locking the door behind them from the outside and pocketing Beemis’s tiny office key in his waistcoat -- “into the world in search of fun! And I have just the ticket!” One of those paws disappeared into a hip pocket, reappeared with a white envelope, which was then pressed sweatily into Beemis’s own hand.
“What’s this, sir?” Beemis squinted down at the envelope.
“Why, didn’t I just tell you?” Sutherland chuckled, vibrating a table lamp a few feet away. “It’s fun!”
Beemis opened the envelope – inside was something resembling a theater ticket – in bold-face type above the address and showtime, the title was given as: The Town.
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Mad juxtapositions of colored fabrics in wind-whipped afternoon. Random intersections of chaos-rapid, indecipherable speech halfway between English and Gaelic – a language known as Shelta, the language of these ebullient spirits we see beneath, before and all around us now as we descend into a well-peopled caravan campsite of the people known variously as Pavee, Pikeys or just Travellers.
Here is the second ingredient of the strange and wonderful journey of Mr. Henry J. Beemis; here is the joyful, raucous Slot B into which Fate is about to place his dull, precise Tab A.
As we turn our eyes northward now, beyond the aromas of frying chicken, exotic spices and cold beer, beyond the winks and flashes of bright tinsel and cheap tin, our eyes are filled with the sight of a wide, low, garishly parti-colored tent whose rough canvas sides are worn with decades of merriment. But this is not the object toward which we glide unseen through the warm spring gusts. Instead, we arrive at a smaller and slightly more humble structure outside whose ragged cotton entrance stands a cheaply-constructed pine placard which reads: “The Town.”

Kind of Twilight Zone-ish. I can almost hear Serling's voice reading it.

You may want to tone down the flowery adjectives a bit, tho.

^^Good call. I also noticed I fucked up and turned fall into spring there at the end. lol

Crap, can't edit the original post. *sigh*.

Okay, here's the complete thing. And yeah, the description is still as thick, but... y'know... I DO have an excuse: it has to be at least 12 double-spaced pages, and with this particular subgenre of fetish pr0n, a proper story consists of 98% setup/follow-through and only about 2% of the action proper, so you kinda HAVE to be a little Lovecraftian with the description to make it take up the requisite number of pages. I didn't say it was a good reason, but it's a passable excuse.

Damn... it's gonna hafta be an attachment, it's over the word limit.