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goatsandgangsters · 3 years

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Connect (Con Man AU; Chapter 3)

Characters: Meyer Lansky, Charlie Luciano, Benny Siegel, Frank Costello Pairing: Meyer/Charlie Word Count: ~5,000

(also on ao3)

“How’s it looking?” Meyer’s voice—though he seldom raised it—echoed louder than usual as he entered the empty room. The ceiling wasn’t high, but the exposed concrete and beams made everything sound louder than it was, his footsteps sharp and distinct.

Benny sat perched on the windowsill before a wide expanse of tinted glass, the large Citgo sign behind him. He looked up from the wad of cash he was counting, a plastic spoon dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Not great,” he said around the spoon.

Meyer stopped in front of him and bristled. “Not great?”

Benny offered a toothy grin, plucking the spoon from his mouth. “The clam chowder, I mean. Not all it’s cracked up to be, you know.”

Meyer let out a sigh that was equal parts relief and frustration, rounding instead on Frank for a straight answer. “What about you?”

“I didn’t have any. Seafood doesn’t agree with me. Besides, my wife’s got me doing this cleanse, so I’m only supposed to eat—”

“Will somebody—” Meyer said sharply, “please tell me about the damn Red Sox.”

“Oh, yeah, them. Probably gonna win,” Benny shrugged. “Unless they all get sick from this clam chowder. Chowdah,” he amended, adopting a mocking accent as he tossed his half-full cup halfway across the room into an open box.

Meyer smiled wryly, clasping his hands together as he looked out the window. It was early afternoon, the sun still high in the sky, but he knew that soon those stadium lights would be burning hot and bright around the green edges of Fenway Park. “Well, don’t go slipping them any. We need them to win the World Series.”

Frank scooped Benny’s chowder cup out of the box and set it on the ground. “And don’t go messing up the merchandise, alright?”

“And this location. It’s secured?” Meyer asked as he cocked his head and peered down into the boxes. Frank was good with logistics—he knew people, knew which palms to grease, plus he had out-of-town connections in several major cities outside of New York. But, for as reliable as he knew Frank to be, Meyer knew it was better never to rely on anyone else.

“Secure and discrete, with a backdoor in case of emergency,” Frank confirmed.

From the windowsill, Benny laughed. “Sounds like a Craigslist ad.”

Neither Frank nor Meyer paid the comment any attention, as Frank continued rattling off a list of checks and information.

“Good. I want everything set up before Game 1,” Meyer said as he and Frank finished talking over the finer points.

“Where’re you goin’?” Benny asked, jumping down from his perch. The sound of his turquoise sneakers slapping the concrete floor reverberated around the room.

Frank handled moving the merchandise, buying, reselling, underselling, overselling. He took care of the practicalities of the operation with the same care that Meyer took in the planning. Meyer handled the numbers, the details, all the information they needed. They didn’t need to worry about encryption when they had the most secure data storage in the world—Meyer’s memory. Betting, selling, scamming. Credit cards. Even hacking when things got slow. Gambling was the big money-maker for sports, but any large event brought all kinds of other opportunities with it. It was all about volume. Keeping as many fingers in as many pies, but never an entire hand—so to speak. Enough to get by, to keep moving, to afford the next round of jobs, but not enough to be noticed. Not enough to raise suspicion.

“I need to crunch some numbers in peace. No distractions.” He pointed a finger at Benny as he turned back towards the door.

Benny fixed him with one of those looks that used to mean his mother was about to get a call home from the principal’s office. “When have I ever been distracting?”

Fortunately, it was a short trip back to the hotel—only a few stops by train. He had been advised by everyone to avoid driving in Boston at all costs, which was a shame. Meyer had so little opportunity to get behind the wheel back home that it was one of his favorite parts of out-of-town jobs. Certainly better than the little bars of soap he still felt wasteful leaving behind in hotels.

The hotel itself was an ornate building downtown. It was fancier than suited Meyer’s personal tastes, but this wasn’t about his preferences. Besides, he noted as he crossed the street from the train and walked across the brick plaza, the hotel was right next to the library. Not that he would have much time for reading during the World Series, but it was nice to have close by all the same. Maybe he could bring his notebook across the street for some quiet.

The doorman held the door as he entered; Meyer nodded and thanked him. It would always make him a bristle a little, being treated like some kind of big shot when he was more than capable of opening his own doors, thank you. His ego didn’t need someone to do it for him—but this was a “big shot” kind of job. The World Series was a big deal. He had a part to play.

He fished his key card from his wallet as he entered the lobby, but the woman behind the front desk waved him down. “Sir? Excuse me, sir? Your husband wanted me to let you know that he’s waiting for you in the hotel restaurant.”

“My… husband?” Meyer hesitated, keeping his face neutral.

“Yes, he said that his phone died and you’d already checked in, so he’d wait for you for dinner.”

Meyer managed a tight smile. “Thank you,” as he reversed direction from the elevators and through the doors into the plush, maroon-carpeted hotel restaurant. It was early enough in the day that there were not many people inside. A couple at the bar, one or two tables filled. At the far side, by the window, a familiar face sat with his knees up against the table, typing away on his “dead” phone.

So much for no distractions.

He walked over, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “When exactly did we get married?”

“You’re so bad at rememberin’ our anniversary,” Charlie teased, looking up at him with a smirk. He dropped his feet back to the floor, grinning, but Meyer was all business.

“How’d you find me?” he asked, giving Charlie a steady stare. Running into each other by chance in Manhattan was one thing. Charlie finding his hotel in Boston—when he had no reason to even know Meyer would be in another state and city altogether—was another matter. He needed to figure out which security breach he had to close.

“I’m lucky,” Charlie answered with a cheeky grin. Meyer raised an eyebrow; he caved. “Alright, fine. After you disappeared on me without givin’ your number, I asked around,” Charlie explained, shooting Meyer a fond-but-grudging look that almost made it seem like they actually were a couple. Meyer had to commend his commitment to a rouse.

“I figure, Meyer ain’t exactly a common name, but nobody’s got any idea who I’m talkin’ about. For bein’ the best in the biz, you’re either way under the radar or you got everybody too scared to talk. But finally, I find a guy who tells me you work big sporting events. I’m thinkin’, 2013 World Series got your name all over it.” Charlie paused and took a sip from his glass of water. “Besides, I ain’t ever been to Boston before. Never been outta the five boroughs, actually.”

He looked at Meyer expectantly, who nodded as he digested the information. Charlie was right about one thing—he did operate under the radar. It was safer that way. He had other people who could be the front, who could strike the deals, shake the hands, meet the contacts. Meyer organized it all. “So you’ve just been wandering the streets of a major metropolitan area in the hopes of running into me by chance? You do know how many people are coming in for the game, right?”

“That’s the thing, though!” Charlie said, emphatic and excited, sitting forward in his seat. “That’s how it happened.”

Meyer raised an eyebrow, opening his mouth to offer a retort, when the waiter appeared to refill their water and take their orders for drinks. Charlie—practiced and confident—ordered a cocktail involving peaches and vodka that made Meyer’s teeth ache just thinking about it. Meyer opted for pernod, while Charlie tacked on an order for pretzel bites and beer cheese with an award-winning smile.

Meyer took a sip of water and looked out the window at the people passing by in Copley Square. “Really? Pretzel bites?”

“If you don’t want any, more for me,” Charlie teased.

“I’m just surprised that a place like this even has pretzel bites.”

Charlie flipped open the black leather menu book. “What, so I should order some ‘olive oil poached octopus’ when he comes back?”

Meyer grimaced. “Pretzels will be just fine. But don’t think you’re getting out of this easily. I believe I’m still owed an explanation.”

Charlie leaned against the high-backed leather chair; he seemed to be enjoying this, retelling his detective work. At least it wasn’t hard to get him talking. Useful flaw. “Alright, so I get here, figure next step’s gotta be Fenway, maybe start askin’ around, see if anybody who’s in the business here knows anything about you.”

“Seems doubtful, considering you didn’t have much luck with that on our home turf.”

“Hey, I gotta plenty of luck, thanks. ‘Cause there I am, gettin’ a slice of pizza, courtesy of some guy’s wallet—and it ain’t New York pizza, I’ll tell you that much—”

Meyer smirked. “I don’t hear great things about the clam chowder, either.”

“That’s just it! There I am, eatin’ my shit pizza, and there’s these two guys. When’s Meyer meetin’ us, and suddenly I’m all ears.”

“I’m not the only person in the entire world named Meyer, you know.”

Charlie ignored this point and kept talking. “So the one guy—beanpole, can’t stand still—he’s all, how come Meyer gets that swanky Copley hotel and we’re in a Best Western. And the other guy—looks like an Eddie Bauer catalog—he’s sayin’, well you know Meyer, all cautious, wants to stay separate. So now I’m here and I was right.”

Charlie grinned in satisfaction, evidently quite pleased with himself and his work, even though it was nothing but stupid dumb luck and stupid dumb Benny and Frank. Meyer clenched his teeth; he’d be having a word with them about being so cavalier with their details in public, where anyone could overhear.

“Well,” Meyer said, brushing a few lingering crumbs from earlier patrons off the table and into the palm of his hand, “I’ve never had a stalker before. Is that standard in your repertoire, or are you branching out?”

Charlie scoffed, indignant. “I’m not a stalker!”

“What do you call following me all the way to Boston?”

“Skill.”

Meyer snorted, which seemed to get under Charlie’s skin.

“Come on, admit it. You’re impressed!”

He wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction so easily. “Maybe I’m just creeped out.” It was unbelievable, after all, that he could come all the way to Boston and Charlie could still track him down in one afternoon all because of some goddamn clam chowder. And more than a little worrying. If Charlie could do it, who else?

“Listen,” Charlie said, sitting forward and drumming his fingers against the menu. He spoke quickly in a lowered voice, a look in his eyes as he met Meyer’s. “If I’m honest, I didn’t think it’d work, but then I found you and—and it’s like what you said. Things connect. Like us.”

Meyer sat back. “You’re twisting my words. That’s about strategy, you’re talking… fate.”

Charlie cocked his head. “You sayin’ you don’t believe in it?”

Meyer scoffed. “No, of course not. Do you? Fate is nothing more than what you make of it.”

“And I made it here.”

They fell into silence as the waiter set their drinks down on the table. The moment he was out of earshot, Charlie raised his glass with a winning smile. “So what do you say?”

“About fate?”

“About me. Whatever you got goin’ on, I want in.”

Meyer paused, tracing a finger along the outside of his glass. “I’m not sure it will work.” Rather than look at Charlie’s face—like someone had killed his puppy—Meyer riffled through his bag instead. “If you come onboard… Something tells me you’re a Yankees guy, but we need someone to be the idiot fan,” he said as he pulled out a Red Sox cap.

Charlie’s face split into a grin as he reached for the hat. “Anything for you, honey.”

Despite himself, Meyer laughed and clinked their glasses together.

*****

They didn’t order the Prime New York Strip, despite Charlie’s insistence that they have a full dinner instead of drinks and appetizers. Really, he just wanted to order the most expensive thing on the menu.

But, Meyer had said, there were better cuts.

Charlie couldn’t tell if he was being a snob or offering to buy him a nicer steak dinner later. Either way, he planned on sticking around to find out.

A short while—and several people’s wallets—later, Meyer was leading him into a building across from Fenway Park. The wallets weren’t part of the plan, per se, but Charlie wasn’t about to cram his ass onto an overcrowded, stopping-and-starting, screechy excuse for a subway without making it worth his while. Meyer noticed, of course, and said nothing; he only smirked. And maybe Charlie liked showing off a little, liked the way Meyer kept his lips in a stern little line, but his eyes crinkled in the corner as Charlie lifted a pair of designer sunglasses from a stuffy business type with a bit of bravado.

He liked the way Meyer moved through the crowds like no one could touch him, as though the sweaty ambling bodies around them were water he could part effortlessly with the angle of his shoulder. He didn’t walk into the building like he owned it—none of that swagger or arrogance. But no one was going to stop him. He looked like a Boy Scout who got a law degree in-between volunteering at the orphaned puppy shelter and helping little old ladies cross the street. But Charlie also saw that look in his eyes, the calculations, the assessment, the darting glances taking in all the details, underneath the unassuming veneer. The ultimate con man.

And here Charlie always thought he was a pro because if he smiled nice enough, no one noticed what his hands were doing. It worked, sure. But Meyer was next level.

If there was one thing Charlie learned in this business, it was to move when you saw an opening. And this was a chance he wasn’t about to let slip away.

“I still think you oughta put that table on the far wall—” Eddie Bauer Catalog was saying to ADHD Beanpole.

“Why, in case Batman repels in and steals our shit?”

“No, it just doesn’t feel right. Y’know, the feng shui.”

“Jesus, Frank, we’re only gonna be here until the end of the World Series—whoa, who’s the homeless guy?” Beanpole said as he noticed them approaching.

“I been on a bus all day!” Charlie snapped back. He wasn’t about to surreptitiously smell his armpit in front of people he didn’t know, but was he that much of a mess? Beanpole and Eddie Bauer were looking at him with uncertainty, wary in a way that had nothing to do with what he looked like.

“This is Charlie,” Meyer said, matter-of-fact. “He’ll be working with us.”

They exchanged another glance.

“Who the fuck is he?” Beanpole looked Charlie up and down; he didn’t seem impressed.

The other cut in for him. “What Benny means to say is, we didn’t think that bringing anyone else in—especially day of—was part of the plan.”

“It wasn’t,” Meyer said, a small smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes as he clasped his hands behind his back. “But he stalked me to my hotel all the way from New York because a certain set of people—and I’m not naming names—decided to announce my whereabouts in a public place.”

“I didn’t stalk—we worked together before. Once,” Charlie explained in a hurried grumble. Okay, so maybe he did stalk Meyer. A little bit. But that’s how it was in their world.

The Beanpole—Benny—scoffed. Like Charlie wasn’t even there, he turned to Meyer and said, with disdain, “Since when do you work with anyone else?” The besides us didn’t need to be said.

This was a dumb idea. This was stupid. He shouldn’t have come all the way to Boston on a fucking hunch. He’d been beyond lucky even crossing paths with Meyer again, but he didn’t picture Meyer having a little gang like this. Which was stupid, he should have figured. After all, Meyer wasn’t gonna be a big player all on his own. But somehow, he figured he was like Charlie. Maybe a shitty subpar partner here and there, the Toninos of the world, but at the end of the day, all on his own.

“Fine,” he snapped. “Looks like you got it all covered.” He turned to go, but Meyer grabbed his arm.

“He’s good,” Meyer said with such finality that even Charlie believed he meant it. He fixed the other two with a firm stare. “Any other questions?”

He was a head taller than both of them, but it was clear that when Meyer said something, they listened. The one who couldn’t stand still didn’t look happy about it, but he also wasn’t going to argue. The other one was still looking at Charlie kind of funny, and Charlie prepared to square up, when he said—“Oh! You’re that Lucania kid!”

Charlie did a double take. “How the fuck d’you know that?”

He swore he’d never seen this guy in his life, but he just laughed warmly and shook his head. It reminded him of a grandparent with little kids, like he was about to start saying shit like yea high. “Yeah, knew you looked familiar. Got my start runnin’ errands for those old country types in the neighborhood, worked the corner store on East 11th. You were always givin’ your mother agida.”

All Charlie could do was stare at him and then laugh. “Just what everybody in this business wants, huh? Doin’ a job with somebody who knows your mother.”

The other guy waved a hand at him. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell her.” He paused. “For her sake, of course. Not yours. Don’t want to put her through the stress.” He extended his hand to Charlie, with a shake that seemed to belong more in the halls of Congress. “Frank Costello.”

“Oh yeah. Rings a bell.” He couldn’t have told you anything more about him, but it was a name Charlie remembered hearing around the neighborhood. Everybody liked Frank, he knew that. He solved problems. You just weren’t supposed to ask how.

In an undertone, he nudged Meyer in the side with his elbow. “Guess you was right about one thing, huh?” He flashed a grin and pointed his two index fingers together. “About it all connectin’.”

Meyer returned the look with a wry grin. “I think I was right about more than just that.”

Benny misinterpreted the gesture. “Oh eugh. Look, I’m happy you finally got laid, Meyer, but this guy?”

“What’s your problem?” Charlie snapped back with an entirely different finger gesture. Even in his annoyance, however, the word “finally” lodged itself into his brain. From what he remembered—and Charlie did remember—Meyer wasn’t such a bad kisser for a guy who apparently wasn’t getting laid.

“Don’t take it personally, Benny’s goal in life is to get under people’s skin,” Meyer explained in a tone of voice that suggested he was used to explaining away the other’s behavior. Then, with a sharp point at Benny, said emphatically, “And no, we are not—It’s just business.”

Benny snorted. “Always is, with you.”

That was all it took. Before Charlie knew, Meyer was running through their jobs with the precision of a wartime general. Frank moved the merchandise—and no, Charlie, it wasn’t petty theft; it was more what you might term a grey market. They handled sports betting of all types, card games, credit card skimming, and some more complicated jobs that Charlie didn’t fully follow as Meyer spoke with meticulous quickness.

“And if he doesn’t keep me busy enough,” Benny interrupted as Meyer wrapped up the basic overview, “I get bored and jack a car.”

Charlie hadn’t known him long, but he already knew that wasn’t a joke.

“For the record, I hate it when he does that,” Frank said with a sigh.

Benny smirked. “Yeah but Meyer loves a good chop shop more than anyone I know.”

That Charlie didn’t believe, but the small fond smile on Meyer’s face said otherwise. He didn’t argue, instead saying, “Just as long as you’re careful about it.”

“Is there anything you guys don’t do?”

Silence filled the office space. Finally, Frank said with a considering expression, “Not murder. Usually.”

Charlie squinted. He didn’t have a good read on Mr. Eddie-Bauer-for-Senate yet. “Is he kidding?” he asked Meyer.

Meyer didn’t answer, too busy staring out the tinted windows at the glowing lights and milling crowds in baseball caps below. “C’mon. Let’s get out of Frank’s hair before the local hires show up.”

*****

By the time they left the game after the sixth inning—Meyer had work to do before the game actually ended—the sun had long since set and a chill hung in the breeze outside of the bright stadium lights. Benny and Frank split off for their hotel in the neighborhood—Benny protesting all the while that Meyer got the nice hotel for this gig. But neither of the other two paid him much mind, so Charlie figured the kid was just like that. Besides, Meyer had to fit the important businessman role for this. And he did.

“You clean up pretty nice, by the way,” Charlie said, motioning to Meyer’s clothes—slacks and a button down.

“Thank you. You look like shit.” Meyer flipped through his phone while Charlie’s face fell into a scowl.

“Alright, look, I spent six and a half hours on a Megabus, alright? Cut me some slack. You wouldn’t believe the traffic.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against some restaurant, huffing. He could clean up nice, too. Maybe not nice-nice, like a real somebody, the way Meyer looked, but he had his own kind of nice. He wouldn’t be able to do the kinds of cons he did otherwise.

The smirk at the corner of Meyer’s lips was the only sign he noticed Charlie’s pouting. “Well, you should get some rest then. Where are you staying?”

Charlie hesitated. “See, that’s the thing…”

Now Meyer looked up from his phone. They looked at each other—Charlie pulling on that puppy-dog charm, while Meyer raised an eyebrow and sighed. “Come on,” he said. He didn’t sound enthusiastic about it, but at least it was an agreement.

Charlie didn’t steal anything on the short ride back to the hotel, but he did slip his hand through the crook of Meyer’s arm as they walked into the lobby. He flashed a winning smile to the woman at the front desk, who returned a polite wave and reiterated the company line to enjoy his stay. Meyer tapped his keycard inside the elevator as the doors slid closed and hit the button for 12.

“Only 12?” Charlie chided. “You didn’t spring for the penthouse for our anniversary?”

“I’m saving it for the Golden Anniversary,” Meyer replied evenly.

“Well we ain’t gonna make it that long if you don’t spoil me every now and then.” He flashed a winning smile, but Meyer looked away. The tips of his ears were pink. Huh. So he could get flustered.

Charlie grinned to himself about that as Meyer swiped open the door. He dropped his backpack—crammed with his own belongings and those of a half-dozen people who had the misfortune of taking the same train as him—onto the carpet.

“Not a bad room after all,” he said, taking it all in. More of a business suite. The walls were crisp hotel white, the leather desk chair stiff and uninviting, the modern furniture chic but obviously un-lived in. “But I gotta warn you,” Charlie grinned as his eyes fell on the king-size bed against the wall, “I’m a bit of a blanket hog.”

Meyer looked startled, but regained composure quickly. He grabbed a notebook from his luggage and settled into the uncomfortable leather chair. “I don’t plan on sleeping much, so feel free,” he said, non-committal and not looking at him.

Okay. That worked, too.

“I’m gonna shower,” he announced, a little awkward, because standing in the middle of the room and not knowing what to do with himself was getting to him. And because Benny wouldn’t stop calling him a hobo all afternoon, so maybe he did need a wash.

When did he get bad at this? Had he always been bad at this? He made a living off a combination of petty theft and seduction cons—he knew he wasn’t bad at this. Meyer was just different from everyone else. Not that he was trying get anything from Meyer the way he did marks. Sure, he wanted someone to show him the ropes, pull him into something bigger, so he wouldn’t have to operate on his own anymore. But that wasn’t a con. That was just how people worked—everybody always wanted something, otherwise why bother? But what Meyer wanted remained a mystery.

By the time he scrubbed his curls with the little bottle of free hotel shampoo and washed (and rewashed) every part of him with the unscented soap, Meyer still had not moved. Steam billowed out of the bathroom door after him as Charlie emerged from the bathroom, damp, in only a pair of fresh boxer-briefs. He padded barefoot across the carpet, rubbing the towel over his hair and tossing it aside.

As he knelt by his backpack to find a shirt, he noticed Meyer looking at him, then quickly glanced back down at his notebook. Charlie smirked. “Y’know,” he said, a little too loud, just to make Meyer look at him again. “We seem to go back to each other’s hotel rooms a lot,” he said, with slow and easy grin.

“Mm. Twice,” Meyer agreed, maybe sarcastically.

He meant the comment to be flirty, but Charlie couldn’t help glance over his shoulder at the door. “Benny’s not gonna bust in and hold a gun to my head, is he?”

Meyer laughed. “Oh, he might. That’s not the plan or anything, you just never know.”

“Great. That makes me feel better.”

He pulled a shirt from his bag, but slung it over his shoulder instead of putting it on. He sauntered over to Meyer, perching on the arm of the chair. “Y’know, if you’re gonna game the whole World Series, you might wanna get some sleep.”

“Do you mind not dripping on me while I’m working?” Meyer asked with a smirk, not looking up.

Charlie swung his shirt into Meyer’s face, and they both laughed.

Meyer worked all through the evening while Charlie sat up in bed, scrolling his phone and watching the TV with the sound turned low—even though Meyer insisted it wouldn’t distract him, after his years of practice tuning Benny out. He ordered room service for dinner and insisted Meyer eat something, even though he said he wasn’t hungry. As the hubbub of honking cars from the street below finally faded into a sleepy 2 AM haze, Charlie switched off the TV.

“Will the light bother you?” Meyer asked, speaking for the first time in hours as Charlie slipped into bed and pulled the comforter up around himself.

“Nah. Got used to sharin’ a room, growin’ up,” he said back, barely stifling a yawn. The whole bus trip up to Boston had really taken it out of him.

It didn’t take long until the room slipped away, sleep starting to pull him under. But even through the haze settling around his mind, he heard the click of the light and the tread of careful feet. He dipped back into a doze to the ambient sounds of the water running in the bathroom.

The bed creaked beside him as Meyer carefully arranged himself on the other side, a wide gap between them. Charlie flipped over to face him. He blinked his heavy eyes in the darkness. “Does this mean you trust me?” he asked, voice groggy already, as they lay on opposite sides of the king-size bed.

There was a long pause. He could feel Meyer’s slow and steady breathing through the mattress in the darkness. “No,” he answered quietly. “I don’t even trust Frank and Benny.”

#Boardwalk Empire #boardwalk fic #meyer lansky #charlie luciano #benny siegel #frank costello #boardwalk au #focus au #my writing #otp: soulmates in crime #ANYWAY LONG OVERDUE FOR AN UPDATE ON THIS ONE #I enjoyed the opportunity to have beef about boston's public transit in fic

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reddielibrary · 4 years

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I Like Things Better When I’m With You

Written by @sourmoist

Gift for @hit-me-larry

Pairing: Richie Tozier x Eddie Kaspbrak

Word count: 2438

Rating: T

“Just pick a damn outfit Richie!” Stan groaned for what felt like the millionth time that night.

Richie ignored Stan’s blatant attitude and continued to look at himself in the mirror. He wore an outlandish looking, multicolored striped shirt tucked into some black jeans.

“The chain on the side of the Jean pocket looks desperate don’t ya think?” He tells Stan. He doesn’t expect an answer but still looks over his shoulder at the exhausted boy as if expecting one. Stan looks up from his position atop the boy’s bed, but rolls his eyes at the comment.

Richie makes a whine that sounds like he’s in immense pain. How can he not be nervous when Eddie Frank Kaspbrak has decided to graciously be his date to the carnival?

Richie felt like his heart was going to climb out of his chest and slap the shit out of him. He was sweating and his breathing was becoming labored. In his busted red truck was a bouquet of yellow tulips, and a speech he’d practiced for four days. His car gave a rumbling sound as it sat in the Kaspbrak driveway.

“Come on Tozier, don’t be a bitch.” He whispered harshly to himself. He continued to whisper meanly to himself for around 5 minutes.

“It’s just Ed’s you nervous fuck” He sighed. He shook every remaining thought out of his head, and before he could get cold feet, left for the front of Eddie’s door. The bouquet of yellow roses say delicately in his right hand. He twisted them in his hand, playing around with the weight. He was fidgeting and he knew it.

The bouquet started to stick to his fingers from the sweat coming off his hands. He could faintly hear moving from outside the red door, though muffled. Richie has made sure he came over when Sonia was gone, so that meant Eddie was downstairs doing god knows what. Which meant that once Richie knocked, Eddie would immediately be there to open the door. Which is normal but it made Richie’s heart pound even harder.

He grunted tiredly to himself. He wanted this so badly that it physically hurt him. He hated the lingering touches, the sneaky glances, and all the “almost’s”. He could do everything he’s ever wanted with Eddie and it all starts here.

With that last thought, he knocked on the door. And just like he thought, Eddie was there within three seconds.

At first Eddie was excited to see his best friend at his door unexpectedly, but once he saw the bouquet his face went from excitement to confusion.

“Hey Rich” he spoke. His face still held a bit of confusion but was happy nonetheless. His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes kept flicking from the bouquet to Richie. ‘Cute’ Richie thought.

Richie realized he had been silent for too long and panicked.

“Hey Eddie” he waved awkwardly with the bouquet and almost made the flowers fall as a result, but caught them with his left hand in time. Eddie laughed at his sudden demeanor change and looked back up with a slight smile on his face.

Richie looked back up and expected to be embarrassed but found his heart melting at Eddie’s smile.

“What’re the flowers for, Rich?” Eddie asked with genuine curiosity. He looked over at the beautiful arrangement. Yellow flowers with small white accent flowers put in between.

The question caught Richie by surprise. His hands were sweating all over again, and his mouth was dry. His nervousness started to take over but before it could he did the only thing he was good at, talking.

“These flowers are for you. I uhh want to take you to the fair, as my date y’know. Like I’ll pay for your ticket and everything like the gentlemen that I am because I like you Eddie Spaghetti, I mean Eddie. I just hope that if you say ‘no’ that we can still continue to be friends and you won’t tell me to fuck off forever.” Richie said that entire thing with his eyes shut. It wasn’t as romantic as what he had written down, but hey, it still got the point across.

Richie, with sweat dripping down every crevice of his body, slowly opened his eyes and saw something he never would’ve imagined. Eddie stood in his doorway with a tearful shine in his eyes and hands cupping over his mouth. His eyes had three small lines around the edges that indicated that he was smiling.

He looked so beautiful, that much Richie said out loud. Eddie made a wet sound into his hands, at first it looked like he was crying but he was laughing.

Richie just stood there awkwardly until Eddie came up for air.

“God, Richie this is” he paused to look back at the flowers in Richie’s still sweaty hands “this is way more than I could’ve ever asked for” Eddie said breathlessly.

Richie saw the look in his eye, ‘he feels the same way.’ Richie outstretched his hands to give Eddie the flowers with a dopey smile across his face. Eddie took them wordlessly with a face full of awe.

“So..” Richie continues “will you go to the fair with me Friday night?” His hands were permanently fidgeting and even though he was now 99% sure what the answer would be, his voice still came out strained. Eddie looked up with a smile that went ear to ear and nodded.

Both boys looked at eachother unsure of what to do next.

“I’ll pick you up at 7 Eds, don’t make me wait” He tried sounding smooth but his voice came out cracky and excited.

“Yeah, see ya then” Eddie buried his face into the roses and blushed harshly.

Richie smiled at the memory fondly. He looked down, back at the mirror and looked at his new outfit. A dark floral button up that flowed at his waist layered with a long sleeved, black U-neck. The pants were ripped from knee to mid-thigh, connected to the pockets were small chains. Richie sighed and looked over at Stan, surprised to see him actually looking at him and not his ceiling.

“You’ve got ten minutes Rich” Stan stated. Richie flinched and looked at his phone, 6:51pm.

“Fuuuuuucckkk” Richie drawled loudly. With the commotion of getting his keys and wallet you could hear a faint “Language!” Coming from downstairs. Stan watched as his childhood friend ran frantically around his room saying profanities as he walked out the door.

“What? No flowers this time Romeo.”

“The fuck up Stan!”

I’m outside.

Eddie looked in the mirror one last time. His blonde hair fluffed and primped. Looking down he saw his sweater start to ride up, not enough to show skin, but enough to tease the thought. Eddie shivered, he had to admit he was nervous. A big fear he had was that once the date got going it would be awkward.

‘Date’

After all this time he can’t believe that Richie was the first one to make a move. Yes, the tension had become unbearable after last summer. Two of the losers were gone, so Richie and Eddie have spent more time alone together than they used to. That was when their feelings started overflowing. Though, they continued walking on the fine line that separated friends from more than friends.

He heard a ‘beep’ outside and knew his date was getting antsy. Eddie rolled his eyes at how childish Richie was. He wasn’t waiting that long.

Eddie let out one more long sigh before choking down his nerves and walking out the door.

Richie let out a wolf whistle as Eddie descended the stairs of his house.

“Lookin good Eds!” He yelled after him. The grin on his face was brighter than the sun. It made Eddie have a smile of his own

“Not too bad yourself Trashmouth” the nickname rolled off his tongue without thinking. At first Eddie thought that maybe the nicknames were too informal for their first date, but quickly shoved that thought down. The nicknames were part of their dynamic, plus there was no way in hell Richie could ever call him by his first name for an entire night.

Eddie reached out to open the door but was met with a quick smack to his hand. Eddie looked up fast, ready to fight back, but his fist was already being intertwined with Richie’s fingers.

“I’m trying to woo you here Eds.” He deadpans. Richie shakes his as if disappointed as his lanky arm reaches over to the handle of the car door to open it, and slowly it creaks to life.

Richie bows slowly, “After you mi amor” he said in what could be a French accent. Eddie snorts but can’t hide the blush that engulfs his face at the courtship. He quickly shuffled into the car and is surprised to see that it’s cleaned. The sticky stains on the dashboard have been wiped, every crumb on the floor and in between the seats have vanished, and there was a delectable smell in the air.

He takes a whiff of the air and is pleased to smell cherries. ‘He really outdid himself’ Eddie thinks. He hears a loud clunk coming from beside him and sees Richie hurriedly getting in the car.

“Ready for the best date of your life Spaghetti” Richie exclaimed. Although his words contradicted it, Richie looked nervous. His hands were fidgeting badly and he kept looking between Eddie and the steering wheel. Eddie sensed his anxiety, and did what he thought would help.

Eddie took Richie’s hand in his and brought his knuckles to his mouth, giving each a small kiss. Richie remained in eye contact with Eddie the entire time. Even after Eddie was done the eye contact stayed. They stayed in that position for awhile, just staring into the other’s eyes. Richie wanted to lean in, wanted to finally fulfill every fantasy-Well not all fantasies- he’s ever had. But in order to do that, the date had to be flawless. Meaning, he’d have to wait until the very end to kiss Eddie’s precious lips.

Richie coughed and both boys sprung away from each other like their ass was on fire.

“Let’s get this show on the road eds.” Richie chuckled nervously. Eddie nodded while looking straight ahead. ``why'd I do that’ Eddie internally reprimanded himself. His cheeks were on fire as he continued to verbally abuse himself.

The volume of the radio was suddenly blared out, which made Eddie look over from his spot at the window. Richie wasn’t looking at him, but he could see the smirk etched across his face. He didn’t know why until he heard the lyrics of what was playing.

Deepthroat-Cupcakke

“Oh my god! Can you take anything seriously, Richie” Eddie covered his mouth to keep from bursting out with laughter. As quickly as it came, the tension dissipated. They spent the rest of the ten minute car ride laughing, and yelling crude lyrics at each other.

The Fair was lit up like a torch, you were able to see it behind the locks of trees that surrounded it. Richie and Eddie were walking up to the opening excited. They’re talking amongst themselves while getting out of the car. Any outsider would’ve thought they’d been dating for years.

The fair itself was amazing. Richie pulled all the stops. He bought Eddie funnel cake.

”Stay just like that” Richie hurries. eddie freezes like a deer in headlights at the sudden outburst. eddie just stares as Richie gets his phone out. the picture snaps and richie unapologetically stares at the picture with nothing but admiration. “You had powder on your nose””Richie!”

He paid for their pictures in the photo booth.

The tight space was oddly intimate in Richie’s eyes. He would’ve made a joke at how close they were, but clamped his mouth shut once the countdown started. The first picture is just them smiling brightly at the camera. Second is a silly one, that’s definitely going in Richie’s wallet, with Eddie having bunny ears over Richie’s head and Richie with his tongue out. The third and final one caught Eddie by surprise. The picture contained Richie smacking his lips against Eddie’s bloodshot cheeks. After the picture was shot Eddie looked up at Richie with wide eyes. Richie laughed at eddie’s embarrassment and shoo’s for him to get out the booth.

Richie made sure they played every game, and rode every ride in sight. At the end of the night Eddie held a small stuffed frog named Jackie, and Richie a panda named carlos.

”For someone with long arms you suck at ring toss” Eddie deadpanned, holding Jackie closer to his chest. The night was creeping in as the wind whispered at all of eddie’s exposed skin. “Maybe it’s because I knew my Knight Eddie Spaghetti would come save me from those evil bottles” richie gleamed. Eddie scoffed at how ridiculous Richie was.

Now, they were ending the night. A fresh breeze crossed the night viscously. They sat at the top of the ferris wheel holding each other. Around half-way through their third ride they stopped trying to limit the touching and romantic gestures. Hand-holding and cheeky forehead kisses entered the mix halfway through their date.

“Thank you so much for everything Rich” Eddie say wishfully. He continues to look at the sky, and Richie can clearly see every freckle stretched across Eddie’s face. After a moment without an answer Eddie turns around to see Richie insanely close to his face.

“Hi’ Richie whispers.

Eddie giggles, “Hi Richie”

They breathe in each other for awhile before Richie finally breaks.

“Baby, please let me kiss you.” Richie whispers into Eddie’s ear. Eddie shivers and lets a small breath. Without answering eddie takes Richie’s face in his hands and surges their mouths together. Their lips dance together gracefully in the mist of night. Richie absentmindedly places his hand on Eddie’s thigh, bringing him impossibly closer. They get drunk off each other before pulling away, breathing heavily. They smile at each other, and Eddie brings his head to Richie’s shoulder as they continue to watch the stars.

Not even five seconds go by before Richie speaks again.

“This date couldn’t have turned out more perfect Eddie,” he turns his head to look at Eddie’s doe eyes.

“Would you make my night even more perfect, and be my um, boyfriend” The blue tint in his eyes sparkled brightly, you couldn’t miss it with how close Eddie was to him. There was only one answer that was appropriate at this time,

“Of course, Trashmouth.”

#reddie #halloween event 2019 #sourmoist

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fuckmewithyourtoespj · 4 years

Note

reddie + misc 1

this simply ran away from me and went so overboard i’m sorry you have to stand witness to me Not Being Able To Shut Up jane jhshdhfhd

“All I do is drink coffee and say bad words.”

The first time Richie saw him, he almost tore someone’s head off over the ‘abysmal, completely fucking repulsive’ state they had left the kitchen in. It was two plates, a stick of butter, and a pan left out on the counter.

He was loud, brown-eyed, and 5′7″ (at most) worth of curly-haired indignation and health facts. He was sporting a worn out band tee that was practically drowning him, sweatpants with one leg rolled up to above his knee, no socks (or shoes), and a rather impressive bedhead, none of which gave him pause for even a second when ripping into the other guy at 7.15 on a Saturday morning. Richie hadn’t been able to look away.

(or stop thinking about it for days following the incident; that guy sure had been something to contend with)

The second time Richie saw him, it was his only morning class of the week (or the month, if you counted how often he actually attended. Richie didn’t), a Thursday. He had stopped in the doorway into the dining hall, looking as wrecked - if not more - as the first time Richie saw him, saw what Richie had chosen to eat his cereal with instead of milk (orange juice), said ‘nope’ loudly, and turned right the fuck back around.

Bill, who had been passed out in the seat next to Richie’s, lifted his head just in time to see someone leaving faster than if someone had bit him in the ass.

“What happened?” He had asked, and Richie shook his head slowly. To be frank, he hardly heard what Bill had said, his brain lagging, eyes glued to the spot that had been occupied by the fluffiest hair he’d ever seen just a few seconds prior.

(he couldn’t answer Bill even if he tried, his heart was beating too fast and his throat was too dry, and he was starting to feel dread settling at the bottom of his stomach)

The third time Richie saw him, he had gotten up early on a Friday, for no particular reason at all. Just like that. Naturally.

And he had walked down to the dining hall at 7.05 am, naturally, made his coffee and eggs and gross cereal, sitting down in the seat with the best vantage point, naturally. Because that was natural for him.

When he arrived, Richie watched him stumble into three tables before making it to the kitchen, hand shielding his already mostly closed eyes, and punch one of the fridges after walking headfirst into it. Then Richie watched him take out half a boiled egg, dish out a spoonful of mayonnaise onto it, eat half with his eyes closed, then chug half a carton of milk from the carton, put the carton back in the fridge, and take out a block of cheese before closing it.

Richie was getting the impression that maybe mornings weren’t this guy’s deal either.

His eyes caught Richie’s as he walked out the kitchen, half-eaten mayonnaise-y egg and whole ass block of cheese in hand. Before Richie realized what was happening it was way too late to pretend he hadn’t been staring.

For a while he just stared too, swaying on his feet, before his eyes flicked over to Richie’s breakfast and the perplexed crease between his brows turned into one of anger and disgust, and, as he continued on his way out of the dining hall, he pushed Richie’s bottle of orange juice over.

(a jolt went through Richie, his face burning, and he felt the beginnings of a desire to find out who this guy was prickling at the back of his neck. he didn’t like what was happening at all)

–

His name was Eddie.

This is something Richie found out the fourth time he saw him, while picking Bill up from his noon class for Friday lunch (buying a shitty baguette each at the cafeteria and getting high on the hill behind the art building), almost falling and cracking his head open on the edge of a desk at the sight that met his eyes upon entering the lecture hall.

Because. There he was, a way down. Talking. To a guy.

Talking to a guy that was Bill.

And then he was turning away from Bill. Shrugging his bag onto his shoulder. Gesturing over his shoulder, something that may or may not have been a wave.

He was going to walk towards the exit!

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-

Richie’s brain jumped out the nearest window at the same time Richie dove under the nearest desk. He hit his head on a table leg, swore loudly, swore a lot. Got discovered, naturally.

Not his proudest moment, truth be told.

“You’re that orange juice and cereal guy, right?”

Richie felt one thing and one thing only wash over him. Fear.

That was not Bill’s voice. Bill wouldn’t ask him who he was, anyway. Bill knew very well who he was. No, this was the voice that had endeared him so when hearing it cussing someone out for being mildly unsanitary. This was the voice that had directed nothing but the word ‘nope’ at him specifically, yet still managed to accelerate his heart-rate to speeds before unknown to Richie, still managed to make the room’s temperature rise by dangerous amounts.

Or maybe that was just Richie’s body temperature. Who knew.

Richie opened his eyes, slowly, and oh fuck. From his vantage point down on the floor, this mystery orange plus cheerios hater looked like an angel, a brown-haired, brown-eyed, freckled 5′7″ (or shorter) angel that looked…

Hm. What was that emotion? Anger? Concern? Discontentment? Amusement?

Boredom?

Fuck, Richie hoped it wasn’t boredom.

“Yep, that’s me,” he answered finally, and holy fuck was that his voice? He couldn’t actually sound that out of breath, right?

The guy nodded, and stood there in silence for a moment, eyeing Richie - what was that look? - before shaking his head, and picking his bag up off the seat in front of him, before-

“You’re so fucking weird, dude.”

And then he was gone. But he had-

He had laughed. Chuckled, really. Which meant he…

He didn’t think Richie was boring. Might have thought he was funny even.

Bill found him still laying there, eyes sparkling with something Bill had never seen on Richie before, grinning goofily up at the desk above him, no doubt covered in chewed-up gum as old as the school itself.

“What the f-f-fuck, Rich?”

“Bill!” Richie shot right up upon hearing the sound of Bill’s voice, the memories of the past ten years and growing too tall to even fit underneath a desk at all let alone comfortably evidently escaping him for the moment, or else he might not have hit the edge of the desk with his forehead. He didn’t seem too bothered about it though. “Ow. Bill! Bill are you listening?!”

“Yes, Richie, what the fuck?”

“Bill, you have to tell me who that fucking guy was.”

–

The next time Richie saw him, it wasn’t Richie who saw Eddie at all. It was, in fact, Eddie who saw Richie. He sat down opposite Richie, wearing an over-sized hoodie, bottoms that could only be described as booty shorts, and flip flops, and simply asked (demanded) Richie to pass his orange juice. Richie, brain still stuck in the past, in the moment he had noticed the shorts, pushed it towards him wordlessly, to which Eddie uttered ‘thanks’, and, without missing a beat, started rambling about how much he hated his professor, his car issues, and his friend Ben’s idiotic lady drama, stopping from time to time to make his disgust at Richie’s food choices unequivocally clear.

(and Richie was gone, he was so gone, even trying to convince himself otherwise was useless at this point)

–

“You are so stupid, the dumbest person I’ve ever met in the entire world, you know that? You’re so dumb, every time I talk to you I can just feel my braincells leaking out. You are making me dumber, that’s how stupid you are, asshole. Your own mother-”

“Yeah your mother’s hot too, what’s the problem, spaghetti?”

“The problem? THE PROB- don’t fucking call me that Richie, I swear to God - the PROBLEM!!! Unbelievable. The problem is, Richie, this. This right here.”

“I don’t see a problem.”

“YOU DON’T SEE A- Richie, I am going to kill you. I hate this. I hate you. I hate you so fucking much. Who the FUCK packs a dishwasher like this? You’re such an asshole, for fuck’s sake… Now I have to do it.”

“Please, do go ahead, Eds,” Eddie held his middle finger up at Richie, and Richie, cackling, leaned back on the counter behind him as Eddie started taking out plates, muttering under his breath the entire time.

For the past month, this had been routine. Eddie and Richie woke up (early, way too early for either of their likings, so why they continued to do so was beyond Richie), met in the dining hall or the stairwell, argued, ate breakfast, argued, cleaned up after themselves, argued. Sometimes, Bill would join them too, but he wouldn’t contribute much apart from falling asleep while eating and telling the other two to shut up once in a while.

To anyone observing from the outside, they looked simply like an old married couple (as well as the two most obnoxious fuckers in the building, but that was besides the point). To Bill… Bill didn’t give a fuck about what was happening there, he just knew it was too early for it to be happening. To Richie…

Well. That thought would have to wait. Because when Richie had suggested Eddie repack the dishwasher, he didn’t really think about- well. He didn’t really think.

Because Eddie, well. Eddie was wearing those ridiculous fucking shorts, the ones Eddie insisted were not booty shorts even though they fucking were, the ones he owned multiple pairs of in various colors, the ones that showed his ass in just the tastiest of ways when Eddie leaned over the dishwasher.

And Richie? He put himself in a position where had no choice but to look on. Just sip his coffee and ponder the nice, shapely curves of Eddie’s ass…

Nope. Wasn’t happening.

Richie must have made some kind of noise because before he’d even had the time to turn away Eddie was straightening up (which did wonders for Richie’s heart-rate) and turning in Richie’s direction. There was a look on his face that Richie did not like, did not like at all.

“You okay there, Rich?”

Richie did not know how to answer that question.

“You’re looking a little red. Are you sick?” Eddie took a step forward, an absolutely evil smile on his face. “Got a fever, maybe?”

Richie was going to kill him. Just straight up murder him. “I’m fine.”

“You sure about that?” Richie avoided Eddie’s gaze as if he were going to explode on sight if he met it. Eddie was too close, close enough that Richie could feel his breath on his face, close enough that he could do something stupid if he really wanted to. It was simply put, too much to handle.

“You forgot to turn the dishwasher on.” Richie informed, deflecting, stepping around Eddie carefully, not trusting himself to even brush shoulders with him at the moment. He reached into the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a box of dishwasher capsules, ignoring the fact that Eddie hadn’t finished repacking the dishwasher yet.

“You ever going to ask me out?”

Richie’s brain short-circuited, and he dropped the box of capsules. His coffee would have gone too, if he hadn’t regained his senses in just the right moment and placed the hand previously holding the capsules on the cup, steadying it. He turned and gaped at Eddie, mouth falling open in disbelief.

Had Eddie really just said that? Had those words really come out of Eddie’s mouth? And they were directed at him, Richie? Richie “Trashmouth, has never known when to shut up for a God damned second in his life” Tozier? Richie Tozier? Not another Richie? Him?

“But all I do is drink coffee and say bad words.”

“Oh I am very well aware of that fact.”

“And you want me to ask you out?” Richie reiterated.

“Yes.”

It simply did not make sense. In no universe did the cute guy with the curly hair and the brown doe eyes and the freckles, the guy who was way out of Richie’s league, by the way, the guy Richie had been pining over for the better part of two months, with his deadly little booty shorts and his truly fatal comebacks, want Richie back. It just didn’t happen.

And yet…

Eddie looked so confident. So sure of himself. The question in the raise of his eyebrows, the tilt of his lips, the way he was almost brushing Richie’s elbow with his fingertips. It was driving Richie off the edge. Erasing absolutely all rational thought. It was a wasteland up there, in his brain, nothing but TV static and Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

Which is why he simply had no choice but to say something stupid.

“Why does it have to be me and not you? Why can’t you ask me out?”

“I don’t know if your old man memory is too shit to remember, but I was the one who spoke to you first, I took the first step. I am the only reason we’re talking right now.” It was possible that Richie might have had an answer for that, but it was in that moment Eddie chose to place a hand on his chest, and all attempts at a thought went flushing out again. “I can’t be the one doing all the work in this relationship, Richie.”

“You,” Richie’s brain stuttered and came to a stop at the word ‘relationship’. Maybe if Eddie stopped biting his lip and smiling like that he’d be able to get a coherent sentence out, but why should Richie get to be a functioning human being, right?

“So, you ever gonna ask me or not?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Eddie patted Richie’s chest before taking his hand away, (Richie felt a horrifying urge to whimper at the loss, the place Eddie’s hand had just been burning up), only to run it through a few of Richie’s curls. He stayed there for a second, and Richie thought he saw his composure slipping away. His eyes started drifting away, somewhere Richie was desperate to follow, wherever it was, and Richie was this close to reaching in…

But then Eddie was gone, over by the dishwasher again. Just like that, he and his fuckass booty shorts were gone, placing cups with a neatness Richie wouldn’t be able to achieve even on his best day, and Richie…

(Richie needed to take a nap)

send me a ship/dynamic and one of these and i’ll write a ficlet anything ranging from a ficlet to a full length 150k word fic apparently

#billdenbrough #dshdsjshd i simply do not know the definition of the word ficlet #i actually didn't i just looked it up and the fear i felt when it said 100 words #and this was meant to be LONGER at first #like 2 more scenes at least #fully tempted to write a more in depth full length fic on this jdshhdsjsdkh #thank you jane you're my muse <3 #reddie #fanfic #writing tag #i forgot to tag those hdhdjjdshsdhs fuck #it (am)#it (sk)#writing

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ducktracy · 4 years

Text

143. toy town hall (1936)

release date: september 19th, 1936

series: merrie melodies

director: friz freleng

starring: berneice hansell (sonny), tommy bond (rabbit)

carl stalling’s first merrie melody, and the last merrie melody to use the “i think you’re ducky” theme song, which has been in use since 1933. starting with boulevardier from the bronx, the theme song would be changed into the one we all know and love today, “merrily we roll along.” a particularly reuse heavy cartoon, toy town hall details the adventures of a baby’s toys coming to life and putting on their very own radio show for him, seeing as his mother won’t let him listen to the radio.

a baby lies on the carpet in front of the radio, enthralled with the sound of ben bernie’s voice filling the room, giving his catchphrase such as “yowza!” suddenly, the offscreen mother turns the knob of the radio. “come on, sonny, it’s way past your bedtime.” sonny resists as his mother drags him away, crying “i wanna hear the radio! i don’t wanna go to bed!” a good choice of concealing the mother, only making her arm visible. subtle yet effective.

nevertheless, sonny is placed in his crib, with sonny glaring daggers at his offscreen mother before turning away to face the window. his mother turns out the light, and there’s quite a moody overlay of the shadow of the snowflakes falling outside reflecting on sonny. we pan across his floor, toys strewn about at every corner, and rise up to the clock on his wall (complete with an elephant pendulum.) the hands of the clock turn as time marches on.

recycled from those beautiful dames, two toy soldiers blow a fanfare into their trumpets, the fanfare so strenuous that their faces turn red as their pants deflate around their ankles, their waists turning pencil thin as they blow out as much air as they can. the faces turning red was added in for this short. an army of toys cheer, and the noise wakes up sonny, who grins eagerly.

with that, a jack in the box springs open, revealing a caricature of radio show personality fred allen, where he introduces the toy town hall—a play on allen’s program “town hall tonight.” he introduces the first stars of the night—the marching toy soldiers from beauty and the beast. a mini parade takes over the bedroom, with caricatures such as eddie cantor and rudy vallee riding along on toy horses.

probably the most amusing part of the cartoon: as allen introduces the next act, a little girl croons “MR. ALLEN! ooooh, MR. ALLEN!” she gives him a smitten gaze as he pauses his introduction (with a great frown on his face), haughtily retorting “i’ll be switched. you here again?” instead of providing a proper response, the girl just coos “TALLY-HOOO!” and walks away, still looking at him all the way. great comedic timing.

regardless of the interruption, the next act is introduced. an elephant puts a spotlight on a curtain, reused from those beautiful dames, and we get a toy version of the bing crosby chicken from let it be me singing, well, “let it be me”, audio reused from the episode. i’m a lot more lenient on the reuses—of course i’d much prefer a cartoon that has original footage, but in the end it really depends on HOW the reuses are put together that determines the quality of the end product. it’s certainly one reuse after the other, but there (right now, anyway) are little breaks in between, which adds for some breathing room. plus, an audience member in 1936 is not going to notice, and i try to adopt part of that attitude while watching these.

there is a brief cheering section, and eddie cantor repeats his production of “merrily we roll along” from billboard frolics. sonny applauds the number, and three men playing a violin with one continuous bow follow after eddie, reused from the merry old soul. the synchronization between animation and music is very well done. elsewhere, a rudy vallee toy (recycled from the lady in red, though there have been many a caricature of rudy) performs his number. speaking of, fred allen introduces the lady in red, and the little cockroach and her backup singers repeat the shtick from the same cartoon. i know these descriptions are shorter than usual, but i’ve already covered them in depth, and there’s not really much to say. the animation is decent, and the music is certainly good, but it’s far from exciting. i also say that as someone who has seen these shorts before, so i have my biases. what IS new is sonny in his crib, giddily shaking a pair of maracas for the beat of the music.

a nice little touch is a balloon blowing itself up with the aid of a gas valve (perfectly placed in a toddler’s bedroom, who could turn the knob at any time mistaking it for a toy) and placing a flute up to the opening at the top of its head, piping to the music. the lady in red flirts with the balloon, batting her eyelashes at him, and he instantly deflated with a sheepish grin.

more applause from the toys and sonny. however, a box on the foot of sonny’s bed begins to writhe and bounce, and sonny turns his attention towards the box. inside is a much more colorful, polka-dotted version of peter rabbit from country boy and my green fedora. he gives the iconic joe penner laugh, launching into “my green fedora” (animation reused, vocals new and sounding even more like owl jolson), with sonny also responding in the joe penner laugh. the song number concludes, just in time for a mechanical toy band (a bunch of jazz players in blackface, of course 🙄. the concept isn’t original, but i believe the animation is new.) all the toys dance along to the jaunty beat of the music, which is pretty catchy.

sonny’s elephant clock ticks on, the hands on the face of the clock making rapid full rotations. pan back across the floor, with only ticking breaking the silence as all the previously active toys are now back in their places, unmoving. sonny’s asleep in his bed, but not for long: the sun rises, and his mother calls “wake up, sonny! wake up, sonny, it’s time for breakfast!” sonny frowns and retorts “alright, alright!”, grabbing a mallet and angrily smacking the bars of his crib as we iris out.

i’m curious as to what constituted all the retakes. of course, this is still the depression era, and if you have a way to save money, why wouldn’t you? but we haven’t seen such a heavy concentration of recycled animation in at least a year or two. i’m wondering if friz went over budget with a previous short, or if jack king’s leave and frank tashlin’s debut caused brief pandemonium as directors were switching around, units being established—probably that. bob mckimson gets an animation credit on this (if i had to guess, he probably did the scenes with sonny, or at least the mother. he would typically be assigned scenes that required volumetric, lifelike, human motions), and i know he eventually switched over to tashlin’s unit for awhile. regardless, it’s not a BAD short—there have been much sloppier compilations of reuses. the animation was decent, and the music good, and voice acting entertaining, but it certainly isn’t anything to write home about. unfortunately, this cartoon is more boring than anything, but it’s not bad, either. it wouldn’t kill you to skip.

link!

#lt #toy town hall #freleng #reviews #long post

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