Carlisle Lucas -- The Capitol [DONE]

[chelsey]

Name: Carlisle Lucas
Age: 25
Gender: Male
District/Area: The Capitol
Appearance:

WAS PART OF BEATLEMANIA IN A PAST LIFE, OBVS.
(LOVE, LOVE, LOVE)

Personality:

CLOSET MUSICIAN. DRIVES AROUND IN A NAVY TAXI FOR A LIVING.
(ALL WE ARE SAYING IS GIVE PEACE A CHANCE.)

History:

KNOCKED UP HIS CHILDHOOD SWEETHEART.
(YOU MAY SAY I'M A DREAMER, BUT I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE.)

Codeword:
Comments/Other:

john lennon fc<3

[chelsey]

the taxi driver.

f i r s t a n d l a s t // Carlisle Lucas

a g e o f d r u n k s // twenty-five

a n a t o m y o f k i n g s // male

t a x i s a r e h o m e // The Capitol

t h e m e s o n g // Navy Taxi by Kate Nash

f a c e c l a i m // John Lennon

Carrying bags and a navy taxi man said
"Take your time love
Cause you don't have to rush
Cause it's your life and it's no one else's,
sweetheart
Don't let someone put you in a box.

A P P E A R A N C E

"Can I buy you a drink, miss?"

Most certainly fucking not.

The music screeching at my ears and bouncing off the rouge red walls suddenly becomes too unbearable for me, especially this early in the morning. Fuck, is it even morning anymore? How long have I wallowed in this hell hole of a bar? The small shot glass I'm clutching in my right hand suddenly doesn't seem as appealing as it was ten seconds ago, and, hastily, I push it away from me and slide it onto the marble counter, effectively causing the glass to slink off the bar and crash onto the floor. I think someone curses at me, the bartender probably, but I'm too drunk to even care. The guy before me stands in khaki slacks and a white, pristine button up. I think his skin is some ungodly shade of gold or orange, maybe even a combination between the two. It hurts my eyes. So while his friends in the background snicker at my state of drunkenness, and while he briefly turns his head over his shoulder to respond in his own laughter, I spit on his shirt. "Fucking hell! You crazy bitch!" he screeches, some people around us stopping to look at the forming scene. I half fall half stand up from the booth chair I sit on, my trembling hands smoothing over my black skirt as my feet tried to make sense of which way was right and which way was left. Somehow, I make it to the door, pushing it open with the sound of the Mr. BuyYouADrink's horrified screams echoing behind me. I shut the door.

The gray morning glow of the sky is a refreshing replacement than that of the intoxicated and crushing vibrations of the bar I was in. I don't know where I put my jacket, earlier, I hardly even care where I put it, anyway. The light drizzle of the rain withering to the concrete grounds before me sobers me up somewhat, and the fogs that hug my fragile and mostly bare body like an old friend sends familiar shivers down my spine, and who am I to send an old friend away?

The streets are blanketed with shallow and shining puddles, reminding me an awful lot of days where my dad and I would pull on bright rubber boots and jump into the depths of our make-believe oceans. Daddy, however, is no longer here to play pretend with his little girl, anymore. (He's probably splashing around in something much more eternal than these evaporating puddles.) So, instead, I let myself dampen the better bottom half of my dress by taking a seat on the wet, silver curb - not even bothering to cross my legs like all the other nice young ladies in the Cap - ih - tul do, but dig out a worn box of cigarettes buried underneath mascara smeared tissues and empty pill bottles from my bag, bring one to my mouth, and succumb in my transient refuge once my lighter sparks the edges and sets off fatal illusions of escape down the black tunnels of my throat and lungs in the form of pitiful smoke. Inhale, exhale.

Time to call a cab.

When the navy taxi finally scuttles down the empty black lane, it's only 5:03 AM and I'm not exactly sure how I'm going to survive the rest of this day with only three cigarettes left. I toss the stub of my burned out cig on the wet pavement, crushing it under my heel as the taxi slows and finally stops in front of me. It's only when I enter the cab and reach down for my bag to retrieve my box of cigarettes do I realize my wallet's missing. The taxi driver glances at me through the rear view mirror, his brown irises briefly reaching mine in that looking glass before turning back towards the road, starting the car once again and whisking us both away from the demented bar. "I have no money," I should've told him, told him I lost my wallet when I was drunk (and wanted to get more drunk). It's what a decent person would've done.

"Where to, miss?"

"576 Sydney Avenue."

I, however, am no decent person.

So, instead, I recline in the leather seats of his taxi, kicking off my heels with sore feet, and cross my arms over the chest of my damp dress.

The driver's amber eyes flicker back to me every once and a while in the rear view mirror, my eyes unwavering as they meet his. This causes him to smile, a little, just a pair of thin and chapped lips with a curve to them. I decide I like his smile. I also like the fact that he's taken no major changes to his outward appearance, unlike Mr. BuyYouADrink, this guy is natural. His brown hair is ruffled under a navy blue cap, tightly fitted around the crown of his head, and the white collars of his shirt and the upper stem of a neat black tie peaks out from under his knit sweater. On the sweater, I can hardly make out the name tag that sits on the black fabric: Carlisle Lucas. His calloused fingers loosely grip the steering wheel, like he's got absolutely nowhere to go, absolutely nowhere to be. I envy that.

"So, what brings you out during these early hours, miss?"

P E R S O N A L I T Y

I scoff at him, any former pleasant impressions of him dissolving at the tips of my finger like sand falling through the cracks in my hand. "What brings you out?" I retort, my arms gripping tighter at each other over my chest.

He laughs a little, almost incredulously, and replies, "To make money." My cheeks glow warmer at his quick reply, and we stay silent until he says again, "Let me guess," his eyes meet mine briefly in the mirror, mischief dancing in them, when he continues, "Boyfriend broke up with you, cat died, favorite shampoo got discontinued - something along those sorts to make you younger people heart broken - and you decided to drink your troubles away in the local bar?"

"Close," I tell him. "My mother's death anniversary."

That shuts him up for a while.

After a quiet few stop lights, or, at the least, when the drumming of his fingers against the steering wheel he grips becomes too unbearable for me, I flick open the pack of cigarettes, and bring another to my mouth, balancing it between the razors of my teeth while trying to light it at the same time.

"Whoa, whoa, hold on there, miss!" he says as the waft of smoke reaches his nostrils. "No smoking in here."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because it's my taxi, and, therefore, my rules."

"Stupid rules."

"Well, that's just life, sweet heart."

I roll my eyes, and I know he saw it because his hands temporarily clench tighter at the steering wheel for a heart beat and then relaxes once again. I hold the middle of the cig in between my middle and fore finger, but don't put it out, just yet. My mind, still hazy from endless rounds of shots of brown and clear liquids at the bar, can't really grasp my at my actions, so when irritation becomes the best of me, it feels a little like relief when I bring it back to my lips only to exhale a cloud of smoke in his direction.

He erupts.

His foot slams into the brake pedal of the car, jerking us both forward and I slam my forehead a little in the head of the passenger seat before me (the aftermath of not wearing seat belts) and right as my head connects to the seat he shouts, "I have low patience for dim witted creatures so you either cut that crap or get the fuck out of my taxi."

For once, even under a state of intoxication, I comply. The stub puffs disappointingly as I toss it out the window, watching it disappear through the glass as he starts the engine again and drives away. It grows small in my vision until it is nothing at all.

When I turn back to face him, I can see from the mirror that his eyes are set in a deep line, his eyebrows furrowed together in a mix of agitation and anger. I set my hands in my lap, staring at my clasped fingers as a thick silence fills the small spaces between us. For a while, my only thoughts are that Carlisle must be some really low tempered man. (That's not true, though, of course, is it? I tried his patience.) And, like all other drunken thoughts, this one causes a chain reaction of others until all I'm left of thinking is that Carlisle is actually nice - nice enough to those who deserve it.

I start crying. No, of course no, I would not be one to deserve it.

[/s]

He sounds bewildered when he speaks, [/color]"Why're you crying?"

"I - I... there's-" My failed attempt to speak results in more sputtered tears, and a disbelieving Carlisle suddenly stops the cab, gentler than he had moments before, only to fully turn around in his seat with his eyes narrowed to get a good look at me. It makes me want to cry more.

"Sweet heart, what's wrong?"

My cries erupt into drunken sobs at his sobering words, and I shake my tear stained face in my hands, trying - so desperately trying - to push him away because Carlisle, evidently, is a nice guy. Who cares about crying strangers. Who even cares for the bitch who smoked in his car right after he said not to.

"Okay, look, if it's for what happened earlier, I'm sorry for what I said, then. I'm not the most patient guy on the planet, I suppose," he says softly, trying to lighten the mood with a forced laugh. I shake my head again, laughing along with the incredulity of this whole situation, and through my tears I think he smiles. "Really, I'm not. And I'm not at all good at this whole 'social' thing either," he says, bringing up air quotes at the word "social." "All of that small talk I try making, all of that fake smiling crap I have to force out - it's all just to make a few extra bucks, I guess. For the tips and whatnot. If it were up to me, I'd stay locked up in my apartment with five packs of cold beer and my old guitar for weeks, writing drunk songs about hating the world, like any other grumpy, bitter taxi driver."

"But, you are nice," I can finally manage, between hiccups of my tears. He smiles slightly.

"Well, it's nice to hear that someone thinks so."

Oh, what a sweet and sympathetic bastard.[/justify][/blockquote][/blockquote]

H I S T O R Y

It takes a few witty remarks of his (that seem to spout out of his mouth like second nature) to coax me into telling him why exactly I'm such a mess. "My mother hated me."

"Oh, come on now, you know that's not true."

"It is!" I exclaim, exasperated hands flailing around me. "Or... was. I think she might've even told me that a couple of times when she got drunk." He shakes his head, but makes no further attempt to disagree with me, so I continue, "I was worthless garbage to her, I think she wishes she had a boy instead of a girl. Maybe a boy coulda lived up to all her high demands and expectations." I fiddle with my fingers in my lap, suddenly feeling a little foolish for pouring out to this stranger in front of me. (I tell myself that it's the eight rounds of shots talking, and not me.) "She hated me."

"You know, sometimes, being harsh is a parent's way of showing they care," he begins, looking at a point somewhere on the floor of his taxi before his eyes meet mine again. He opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but then closes it back again.

I scoff, "Like you're a parent?"

"Was."

And this time it's me who opens my mouth to say something, only closing it back again. In a minute of stretched silence, the only thing that passes between us is an, "Oh," on my part. He only nods back.

"Apparently, second hand smoking kills more than the smoker himself." He shrugs. "'Least that's what the doctor told me. Something about the smoker breathing out most of the toxics, while the second hand smoker breathes it in." The weight of the cigarettes in my purse grows heavier, and guilt seeps like liquid webs into my system. "He was only three," His voice is choked and restrained, and I can see a mist forming over his brown eyes, before he shakes it away, looking up at me only with a latent moistness in his vision. "Tell me more about your mother." He insists when I can't think of anything else to say, and when he evidently no longer wants to dwell on the subject.

And so I tell him. I tell him about my childhood under the strict gaze of my mother. I tell him about the abuses she inflicted upon me when my apologies did not suffice for my mistakes. I tell him about the only reason why I came home some nights were because of my father, and once my father was no longer there I stopped coming home. I tell him about running away and how the adrenaline pumped through the layers of my flesh like the roots of new trees just beginning to sprout. I tell him how I visited my mother once in the aftermath of the whole ordeal, and how she did not even let me in the house because I was "no longer her daughter." I tell him that she could never bare to look at me. I tell him that, even while I was good, I was never good enough.

He shakes his head at me, a sad and small smile spread across his lips. "Don't feel that way about yourself."

"Well, why the fuck not?" I reply, thinking I might cry again. "It's true, anyway."

"'Cause you don't have to rush. 'Cause it's your life, and no one else's." He stares at me intently, making sure I return his gaze as if so I can fully absorb what he'll say next. "Don't let someone put you in a box."

"Well, if it were that easy -"

"Which it's not."

"- I would."

"Let me tell you a story, kid," He says, the word kid blaring out at me the loudest (he can't be more than just a few years older than me) but I let the moment pass as his words continue to flow. "I used to be married. Knocked up my childhood sweetheart, and we tied the knot before her parents would suspect. Cynthia, she was lovely." He pauses, smiling softly, as if remembering exactly how lovely she truly was. "'Course, I didn't realize it at the time. I don't think anyone ever truly realizes how lovely something is 'til it's gone."

"Did she - ...?" I ask, trailing off, not wanting to venture any further into treacherous waters.

He shakes his head in the negative, though. "No, no, it wasn't her, it was our - our son." (His voice catches and my heart aches for the regrets coursing through his body with every pulse of his heart, a pulse in which his son no longer owns a competing rhythm to.) "After we married, I got insecure - real insecure - and me and Cyn fought so much. We almost nearly scared away Julian with nightmares of our screaming matches, that no three year old should have to go through." He pauses again, a visible shudder rocking through his spine. "I left home a lot, not coming back sometimes even for a few nights. Got drunk a lot. More fighting. Nearly broke Cyn's heart." He laughs through the cold tears that betray his crumbling mask, seeping out of the corners of his crinkled eyes. "So, she left. But, then Julian got sick, and I was too drunk to pay for the medical bills - you know, cause I thought it wasn't ever anything serious - but it was, and by the time I realized that it was too late." Tears fall down from his eyelashes, and he blinks them away, wiping at his face while excusing himself - "Sorry, it's just - it's just I have something in my -" and his voice catches again and he can't continue.




By the time this navy taxi rolls down Sydney Avenue, both Carlisle and I are twice what we have been before this morning. Lighter, freer, and more airy in speech and step. The rain roared down harder than it did earlier, but when I stepped out of the taxi with one of Carlisle's extra sweaters wrapped around my thin frame (he insisted on wearing it), I think I could still feel something as bright (maybe even brighter) as the Sun slathered across my flesh. "Thank you for the ride," I tell him through the rolled down window, sincere in my sentiments for what must be the first time in years. I bend over slightly so I can meet his face. His eyes are rimmed red from earlier, but the grin on his lips is undeniably warm. He waves me off dismissively, smiling still. When I turn away to reach the threshold of my home, I almost turn back to him immediately, my cheeks stained pink with embarrassment. "Carlisle, I have no money, I mean, to pay you back."

Again, he shakes his head, slightly titling his face so it's level with mine. "It's on me."

When I step back, the navy taxi and the taxi driver disappear together into the gray morning horizons.

So I take all that other stuff
That I said before
And I'm gonna make it work
Cause I'm losing my mind
And it's driving me up the wall.

[/i]

c o d e w o r d

odair

c o m m e n t s a n d c o n c e r n s

highly inspired by the theme song. suggest listening to it for added dramatic effect and also simply because Kate Nash is love<3 and so sorry for this being crap. i never got drunk in my life whoopsies daisies

[/justify]

NORMAL // A2A2C6
EMPHASIS // C9CEEB
SPEECH // 7A79A3
THOUGHTS // CCD5E4
HEADINGS // 867083 and DDD4DC

[/size]

CAUSE IT'S YOUR LIFE AND IT'S NO ONE ELSE'S,

sweetheart.[/color][/font][/I][/center][/size]

[chelsey]

OK DONE HALLELUJAH

[[ retro gm ] angel lí ✨]

YOLO \O/