Day 20/21: 34,274 Words- Jackie Desmond! And Brock and Annalise!

I am in the middle of my day 21 writing- am including something from yesterday, and something from today:

First- the introduction of Jackie Desmond (finally!):

Ethan wasn’t sure what he expected when the police officer showed them to the hotel restaurant. It was called Jackie’s Place, which was something of a surprise to him, since there was a Jackie’s Place in Toronto, and he hadn’t been under the impression that it was a franchise. Jackie’s Place in Toronto had been named in honour of Jackie Desmond, a lawyer for legal aid and underground hero of the anti-Ford resistance. Jackie had become inadvertently become the face of the resistance when she became embroiled in a Twitter war with Doug Ford a year earlier. The war had started innocently enough, when Jackie Desmond had tweeted something about not appreciating Ford’s cuts to legal aid. “Cuts to legal aid are an attack on migrant rights! #StopAusterity #AccessToJustice #UghFord” It was rumoured that Doug Ford’s feelings had really been hurt, and when he fired back at Jackie Desmond “Jackie Desmond is a woman, and who gives a shit about women? #FordNation certainly doesn’t!” he unintentionally fueled the fire. The #UghFord hashtag had really caught on, some even referred to it as a resonant call to unite against a tyrannical regime. Within days, posters, t-shirts, and hats bearing the slogan were visible throughout the city, and Jackie Desmond had become the poster child for the resistance. The bar in Toronto, which had previously been a karaoke bar called Dimples, had quickly rebranded to Jackie’s Place, and was well known as a gathering place for the anti-Ford movement. And also shitsters. Décor throughout Jackie’s Place featured images of a defiant Jackie Desmond, a smallish woman, with grey hair and a fierce glare. Most of the images depicted Jackie standing tall, chin thrust out, her fist in the air, ready to take on the world- it was kind of like the closing image in the Breakfast Club, only way cooler. It was Ethan’s favourite restaurant in the city, and he certainly wasn’t alone. The lineup to enter regularly snaked around the corner.

Ethan saw that this Jackie’s Place bore no resemblance to the one in Toronto, and he wondered if it was merely a coincidence that these two places bore the same name. But then, Ethan didn’t much believe in coincidence, and the fact that another one had cropped up did not escape his notice. He filed it away, along with everything else, certain that a pattern was emerging, slowly but surely. He had no idea what to make of this version of Jackie’s Place. On one side of the bar, the academics were jubilantly toasting each other, with shouts of ‘Cheers Butterbeers!’ piercing the air. The morose New Jersey Devils Fans, having lost all hope, were sullenly sipping what looked like cans of PBR, served in paper bags for authenticity. Taylor Kitsch and David Boreanaz weaved their way through and around the tables, bearing trays of bagged PBRs and other murky-looking summer sips. They were both demonstrating surprising skill at their trade, and even more surprisingly, seemed to be enjoying themselves a great deal. In the corner, a band was almost finished setting up, and it looked like they were either a Black Sabbath tribute band (he really hoped not), or a tribute band to Labrador retrievers, as from what he could ascertain from their matching t-shirts and the bass drum design, they were called Black Labbath. He was really hoping for the latter, being a big fan of Labrador Retrievers, himself.

And then, I started writing in the past from Brock's perspective, about how he met Annalise:

He didn’t go every night, though he usually stopped in at least once a week. Twice if he could make it. His work life was demanding, and he did have to spend at least some of his off nights working in other ways to advance his career- his friends weren’t wrong, but still. Brock, as practical and unimaginative as he seemed, had a bit of a philosophical streak. One might even be tempted to call him a dreamer. His mother had often told him that he was a romantic at heart. Mostly, he eschewed that side of himself, his father had made sure of that, but still. Brock believed that there were times when destiny came knocking, and when it did, you answered the damn door. And that was exactly what Brock believed had happened six months previously, during a wild birthday celebration, when Brock had ended up at Dimples Bar, being pulled up onto the stage by a beautiful woman, to sing the Kenny Rogers part of the duet Islands in the Stream.

You do something to me that I can’t explain… hold me closer and I feel no pain…

He knew the song well, Kenny Rogers was one of his mother’s favourites, and the Dolly Parton/Kenny Rogers duets? Forget about it. She used to play the cassette tape in the car, and she sang all the Dolly parts, and he sang all the Kenny parts. So when a beautiful woman, standing on a karaoke stage, turns to the crowd and asks into the microphone if anyone will duet with her on Islands in the Stream? Don’t tell Brock Hartfield that isn’t destiny knocking. So he answered the damn door. Although Brock was no singer, they had done a surprisingly passable version of the ballad, earning them a hearty round of applause from the fickle crowd at Dimples. The way she smiled at him when he kissed her hand to end the song…

Every beat of my heart… we got something going on…

So he came back the following week. Just in case. He was disappointed when she wasn’t there, but he wasn’t crushed. He was a confident guy, and things usually went his way. He was sure she would be there, one of these nights. And he was right. She did come back. About a month after he had first seen her there, she had shown up on the Aerosmith themed night. And just as he knew she would, she had remembered him. As she approached the bar to order a gin and tonic and a beer, she had seen him, and hadn’t a smile lit up her face? She had pointed at him and said to the bartender “Jonathan, this man is a true artiste, get him one on me, whatever he’s having.” When the drink arrived they had toasted.

“To Kenny,” she had said, clinking his glass.

“To Dolly.”

Islands in the stream… that is what we are…