Elysium

Cetacean blue, deep violet, dark violet, electric purple, hot pink, paradise pink. It was a common colour-palette for a place like this one. It's mellowed down colours and natural darkness makes it so the vinyl colour-changing dancefloor he stands on pops out even more than it could. The place was filthy; filled with drunks and degenerates. It wouldn't be long before the walls ought to be covered in vomit or alcohol, with the smell of smoke or whatever substance they sold taking up the air. A typical day for a club like this one -- detestable yet fun somehow. The walls and floor started to blur. He suddenly had the urge to throw up. He's had one too many drinks. He's uncomfortable, the people around him are too close, their sweat could land on his face and his sweat on theirs. The urge to throw up grows. He can't move a few inches from where he was standing. The colour-changing vinyl dancefloor combined with disco lights above him that ranged from the colours red to yellow to blue to purple then back to red started to strain him further. One too many drinks. He liked the walls and the floor, even the vinyl colour-changing dancefloor, but the disco lights were obnoxious from the beginning. Everything was a blur for the man. He couldn't tell his left from his right, from his forwards to his backwards. The people were indistinguishable and he could barely jump around without a threat of completely falling flat on his face. He needed to get out of the club. Onto the cold winter breeze where he knows he'd enjoy it for about a minute or so before complaining that his open-buttoned polo wasn't enough to keep him from freezing to death. The urge simmers down for a little, the less he thought about it the calmer it became. He didn't want to jump around anymore. He needed to go. Everyone started to come in now. From small groups to large groups. The vinyl colour-changing dancefloor can't handle this many people. He now couldn't move. He was too tired to push anyone out of the way and was too drunk to risk another bar fight. So he stands there, not wanting to be there. Alone, indistinguishable from the crowd and nauseated. He stands there quiet, being pushed from inch to inch by others until he lays there quiet, the crowd stops coming in and many run. It was eerily quiet now; it wasn't meant to be quiet, for the screams of the people around him were everything but.

The apartment looked clean enough, but he refrained from touching anything for now. The first thing he noticed was the seemingly elysium-inspired rug that greeted visitors by the door. There was a part of him that wanted to ask the man what intrigued him or them to buy the elysium themed rug but he believes that they just bought it because it looked interesting enough. The rug looked a little ragged and dirty; and it's colour palette was vibrant enough to look dirty at the slightest of smudges.

"Looks dirty doesn't it?"

"Dirty," Conroy says in a nonchalant tone, "but still has its charms I guess". He turns his head back to the man who looks satisfied with his backhanded compliment.

Conroy continues to move through the apartment with the man right behind him. The entrance was timeless; the terracotta crossed tiles along with the grullo-coloured painted walls looked old yet somehow still vibrant enough to be noticed and lively. The picture he had in his head about places like these was more of a drab, dull kind with a tint that made it look hideous and out of style. He pictured worn out dark gray tiles and slightly to severely scratched up mismatched striped red wallpaper that looked putrid and repulsive to stare at. But no, the entrance was timeless enough to not look deplorable. The hallway was claustrophobic but he never did have that fear instilled in him. At his first good look inside he sees two brown archways and four brown doors. He sees a kitchen to his left, the smoky topaz floors with beaver gray walls matched the silver and dark gray counters, appliances and stools in a pleasing way. He wonders why an apartment building has an open kitchen for everyone. The apartment had four floors yet only had four stools available. To his right he sees a locker room with gray floors but indistinguishable walls since from his angle all he could see were the lockers.

"So which one do you want?"

"Huh?" The man gets ahead of him and stops; he starts to lean on the wall, arms crossed and eyes on the stairs.

"Since you've brought a hundred and twenty I'm assuming you're taking Jane." The idea of 'taking' was an idea that did not sit well with Conroy and it left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. Still, he spoke a "yes" to the man.

"Jane!" the man yells at the stairs. For a few seconds there wasn't a reply. "Jane!" he yells again, this time the man stops leaning on the wall and walks to the stairs, looking up, waiting for the woman named Jane.

"What?" the feminine voice sounded a smidgen of annoyed. Silence for a few seconds before the woman comes downstairs. Her blonde hair was a little disheveled and her face spoke slightly irritated. When she looks at him her face turns from irritated to soft to displeased.

"Again?" she says in a disinterested tone. She puts a hand on the ledge and leans, clearly waiting for the man to speak. She doesn't look at Conroy, if she did she'd notice how embarrassed he was at the moment. The man shot a look at him, then the woman did the same.

"Don't worry. He's not interested in that. At least not yet." The crude remarks still didn't sit well with him. His mind jests at him, questioning why he's decided to do this when he always hated people like the ones he's currently around. The man walks to the stairs and before Conroy could follow, the man puts a hand in front of him. He stays put and watches the man start whispering to the girl. It was difficult for Conroy to watch the two converse about him right in front of him. He couldn't pick up on anything they were saying but reading the facial cues, he could tell that the man was reiterating Conroy's proposal for that same look of surprise and intrigue crept up on the woman's face.

"Are you sure it isn't a sex thing?" He resisted the temptation to roll his eyes.

After a conversation that lasted around a minute and twenty-one seconds, the two stop and the man walks back to him. The woman looks at him, the displeased look now gone, before saying "come on". Conroy takes a look at the man for a second, and his look tells him to follow her. "Ok." he says before going up the stairs. A swift stare back at the man and he sees him chuckling to himself, likely in a state of slight disbelief. Conroy puts a hand on the railway, instantly feeling the rigid wood.

"So, an interview huh?" Conroy looks around, still surprised at how somewhat pleasing it looked. "Yeah." He replies, trying to keep up with the woman as she moves around the building. He manages to stay behind the woman as she leads him towards an apartment.

"Well, assuming that we don't, well you know, we're going to my apartment." she states in a soft tone. The woman takes Conroy to the third floor, up until the end of the hall. She stops and unlocks the door before looking back at him.

"I've never done this before. So I guess some sort of formal introduction is needed. Hi, I'm Jane." she sticks her hand out and Conroy shakes it with firm, as if they were to take part in a business meeting.

He takes a second before saying "Jean-Paul. Nice to meet you." he decides to take a more formal tone to match the exceedingly rough conversation. He gives her a smile and she returns it with an awkward one, before looking away to enter the apartment.

A look into the apartment and he surmises that it's incredibly clean and kept. Though there was a painting that roared uninspired, and two ottomans that he knew first-hand were uncomfortable to sit in, he still liked the way the apartment looked. The brown walls, brown floor and green carpet mixed well with everything he laid eyes on. He looks around, seeing portraits, pictures, a guitar on the corner, a speaker on the coffee table, a bookshelf sitting on the corner and a chalkboard next to the door. The apartment was quaint and muted, something he didn't really picture in his head. He stands by the door, watching the woman go and sit by the couch. She takes a look at him and pats the cushion, inviting him to sit. He continues to look around the apartment as he obliges, taking in the scenery and a smell that he can't quite put his finger on.

"So,"

"So," Conroy doesn't quite know what to do. He didn't really believe he could make it this far. He crosses his legs and puts his hands on his lap. Looking at Jane and she seems to be waiting for him to start off the conversation. After waiting for what seemed like forever, with Conroy just sitting awkwardly and quietly, she asks "Do you do this often?" He's taken aback for a second, before he lets out a loud sigh. "Nope." he says, uncrossing his legs.

"So what exactly do you want?" her tone was more questioning than it was abrasive. His mind takes an introspective look at the situation at hand, he tilts his head and he asks the question to himself. He thinks about choosing his words very carefully.

"I'm, a researcher." the pause wasn't very convincing and so was his answer as she raised an eyebrow at him. There was a longer pause, he noticed her face starting to look more annoyed the longer it went on.

"Researcher? For what?"

"Well I'm quite intrigued with what you've got around here and I want to know more about this place." this time his answer was met with more confusion and from a deeper look, slight annoyance.

"Researcher huh?" She didn't seem to believe his answer. His body tensed up and he straightened up a little.

"Yes. I am. Once again I'm just interested in knowing what it is you've got around here." His effort to sound convincing had the opposite effect. Now she looked riled.

"With what I've got? You mean whoring?" this time a deeper look wasn't needed as her tone was extremely abrasive. Conroy wishes for the tone to be like it was a minute ago, awkward he knows, but not confrontational. Although he tries to think about his next sentences, the look on her face seems to want him to answer without taking any more long pauses.

"I've had people like you talk down upon me all my life," she says sternly. "And I'm not going to let you, some lanky, messy-haired, unconfident and clearly easily embarrassed dumbass 'researcher' do the same." He isn't sure as to how he's so easily offended her.

"Listen," he starts, trying to look directly at her eyes. "If I've offended you I'm sorry." The apology was met with another raised eyebrow. She crossed her arms and slouched, looking away from him in a huff. He sits there silently, eyes wider than usual, wondering how this happened.

He thinks about walking out of the apartment and leaving. He'd give the money to the man and just leave in silence and be out of Kierkegaard street for good, head held very low and utterly embarrassed. He's humiliated himself before and he reckons the nights would be considerably longer with this memory likely on his mind and he would never go within a hundred feet of the street itself but he compensates by noting that at least he'd go without leaving a trace or entering a very dangerous rabbit-hole.

The silence still stays as the two just sit, not looking at each other. He wonders if leaving truly was the best idea. He questions why he came here in the first place. The boost of confidence that originated from his apartment seemed to have left a long time ago and now all he has is his same old unconfident self. He's had many embarrassing situations in his twenty-six years of life, he hasn't ranked all of them yet. The memories of prom, his tenth grade pep rally and twentieth birthday were among the most embarrassing. Today's endeavour may find itself cracking the top three, prom wasn't too bad after all, it was just the weeks leading up to prom that made it a horrible time, he thinks to himself. The absurdity of today may not be matched for another few years and he starts to think about the future interviews, once he's published the book; seeing himself laugh at today and admitting to the watching world that he's been to a place like this hoping to interview one of the workers. He imagines the people laughing, he can't tell if it's at him or with him. The nice thought ends and a more somber feeling reaches out to him. He applauds himself, the embarrassment came bright and early today. The absurdity of today really made him lose any guard. The constant feeling of embarrassment and worry started to tire him. His body starts to let loose and his mind starts to calm down after doing continuous laps. The somber feeling latches onto him as he starts thinking about the events of his life that led him to the apartment he currently sits in, with a woman who doesn't want to speak to him after he offended her.

After a minute of silence, his eyes soften and he slouches too. The somber feeling starts to show on his face. He rests his head on the hazel base of the couch and he rests his hands on his lap. He isn't sure about how to go about his next few words, if he was going to say anything that is.

"I wasn't going to degrade you." Conroy mutters.

"I can tell you had a rough day." he says with a sincere tone. His eyes once again shift to see her trying to get a little more comfortable on her couch. He looks forward and takes notice of their reflection coming from the television. He watches both of their slight and subtle movements.

"Same as always." she mumbles. "Shit thing happens, Patrick and Elle make me feel better, then I dwell on the shit thing that happened for the rest of the day."

Conroy takes a mental note of the name Patrick. He's slightly surprised at the man's name, as he compares the man's name to the man's overall look and mannerisms. He doesn't know any Patrick's and it's interesting to know one such as he. Conroy clears the tangent away, deducing that he just never imagined the man ever having a name judging by how relatively mysterious he is.

Conroy turns to Jane, seeing her looking infatuated by the same television reflection he was just staring at. He tilts his head a little and stares before shaking it to focus. A little bit of empathy comes from him as he watches her puff her cheeks and cross her arms tighter. He turns back to the television and sighs internally.

"I get what you mean." He admits in defeat. "I've been dealing with some of my own stuff too." The two stay in silence for a little, she wants him to elaborate.

"I just feel like I'm a little stuck," he starts off slowly. "Been doing this for how many years now and only now has the weight of the world got to me you know. I feel like I haven't done much, and that right now I'm not doing anything." He's interrupted by the sound of the cushions. He looks at her and sees her adjusting herself once again. "I don't know. It's just an odd and awful feeling you know? Feeling like everyone's moving yet you rebel and stay in place." The room fell silent again. He did feel those things, he just questioned if it was right to say it to a complete stranger just to get her to talk. The room was eerily quiet as he patiently waited for her to say something. He looks at her as she continues to look at the reflection. She takes notice of his stare as she glances at him, a very small, nearly unnoticeable perkiness comes across her face.

"Okay? Stop trauma dumping?" Seeing her lighten up and joke made him smile slightly. He lightly laughs and so does she.

She adjusts herself to face him a little more and he copies her. She rests her head on the base and stares at him for a while without saying anything, contemplating a little. He tilts his head again at her, expecting her to say something.

"I don't know what you expect me to say man. I've just had a shitty day and I'm not talking about it with a client." she says, hands in the air in aloofness. He thinks about it for a moment before a small smirk comes on his face. 'At least there's progress', he thinks to himself. The two sit in silence once again before Jane sighs loudly.

"You spent one hundred and fifty dollars to just talk to me."

"That I did." that thought hadn't crossed his mind fully. He wasn't struggling with bills, he still had some to spend, but remembering that his source of income just got cut off did shoot up a sense of anxiety within him. "You must be loaded then to waste a bunch of money for a girl who won't even give you answers because she 'doesn't talk about it with clients'." Her tone was playfully snide. He finally let himself roll his eyes, earning him a snort from her. "Barely." He responds. The two fall silent once again. He glances at her, her face looking as if she was pondering about what to say next.

"Ugh, fine." She says. He turns to her again, tilting his head in question. "I'll answer some questions."